subject of the stiletto was not so much as mentioned, and indeed, the whole great matter of the tragedy and the inquest, was not even touched upon.
Beth Fordyce was the only one who seemed inclined to open the subject, and she occasionally declared with insistence that Carstairs had killed his master.
As we were awaiting the detective’s investigation of the valet’s affairs, we had no wish to discuss this. Or at least, if some of us had, we did not want to do it in the presence of the Van Wyck family. I made up my mind to talk alone with Archer later, but at present, I considered it my duty to do anything I might to avoid serious or tragic considerations.
It seemed to me that Anne became more and more drooping, and at last I begged of her to go for a short walk on the terrace. She agreed more readily than I had hoped, and we went out together. It was an exquisite night, the air soft and balmy, and the moon overhead.
“Just for a little while, Anne,” I said gently, “forget it all, can’t you? A short respite from these harrowing thoughts will clear your brain and heart, and make you stronger to bear what must come to-morrow.”
She spoke suddenly, repeating my words in a frightened tone: “What must come to-morrow! What do you mean, Raymond?”
I couldn’t bring myself to speak of that tell-tale stiletto, so I said, “The whole dreadful business, Anne. The conclusion of the inquest, the detective work that must follow, the funeral, and all the thousand and one accompaniments of this tragedy that has come to you. Just for an hour, put it out of your mind, and I know it will help you. Let us talk of things far off and unassociated with this place. Let us talk of when we went to school together.”
We had left the terrace, and were walking down a path through one of the formal gardens. She gave me a look of trust, as she said, softly, “You are very good to me, Raymond.”
“I’m your friend, Anne; it is not being good, as you phrase it, to want to help you in your sadness and trouble.”
“You are my friend?” she said, slowly. “Does that mean you trust me,—you have faith in me?”
“Of course I have! I trust you infinitely. I have unbounded faith in you.”
Anne’s voice sank to a whisper, and she tremblingly said, “You wouldn’t if you knew! Oh, Raymond, that is the pity of it—you wouldn’t—if you knew—”
I was appalled. Not so much by her words as by the despair in her voice. Though I wouldn’t admit it to myself, it was like the wail of a guilty conscience.
Like a flash, I remembered the peculiar tone of her voice when she had said to me, “I am capable of crime.”
But I wouldn’t believe it. Nothing could make me believe it,—not even Anne herself.
“Don’t talk,” I said to her; “you are overwrought, to-night. You can’t see things at their proper value, and you’re exaggerating something to yourself. Now I command you,” and I endeavored to be playful, “to talk about the moon. How large do you think it is?”
Anne smiled involuntarily, for she remembered, as I did, that in our school days, it had been one of our games to discuss the apparent size of the moon.
But my project was unsuccessful. After a fleeting memory, Anne forgot the moon, and burst out, passionately: “Why does that woman hate me so?”
I saw that it was useless to try to divert her thoughts, so I concluded to talk with her, and it seemed to me that a direct common-sense attitude would be the best for her.
“Anne,” I said, “you know very well why she hates you. You know that, whether she told the truth or not when she said Mr. Van Wyck had promised to marry her, she certainly hoped that he would do so; and when he married you instead, it is not surprising that it should anger her against you.”
“It is more than that,” said Anne, musingly; “she has for me an animosity beyond that of a jealous rival. She seems uncanny, sometimes, and looks at me with what I think must be the evil eye.”
“Well, granted it is so, Anne, you must rise above it. However she has troubled you in the past, she cannot trouble you any more. After a short time she will go away from here and you, Anne,—you don’t expect to stay on here, do you?”
“I don’t know; I haven’t thought about it,” and Anne gave a weary little sigh. “I wish I had some one to help me decide these things. Morland and Barbara are so fiery-tempered that I can’t discuss plans coolly with them. I don’t know how the will reads exactly, but I suppose it is thirds. They may have Buttonwood Terrace, if they want it, I don’t care. But I don’t know where to go, myself.”
It is a tribute to my own self-control that I didn’t tell her what was in my heart concerning her future welfare, but I knew from the tone of her voice that no thought of me as a factor in her future had yet entered her mind. Whether she thought thus of Archer, or not, I did not know; but surely while David Van Wyck lay dead in the house, no one could speak of love to his widow. And yet I had a brave hope that time might bring me that for which I longed with my whole heart.
“Let the future take care of itself,” I responded, gently. “What I want, Anne, just now, is for you to pluck up your courage and carry yourself through the ordeal of the next few days as bravely as may be. I have seen you rise above the annoyance of Mrs. Carstairs’ presence and vanquish her with your own superiority. What you have done, you can do again.”
“But that was before last night!” and Anne fairly moaned in despair. “Oh, Raymond! you don’t know—you don’t know!”
At that moment we heard a slight sound behind us, and a dark clad form glided by. It was Mrs. Carstairs herself, and as she passed, she murmured, “But I know, Anne Van Wyck!—I know!”
She passed away as swiftly as she had come, and as silently, and I felt Anne’s form grow limp and lean against me. I could have carried her to the house, but I did not wish to subject her to a possible mortification. So, instead, I grasped her arm firmly, and whispered in her ear: “Brace up! now is the time to show what you’re made of! call upon your pride, your dignity, your scorn,—whatever you will —but succeed!”
The force of my voice must have nerved her, for she straightened up and walked with a steady step toward the house. I kept my hold on her arm, till we reached the door, and then, seeing one of the maids in the hall, I bade her take Mrs. Van Wyck to her room.
Then I went to the smoking-room, and though I would not allow myself even to surmise what Anne had meant by her strange words, nor what Mrs. Carstairs had meant by her threatening whisper, I said over and over from the depths of my soul, “Anybody but Anne!”
Chapter XIV.
A Mysterious Disappearance
I found Archer in the billiard room and joined him in a chat and a smoke. Though our desultory conversation could scarcely be called a chat, so uncommunicative were we both.
But there seemed to be little to say. We agreed that the mystery was inexplicable. We agreed that the criminal, if there had been one, must be tracked down. We agreed that Markham,
