does not require a handwriting expert," said the coroner, "to declare that these two papers were written by the same hand. The penmanship is indeed similar to Miss Van Norman's, of whose writing I have here many specimens, but it is only similar. It is by no means identical. You may all examine these at your leisure and can only agree to what I say."
The district attorney, who had been comparing the papers, laid them down with an air of finality that proved his agreement with the statements made. "And so," went on Mr. Benson, "granting, as we must, that Miss Dupuy wrote the paper, we have nothing whatever to indicate that this case is a suicide. We are, therefore, seeking a murderer, and our most earnest efforts must be made to that end. I trust, Mr. Carleton, now that you can no longer think Miss Van Norman wrote the message, that you will aid us in our work by stating frankly how you were occupied during that quarter-hour which elapsed between your entering the house and your raising the alarm?"
But Carleton preserved his stony calm.
"There was no quarter-hour," he said; "I may have stepped into the drawing-room a moment before going to the library, but I gave the alarm almost immediately on entering the house. Certainly immediately on my discovery of—of the scene in the library."
Cicely looked defiantly at Mr. Hunt, who, in his turn, looked perplexed. The man had no wish to insinuate anything against Mr. Carleton, but as he had said, it was his business to know the time, and he knew that Mr. Carleton came into the house at quarter after eleven, and not at half-past.
The pause that followed was broken by Coroner Benson's voice. "There is nothing more to be done at present. The inquest is adjourned until to-morrow afternoon. But we have discovered that there has been a crime committed. There is no doubt that Miss Van Norman was murdered, and that the crime took place between half-past ten and half-past eleven last night. It is our duty to spare no effort to discover the criminal. As an audience you are now dismissed."
Chapter XII.
Dorothy Burt
The people rose slowly from their chairs, and most of them looked as if they did not quite comprehend what it all meant. Among these was Carleton himself. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was—at least tacitly—an accused man, and stood quietly, as if awaiting any further developments that might come.
"Look at Schuyler," said Kitty French to Fessenden. The two had withdrawn to a quiet corner to discuss the affair. But Kitty was doing most of the talking, while Fessenden was quiet and seemed preoccupied. "Of course I suppose he must have killed Madeleine," went on Kitty, "but it's so hard to believe it, after all. I've tried to think of a reason for it, and this is the only one I can think of. They quarrelled yesterday afternoon, and he went away in a huff. I believe he came back last night to make it up with her, and then they quarrelled again and he stabbed her."
Fessenden looked at her thoughtfully. "I think that Hunt man testified accurately," he said. "And if so, Carleton was in the house just fifteen minutes before he gave the alarm. Now, fifteen minutes is an awfully short time to quarrel with anybody so desperately that it leads to a murder."
"That's true; but they both have very quick tempers. At least Madeleine had. She didn't often do it, but when she did fly into a fury it was as quick as a flash. I've never seen Mr. Carleton angry, but I know he can be, for Maddy told me so."
"Still, a quarter of an hour is too short a time for a fatal quarrel, I think. If Carleton killed her he came here for that purpose, and it was done premeditatedly."
"Why do you say 'if he killed her'? It's been proved she didn't kill herself; it's been proved that no one could enter the house without a latch-key, and it's been proved that the deed was done in that one hour between half-past ten and half-past eleven. So it had to be Mr. Carleton."
"Miss French, you have a logical mind, and I think you'd make a clever little detective. But you have overlooked the possibility that she was killed by some one in the house."
"Some of us?" Kitty's look of amazement almost made Fessenden smile.
"Not you or Miss Gardner," he said. "But a burglar might have been concealed in the house."
"I never thought of that!" exclaimed Kitty, her eyes opening wide at the thought. "Why, he might have killed us all!"
"It isn't a very plausible theory," said Fessenden, unheeding the girl's remark, "and yet I could think of nothing else. Every instinct of my mind denies Carleton's guilt. Why, he isn't that sort of a man!"
"Perhaps he isn't as good as he looks," said Kitty, wagging her head wisely. "I know a lot about him. You know he wasn't a bit in love with Maddy."
"You hinted that before. And was he really a mere fortune-hunter? I can't believe that of Carleton. I've known the man for years."
"He must have been, or else why did he marry her? He's in love with another girl."
"He is! Who?"
"I don't know who. But Madeleine hinted it to me only a few days ago. It made her miserable. And that's why everybody thought she wrote that paper that said, 'I love S., but he does not love me.'"
"And you don't know who this rival is?"
"No, but I know what she's like. She's the 'clinging rosebud' effect."
"What do you mean?"
"Just that. You know Madeleine was a big, grand, splendid type,—majestic and haughty; and she thought Schuyler loved better some little, timid girl, who would sort of look up to him, and need his protection."
Fessenden looked steadily at Miss French. "Are you imagining all this," he said, "or is it true?"
"Both," responded Kitty, with a charming little smile. "Maddy just hinted it to me, and I guessed the rest. You know, I have detective instinct too, as well as you."
"You have, indeed;" and Rob gave an admiring glance to the pouting red lips, and roguish eyes. "But tell me more about it."
"There isn't much to tell," said Kitty, looking thoughtful, "but there's a lot to deduce."
"Well, tell me what there is to tell, and then we'll both deduce."
It pleased Kitty greatly to imagine she was really helping Fessenden, and she went glibly on:
"Why, you see, Maddy was unhappy,—we all know that,—and it was for some reason connected with Schuyler. Yet they were to be married, all the same. But sometimes Maddy has asked me, with such a wistful look, if I didn't think men preferred little, kittenish girls to big, proud ones like herself."
"And you, being a little, kittenish girl, said yes?"
"Don't be rude," said Kitty, flashing a smile at him. "I am kittenish in name only. And I am not little!"
"You are, compared to Miss Van Norman's type."
"Oh, yes; she was like a beautiful Amazon. Well, she either had reason to think, or she imagined, that Schuyler pretended to love her, and was really in love with some dear little clinging rosebud."
"Clinging rosebud! What an absurd expression! And yet—by
