keep your temper,—if they were accomplices in this matter, would that not fulfil every condition of this letter? He wrote it to her, we’ll say, having access to this room at certain times. Then, unable to give it to her himself, he mails it in the morning, in most ordinary fashion, and she gets it in the afternoon.”
I nearly throttled the man. “Do you mean then, that after this advice, Mrs. Van Wyck murdered her husband, being assured of the aid and protection of his valet?”
“That’s what I mean,”—and Mr. Markham gave me a quiet but meaningful glance, that quelled my anger as no protestations could have done. I had to stop and think. I had known Anne only a few days,—really; how could I tell of what she might be capable? And I could never forget her assertion that she was capable of crime! But to be leagued with a servant,—against her husband,—it was unthinkable! At last I burst out:
“I won’t believe it! I won’t listen to it. And you’ve left out one member of this household! What about that precious secretary? He has access to this room at all times. We know almost nothing about him. Why may it not be he who connived with his employer’s wife?”
“In the first place,” said Markham, “he is devoted to Miss Barbara. I fancy they’re engaged. But it may be,—it may be that he is really in love with Mrs. Van Wyck—I tell you, Mr. Sturgis, more crimes are committed for love than for money!”
“Then what about Carstairs?” I countered. “If he had any motive it must have been the money that he knew he would get at his master’s death. He could have had no other reason. You don’t suppose, do you, that he lifted his eyes to his master’s wife?”
“I don’t suppose anything!” and Markham passed his hand wearily over his brow. “I have nothing to do with supposition. I must find tangible clues and positive evidence. I have nothing but this letter to work upon. I am glad of your aid, Mr. Sturgis, for I confess I find it a most baffling case. But unless you are willing to look at the matter from all sides, you can be of little assistance to me.”
“I will help you all I can, Mr. Markham, but I make this condition. Don’t tell of this letter quite yet. It is, as you say, a tangible clue, and I think we ought to learn something from it. But if you exploit it, you will only have panic as a result!” After a little further persuasion, Markham agreed to say nothing of the letter just at present. He said we would both try our best to discover the truth from it; and I curbed my anger and indignation at his base suspicions, because I really wanted to aid him.
As a matter of fact, I was the only one who aided Markham in his investigations, or who even seemed interested in their results. Sometimes Anne would talk with us, but she was so contradictory and made such untenable suggestions, that I could scarcely find out what her desires or intentions were.
Barbara had taken the stand that she wished investigation stopped. I could not learn her reasons for this, but I began to think it was because she feared what might be learned from them. Morland, I had reason to think, knew more about the matter than he was willing to tell. Whether he was guilty himself, or whether he knew the guilty person, I could not decide, but I was sure one or the other must be the case.
I talked it all over with Condron Archer. He seemed to me to look at the matter very sensibly. “On the face of things,” he said, “you must admit, Sturgis, that it looks as if one of the three Van Wycks must be implicated. So it appears to me that if we can throw suspicion elsewhere, it would save the Van Wyck family.”
“And you would advise that?” I said in surprise. “You would willingly cast suspicion on an innocent person in order to shield one of the Van Wycks?” He looked straight at me. “Wouldn’t you,” he asked, “if it were Anne who was in danger?”
“I don’t know,” I said slowly.
“You ought to know,” he declared. “Look here, Sturgis, what is the use of denying the truth to each other? You are in love with Anne Van Wyck, and so am I. I don’t for a moment believe that she killed her husband, but if she did, I’d rather not know it. Now, should we not do anything in our power to divert suspicion from her? I wouldn’t accuse or convict an innocent man, but if by directing suspicion away from Anne we can save her, let us do so. And then afterward, let the better man win her.”
I had little doubt from Archer’s assured air that he felt certain he himself would prove the better man, but I was not so sure of this. However, for the moment I must consider his proposition. I told him that I would certainly do all in my power to shield Anne, but it was because I believed her innocent, and not because I feared she was guilty.
But he merely shrugged his shoulders at this, and gave me the impression, without saying so, that he thought me insincere.
Chapter XVII.
The Search for the Pearls
It was a strange sort of gloom that hung over us all at Buttonwood Terrace. It was not exactly sorrow; indeed, there was little evidence of real grief for David Van Wyck. His children, if they mourned for him, did not do so openly; while his wife seemed stunned rather than saddened. I could not understand Anne. She seemed to pass rapidly from one strange mood to another. Now she would be most anxious to discover the murderer and avenge the crime, and again she would beg of us to discontinue all investigation.
Archer watched her closely. It seemed to me he suspected her, and wanted to make sure, but he wanted no one else to suspect her.
David Van Wyck had died on Friday night, and the funeral had occurred on Monday. It was now Wednesday, and the inquest would be resumed in a few days. But to my way of thinking, we had little if any more evidence to go on. Jeannette had explained the stiletto, but who knew if she had told the truth? Doubtless she would lie to shield Anne, for she was devoted to her mistress, and the reasons she had given for going away seemed to me far from plausible. Moreover, Anne had expressed no surprise or annoyance at the girl’s absence, which I was forced to admit looked as if the mistress had thoroughly understood it.
It was on Wednesday morning that I was strolling along the terraces, thinking deeply, when I became aware of voices below me. I glanced down a winding, rustic stairway and saw Anne and Condron Archer. He seemed to be pleading with her, and she looked disturbed and a trifle defiant. I turned away, having no desire to be an eaves-dropper, but as I turned, Archer’s voice rose in emphatic declaration, and I couldn’t help hearing his words.
He said, “Anne, I know you took the pearls. Now, promise you will marry me some day, and so give me the right to shield and protect you in this trial.”
The shock of his speech was so great that I involuntarily paused for an instant, and I heard Anne say, “I deny that I took the pearls. If you think I did, you may search for them. I defy you to find them!”
I hurried away from the spot, suddenly realizing that I was listening; and I am quite willing to confess to a strong desire to listen longer. But this I would not do, partly because my sense of honor forbade it, and also because Anne was the woman I loved, and I would not listen to a word of hers that was not meant for my ears.
A moment later I met Barbara and Morland, and they too were talking of the missing pearls.
“Don’t you think, Mr. Sturgis,” said Barbara, “that we ought to make a thorough and systematic search of the house for those pearls before we consider putting the matter in the hands of the police? They represent a
