"I do," she said, taken off her guard. "That is, I couldn't believe it, only, what else can I think? Mr. Carleton is a good man, but I know Maddy never killed herself, and I know the way this house is locked up every night. No burglar or evil-doer could possibly get in.'
"But the murderer may have been concealed in the house for hours beforehand."
"Nonsense! That would be impossible, with a house so full of people, and the wedding preparations going on, and everything. Besides, Mr. Hunt would have heard any intruder prowling around; and then again, how could he have gone out? Everything was bolted on the inside, except the front door, and had he gone out that way he must surely have been heard."
"Well reasoned, Mrs. Markham! I think, with you, we may dismiss the possibility of a burglar. The time was too short for anything except a definitely premeditated act. And yet I cannot believe the act was that of Schuyler Carleton. I know that man very well, and a truer, braver soul never existed."
"I know it," declared Mrs. Markham, "but I think I'm justified in telling you this. Mr. Carleton didn't love Madeleine, and he did love another girl. Madeleine worshipped him, and I think he came last night to ask her to release him, and she refused, and then—and then—"
Something about Mrs. Markham's earnest face and sad, distressed voice affected Fessenden deeply, and he wondered if this theory she had so clearly, though hesitatingly, stated, could be the true one. Might he, after all, be mistaken in his estimate of Schuyler Carleton, and might Mrs. Markham's suggestion have even a foundation of probability?
They were both silent for a few minutes, and then Mr. Fessenden said, "But you thought it was suicide at first."
"Indeed I did; I looked at the paper through glasses that were dim with tears, and it looked to me like Madeleine's writing. Of course Miss Morton also thought it was, as she was only slightly familiar with Maddy's hand. But now that we know some one else wrote that message, of course we also know the dear girl did not bring about her own death."
Mrs. Markham was called away on some household errands then, and Fessenden remained alone in the library, trying to think of some clue that would point to some one other than Carleton.
"I'm sure that man is not a murderer," he declared to himself. "Carleton is peculiar, but he has a loyal, honest heart. And yet, if not, who can have done the deed? I can't seem to believe it really was either the Dupuy woman or the Burt girl. And I know it wasn't Schuyler! There must have been some motive of which I know nothing. And perhaps I also know nothing of the murderer. It need not necessarily have been one of these people we have already questioned." His thoughts strayed to the under-servants of the house, to common burglars, or to some powerful unknown villain. But always the thought returned that no one could have entered and left the house unobserved within that fatal hour.
And then, to his intense satisfaction, Kitty French came into the room.
"Good morning, Rose of Dawn," he said, looking at her bright face. "Are you properly glad to see me?"
"Yes, kind sir," she said, dropping a little curtsey, and smiling in a most friendly way.
"Well, then, sit down here, and let me talk to you, for my thoughts are running riot, and I'm sure you alone can help me straighten them out."
"Of course I can. I'm wonderful at that sort of thing. But, first I'll tell you about Miss Dupuy. She's awfully ill—I mean prostrated, you know; and she has a high fever and sometimes she chatters rapidly, and then again she won't open her lips even if any one speaks to her. We've had the doctor, and he says it's just overstrained nerves and a naturally nervous disposition; but, Mr. Fessenden, I think it's more than that; I think it's a guilty conscience."
"And yesterday, when I implied that Miss Dupuy might know more about it all than she admitted, you wouldn't listen to a word of it!"
"Yes, I know it, but I've changed my mind."
"Oh, you have; just for a change, I suppose."
"No," said Kitty, more seriously; "but because I've heard a lot of Cicely's ranting,—for that's what it is,—and while it's been only disconnected sentences and sudden exclamations, yet it all points to a guilty knowledge of some sort, which she's trying to conceal. I don't say I suspect her, Mr. Fessenden, but I do suspect that she knows a lot more important information than she's told."
"Miss Dupuy's behavior has certainly invited criticism," began Rob, but before he could go further, the French girl, Marie, appeared at the door, and seemed about to enter.
"What is it, Marie?" said Kitty kindly. "Are you looking for me?"
"Yes, mademoiselle," said Marie, "and I would speak with monsieur too. I have that to say which is imperative. Too long already have I kept the silence. I must speak at last. Have I permission?"
"Certainly," said Fessenden, who saw that Marie was agitated, but very much in earnest. "Tell us what you have to say. Do not be afraid."
"I am afraid," said Marie, "but I am afraid of one only. It is the Miss Morton, the stranger lady."
"Miss Morton?" said Kitty, in surprise. "She won't hurt you; she has been very good to you."
"Ah, yes, mademoiselle; but too good. Miss Morton has been too kind, too sweet, to Marie! It is that which troubles me."
"Well, out with it, Marie," said Rob. "Close that door, if you like, and then speak out, without any more beating around the bush."
"No, monsieur, I will no longer beat the bush; I will now tell."
Marie carefully closed the door, and then began her story:
"It was the night of the—of the horror. You remember, Miss French, we sat all in this very room, awaiting the coming of the great doctor—the doctor Leonard."
"Yes," said Kitty, looking intently at the girl; "yes, I know most of you stayed here waiting,—but I was not here; Doctor Hills sent Miss Gardner and me to our rooms."
"Yes; it is so. Well, we sat here, and Miss Morton rose with suddenness and left the room. I followed, partly that I thought she might need my services, and partly—I confess it—because I trusted her not at all, and I wished to assure myself that all was well. I followed her,—but secretly,—and I—shall I tell you what she did?"
Kitty hesitated. She was not sure she should listen to what was, after all, servants' gossip about a guest of the house.
But Fessenden looked at it differently. He knew Marie had been the trusted personal maid of Miss Van Norman, and he deemed it right to hear the evidence that she was now anxious to give.
"Go on, Marie," he said gravely. "Be careful to tell it exactly as it happened, whatever it is."
"Yes, m'sieur. Well, then, I softly followed Miss Morton, because she did not go directly to her own room, but went to Miss Van Norman's sitting-room and stood before the desk of Miss Madeleine."
"You are sure, Marie?" said Kitty, who couldn't help feeling it was dishonorable to listen to this.
"Please, Miss French, let her tell the story in her own way," said Rob. "It is perhaps of the utmost importance, and may lead to great results." Then Marie went uninterruptedly on.
"She stood in front of the desk, m'sieur; she searched
