papers, reading and discarding several. Then she found some, which she saw with satisfaction, and hastily concealed in her pocket. Miss Morton is a lady who yet has pockets in her gowns. With the papers in her pocket, then, Miss Morton looks about carefully, and, thinking herself unobserved, creeps, but stealthily, to her own room. There—m'sieur, I was obliged to peep at the keyhole—there she lighted a fire in her grate, and burned those papers. With my eyes I saw her. Never would I have told, for it was not my affair, but that I fear for Miss Dupuy. It is in the air that she knows secrets concerning Miss Van Norman's death. Ah, if one would know secrets, one should question Miss Morton."
"This is a grave charge you bring against the lady, Marie," said Fessenden.
"Yes, monsieur, but it is true."
"I know it is true," said Kitty; "I have not mentioned it before, but I saw Miss Morton go to Madeleine's room that night, and afterward go to her own room. I knew nothing, of course, of the papers, and so thought little of the whole incident, but if she really took papers from Madeleine's desk and burned them, it's indeed important. What could the papers have been?"
"You know she inherited," began Fessenden. "Oh, a will!" cried Kitty.
"Marie, you may go now," Rob interrupted; "you did right to tell us this, and rest assured you shall never be blamed for doing so. You will probably be questioned further, but for the present you may go. And thank you."
Marie curtseyed and went away.
"She's a good girl," said Kitty. "I always liked her; and she must have heard, as I did, so much of Cicely's chatter, that she feared some sort of suspicion would fall on Cicely, and she wanted to divert it toward Miss Morton instead."
"As usual, with your quick wits, you've gone right to the heart of her motive," said Rob; "but it may be more serious than you've yet thought of. Miss Morton inherits, you know."
"Yes, now," said Kitty significantly, "since she burnt that other will."
"What other will?"
"Oh, don't you see? The will she burnt was a later one, that didn't give her this house. She burnt it so the earlier one would stand."
"How do you know this?"
"I don't know it, except by common sense! What else would she take from Maddy's desk and burn except a will? And, of course, a will not in her favor, leaving the one that did bequeath the house to her to appear as the latest will."
"Does this line of argument take us any further?" said Rob, so seriously that Kitty began to think.
"You don't mean," she whispered, "that Miss Morton—in order to—"
"To receive her legacy—"
"Could—no, she couldn't! I won't even think of it!"
"But you thought of Miss Dupuy. Miss French, as I told you yesterday, we must think of every possible person, not every probable one. These suggestions are not suspicions—and they harm no one who is innocent."
"I suppose that is so. Well, let us consider Miss Morton then, but of course she didn't really kill Maddy."
"I trust not. But I must say I could sooner believe it of a woman of her type than Miss Dupuy's."
"But Cicely didn't either! Oh, how can you say such dreadful things!"
"We won't say them any more. They are dreadful. But I thought you were going to help me in my detective work, and you balk at every turn."
"No, I won't," said Kitty, looking repentant. "I do want to help you; and if you'll let me help, I'll suspect everybody you want me to."
"I want you to help me, but this story of Marie's is too big for me to handle by myself. I must put that into Mr. Benson's hands. It is really more important than you can understand."
"I suppose so," said Kitty, so humbly that Rob smiled at her, and had great difficulty to refrain from kissing her.
Chapter XVI.
Searching for Clues
Believing that Marie's information about Miss Morton was of deep interest, Rob started off at once to confer with Coroner Benson about it.
As he walked along he discussed the affair with himself, and was shocked to realize that for the third time he was suspecting a woman of the murder.
"But how can I help it?" he thought impatiently. "The house was full of women, and not a man in it except the servants, and no breath of suspicion has blown their way. And if a woman did do it, that unpleasant Morton woman is by far the most likely suspect. And if she was actuated by a desire to get her inheritance, why, there's the motive, and she surely had opportunity. It's a tangle, but we must find something soon to guide us. A murder like that can't have been done without leaving some trace somewhere of the criminal." And then Fessenden's thoughts drifted away to Kitty French, and he was quite willing to turn the responsibility of his new information over to Mr. Benson. On his way to the coroner's office he passed the Mapleton Inn. An impulse came to him to investigate Tom Willard's statements, and he turned back and entered the small hotel.
He thought it wiser to be frank in the matter than to attempt to obtain underhand information. Asking to speak with the proprietor alone, he said plainly:
"I'm a detective from New York City, and my name is Fessenden. I'm interested in investigating the death of Miss Van Norman. I have no suspicions of any one in particular, but I'm trying to collect a few absolute facts by way of making a beginning. I wish you, therefore, to consider this conversation confidential."
Mr. Taylor, the landlord of the inn, was flattered at being a party to a confidential conversation with a real detective, and willingly promised secrecy in the matter.
"Then," went on Fessenden, "will you tell me all you know of the movements of Mr. Willard last evening?"
Mr. Taylor looked a bit disappointed at this request, for he foresaw that his story would be but brief. However, he elaborated the recital and spun it out as long as he possibly could. But after all his circumlocution, Fessenden found that the facts were given precisely as Willard had stated them himself.
The bellboy who had carried up the suitcase was called in, and his story also agreed.
"Yessir," said the boy; "I took up his bag, and he gimme a quarter, just like any nice gent would. 'N'en I come downstairs, and after while the gent's bell rang, and I went up, and he wanted ice water. He was in his shirt sleeves then, jes' gittin' ready for bed. So I took up the water, and he said, 'Thank you,' real pleasant-like, and gimme a dime. He's a awful nice man, he is. He had his shoes off that time, 'most ready for bed. And that's all I know about it."
All this was nothing more nor less than Fessenden had expected. He had asked the questions merely for the satisfaction of having verbal corroboration of Tom's own story.
With thanks to Mr. Taylor, and a more material token of appreciation to the boy, he went away.
On reaching the coroner's office, he was told that Mr. Benson was not in. Fessenden was sorry,
