III. ANSON DURAND
With benumbed senses and a dismayed heart, I stared at the fallen jewelas at some hateful thing menacing both my life and honor.
"I have had nothing to do with it," I vehemently declared. "I did notput the gloves in my bag, nor did I know the diamond was in them. Ifainted at the first alarm, and--"
"There! there! I know," interposed the inspector kindly. "I do not doubtyou in the least; not when there is a man to doubt. Miss Van Arsdale,you had better let your uncle take you home. I will see that the hallis cleared for you. Tomorrow I may wish to talk to you again, but I willspare you all further importunity tonight."
I shook my head. It would require more courage to leave at that momentthan to stay. Meeting the inspector's eye firmly, I quietly declared,
"If Mr. Durand's good name is to suffer in any way, I will not forsakehim. I have confidence in his integrity, if you have not. It was not hishand, but one much more guilty, which dropped this jewel into the bag."
"So! so! do not be too sure of that, little woman. You had better takeyour lesson at once. It will be easier for you, and more wholesome forhim."
Here he picked up the jewel.
"Well, they said it was a wonder!" he exclaimed, in sudden admiration."I am not surprised, now that I have seen a great gem, at the famousstories I have read of men risking life and honor for their possession.If only no blood had been shed!"
"Uncle! uncle!" I wailed aloud in my agony.
It was all my lips could utter, but to uncle it was enough. Speakingfor the first time, he asked to have a passage made for us, and when theinspector moved forward to comply, he threw his arm about me, and wasendeavoring to find fitting words with which to fill up the delay, whena short altercation was heard from the doorway, and Mr. Durand camerushing in, followed immediately by the inspector.
His first look was not at myself, but at the bag, which still hung frommy arm. As I noted this action, my whole inner self seemed to collapse,dragging my happiness down with it. But my countenance remainedunchanged, too much so, it seems; for when his eye finally rose to myface, he found there what made him recoil and turn with something likefierceness on his companion.
"You have been talking to her," he vehemently protested. "Perhaps youhave gone further than that. What has happened here? I think I ought toknow. She is so guileless, Inspector Dalzell; so perfectly free from allconnection with this crime. Why have you shut her up here, and plied herwith questions, and made her look at me with such an expression, whenall you have against me is just what you have against some half-dozenothers,--that I was weak enough, or unfortunate enough, to spend a fewminutes with that unhappy woman in the alcove before she died?"
"It might be well if Miss Van Arsdale herself would answer you," was theinspector's quiet retort. "What you have said may constitute all that wehave against you, but it is not all we have against her."
I gasped, not so much at this seeming accusation, the motive of whichI believed myself to understand, but at the burning blush with which itwas received by Mr. Durand.
"What do you mean?" he demanded, with certain odd breaks in his voice."What can you have against her?"
"A triviality," returned the inspector, with a look in my direction thatwas, I felt, not to be mistaken.
"I do not call it a triviality," I burst out. "It seems that Mrs.Fairbrother, for all her elaborate toilet, was found without gloves onher arms. As she certainly wore them on entering the alcove, the policehave naturally been looking for them. And where do you think they havefound them? Not in the alcove with her, not in the possession of the manwho undoubtedly carried them away with him, but--"
"I know, I know," Mr. Durand hoarsely put in. "You need not say anymore. Oh, my poor Rita! what have I brought upon you by my weakness?"
"Weakness!"
He started; I started; my voice was totally unrecognizable.
"I should give it another name," I added coldly.
For a moment he seemed to lose heart, then he lifted his head again,and looked as handsome as when he pleaded for my hand in the littleconservatory.
"You have that right," said he; "besides, weakness at such a time, andunder such an exigency, is little short of wrong. It was unmanly in meto endeavor to secrete these gloves; more than unmanly for me to choosefor their hiding-place the recesses of an article belonging exclusivelyto yourself. I acknowledge it, Rita, and shall meet only my justpunishment if you deny me in the future both your sympathy and regard.But you must let me assure you and these gentlemen also, one of whom canmake it very unpleasant for me, that consideration for you, much morethan any miserable anxiety about myself, lay at the bottom of what muststrike you all as an act of unpardonable cowardice. From the moment Ilearned of this woman's murder in the alcove, where I had visited her,I realized that every one who had been seen to approach her withina half-hour of her death would be subjected to a more or less rigidinvestigation, and I feared, if her gloves were found in my possession,some special attention might be directed my way which would cause youunmerited distress. So, yielding to an impulse which I now recognize asa most unwise, as well as unworthy one, I took advantage of the bustleabout us, and of the insensibility into which you had fallen, to tuckthese miserable gloves into the bag I saw lying on the floor at yourside. I do not ask your pardon. My whole future life shall be devoted towinning that; I simply wish to state a fact."
"Very good!" It was the inspector who spoke; I could not have uttered aword to save my life. "Perhaps you will now feel that you owe it to thisyoung lady to add how you came to have these gloves in your possession?"
"Mrs. Fairbrother handed them to me."
"Handed them to you?"
"Yes, I hardly know why myself. She asked me to take care of them forher. I know that this must strike you as a very peculiar statement.It was my realization of the unfavorable effect it could not fail toproduce upon those who beard it, which made me dread any interrogationon the subject. But I assure you it was as I say. She put the glovesinto my hand while I was talking to her, saying they incommoded her."
"And you?"
"Well, I held them for a few minutes, then I put them in my pocket, butquite automatically, and without thinking very much about it. She wasa woman accustomed to have her own way. People seldom questioned it, Ijudge."
Here the tension about my throat relaxed, and I opened my lips to speak.But the inspector, with a glance of some authority, forestalled me.
"Were the gloves open or rolled up when she offered them to you?"
"They were rolled up."
"Did you see her take them off?"
"Assuredly."
"And roll them up?"
"Certainly."
"After which she passed them over to you?"
"Not immediately. She let them lie in her lap for a while."
"While you talked?"
Mr. Durand bowed.
"And looked at the diamond?"
Mr. Durand bowed for the second time.
"Had you ever seen so fine a diamond before?"
"No."
"Yet you deal in precious stones?"
"That is my business."
"And are regarded as a judge of them?"
"I have that reputation."
"Mr. Durand, would you know this diamond if you saw it?"
"I certainly should."
"The setting was an uncommon one, I hear."
"Quite an unusual one."
The inspector opened his hand.
"Is this the article?"
"Good God! Where--"
"Don't you know?"
"I do not."
The inspector eyed him gravely.
"Then I have a bit of news for you. It was hidden in the gloves you tookfrom Mrs. Fairbrother. Miss Van Arsdale was present at their unrolling."
Do we live, move, breathe at certain moments? It hardly seems so. I knowthat I was conscious of but one sense, that of seeing; and of but onefaculty, that of judgment. Would he flinch, break down, be
tray guilt, orsimply show astonishment? I chose to believe it was the latter feelingonly which informed his slowly whitening and disturbed features.Certainly it was all his words expressed, as his glances flew from thestone to the gloves, and back again to the inspector's face.
"I can not believe it. I can not believe it." And his hand flew wildlyto his forehead.
"Yet it is the truth, Mr. Durand, and one you have now to face. How willyou do this? By any further explanations, or by what you may consider adiscreet silence?"
"I have nothing to explain,--the facts are as I have stated."
The inspector regarded him with an earnestness which made my heart sink.
"You can fix the time of this visit, I hope; tell us, I mean, just whenyou left the alcove. You must have seen some one who can speak for you."
"I fear not."
Why did he look so disturbed and uncertain?
"There were but few persons in the hall just then," he went on toexplain. "No one was sitting on the yellow divan."
"You know where you went, though? Whom you saw and what you did beforethe alarm spread?"
"Inspector, I am quite confused. I did go somewhere; I did not remain inthat part of the hall. But I can tell you nothing definite, save thatI walked about, mostly among strangers, till the cry rose which sent usall in one direction and me to the side of my fainting sweetheart."
"Can you pick out any stranger you talked to, or any one who might havenoted you during this interval? You see, for the sake of this littlewoman, I wish to give you every chance."
"Inspector, I am obliged to throw myself on your mercy. I have no suchwitness to my innocence as you call for. Innocent people seldom have.It is only the guilty who take the trouble to provide for suchcontingencies."
This was all very well, if it had been uttered with a straightforwardair and in a clear tone. But it was not. I who loved him felt that itwas not, and consequently was more or less prepared for the change whichnow took place in the inspector's manner. Yet it pierced me to the heartto observe this change, and I instinctively dropped my face into myhands when I saw him move toward Mr. Durand with some final order orword of caution.
Instantly (and who can account for such phenomena?) there floated intoview before my retina a reproduction of the picture I had seen, orimagined myself to have seen, in the supper-room; and as at that timeit opened before me an unknown vista quite removed from the surroundingscene, so it did now, and I beheld again in faint outlines, and yet withthe effect of complete distinctness, a square of light through whichappeared an open passage partly shut off from view by a half-liftedcurtain and the tall figure of a man holding back this curtain andgazing, or seeming to gaze, at his own breast, on which he had alreadylaid one quivering finger.
What did it mean? In the excitement of the horrible occurrence whichhad engrossed us all, I had forgotten this curious experience; but onfeeling anew the vague sensation of shock and expectation which seemedits natural accompaniment, I became conscious of a sudden convictionthat the picture which had opened before me in the supper-room was theresult of a reflection in a glass or mirror of something then going onin a place not otherwise within the reach of my vision; a reflection,the importance of which I suddenly realized when I recalled at what acritical moment it had occurred. A man in a state of dread looking athis breast, within five minutes of the stir and rush of the dreadfulevent which had marked this evening!
A hope, great as the despair in which I had just been sunk, gave mecourage to drop my hands and advance impetuously toward the inspector.
"Don't speak, I pray; don't judge any of us further till you have heardwhat I have to say."
In great astonishment and with an aspect of some severity, he askedme what I had to say now which I had not had the opportunity of sayingbefore. I replied with all the passion of a forlorn hope that it wasonly at this present moment I remembered a fact which might have a verydecided bearing on this case; and, detecting evidences, as I thought, ofrelenting on his part, I backed up this statement by an entreaty for afew words with him apart, as the matter I had to tell was private andpossibly too fanciful for any ear but his own.
He looked as if he apprehended some loss of valuable time, but, touchedby the involuntary gesture of appeal with which I supplemented myrequest, he led me into a corner, where, with just an encouraging glancetoward Mr. Durand, who seemed struck dumb by my action, I told theinspector of that momentary picture which I had seen reflected in what Iwas now sure was some window-pane or mirror.
"It was at a time coincident, or very nearly coincident, with theperpetration of the crime you are now investigating," I concluded."Within five minutes afterward came the shout which roused us all towhat had happened in the alcove. I do not know what passage I saw orwhat door or even what figure; but the latter, I am sure, was that ofthe guilty man. Something in the outline (and it was the outline only Icould catch) expressed an emotion incomprehensible to me at the moment,but which, in my remembrance, impresses me as that of fear and dread. Itwas not the entrance to the alcove I beheld--that would have struck meat once--but some other opening which I might recognize if I saw it. Cannot that opening be found, and may it not give a clue to the man I sawskulking through it with terror and remorse in his heart?"
"Was this figure, when you saw it, turned toward you or away?" theinspector inquired with unexpected interest.
"Turned partly away. He was going from me."
"And you sat--where?"
"Shall I show you?"
The inspector bowed, then with a low word of caution turned to my uncle.
"I am going to take this young lady into the hall for a moment, at herown request. May I ask you and Mr. Durand to await me here?"
Without pausing for reply, he threw open the door and presently we werepacing the deserted supper-room, seeking the place where I had sat.I found it almost by a miracle,--everything being in great disorder.Guided by my bouquet, which I had left behind me in my escape from thetable, I laid hold of the chair before which it lay, and declared quiteconfidently to the inspector:
"This is where I sat."
Naturally his glance and mine both flew to the opposite wall. A windowwas before us of an unusual size and make. Unlike any which had everbefore come under my observation, it swung on a pivot, and, though shutat the present moment, might very easily, when opened, present its hugepane at an angle capable of catching reflections from some of the manymirrors decorating the reception-room situated diagonally across thehall. As all the doorways on this lower floor were of unusual width, anopen path was offered, as it were, for these reflections to pass, makingit possible for scenes to be imaged here which, to the persons involved,would seem as safe from any one's scrutiny as if they were taking placein the adjoining house.
As we realized this, a look passed between us of more than ordinarysignificance. Pointing to the window, the inspector turned to a group ofwaiters watching us from the other side of the room and asked if it hadbeen opened that evening.
The answer came quickly.
"Yes, sir,--just before the--the--"
"I understand," broke in the inspector; and, leaning over me, hewhispered: "Tell me again exactly what you thought you saw."
But I could add little to my former description. "Perhaps you can tellme this," he kindly persisted. "Was the picture, when you saw it, on alevel with your eye, or did you have to lift your head in order to seeit?"
"It was high up,--in the air, as it were. That seemed its oddestfeature."
The inspector's mouth took a satisfied curve. "Possibly I might identifythe door and passage, if I saw them," I suggested.
"Certainly, certainly," was his cheerful rejoinder; and, summoning oneof his men, he was about to give some order, when his impulse changed,and he asked if I could draw.
I assured him, in some surprise, that I was far from being an adeptin that direction, but that possibly I might manage a rough sketch;whereupon he pulled a pad and pencil from his pocket and requested meto make some
sort of attempt to reproduce, on paper, my memory of thispassage and the door.
My heart was beating violently, and the pencil shook in my hand, but Iknew that it would not do for me to show any hesitation in fixing forall eyes what, unaccountably to myself, continued to be perfectly plainto my own. So I endeavored to do as he bade me, and succeeded, to someextent, for he uttered a slight ejaculation at one of its features, and,while duly expressing his thanks, honored me with a very sharp look.
"Is this your first visit to this house?" he asked.
"No; I have been here before."
"In the evening, or in the afternoon?"
"In the afternoon."
"I am told that the main entrance is not in use to-night."
"No. A side door is provided for occasions like the present. Guestsentering there find a special hall and staircase, by which they canreach the upstairs dressing-rooms, without crossing the main hall. Isthat what you mean?"
"Yes, that is what I mean."
I stared at him in wonder. What lay back of such questions as these?
"You came in, as others did, by this side entrance," he now proceeded."Did you notice, as you turned to go up stairs, an arch opening into asmall passageway at your left?"
"I did not," I began, flushing, for I thought I understood him now. "Iwas too eager to reach the dressing-room to look about me."
"Very well," he replied; "I may want to show you that arch."
The outline of an arch, backing the figure we were endeavoring toidentify, was a marked feature in the sketch I had shown him.
"Will you take a seat near by while I make a study of this matter?"
I turned with alacrity to obey. There was something in his air andmanner which made me almost buoyant. Had my fanciful interpretation ofwhat I had seen reached him with the conviction it had me? If so, therewas hope,--hope for the man I loved, who had gone in and out betweencurtains, and not through any arch such as he had mentioned or I haddescribed. Providence was working for me. I saw it in the way the mennow moved about, swinging the window to and fro, under the instructionof the inspector, manipulating the lights, opening doors and drawingback curtains. Providence was working for me, and when, a few minuteslater, I was asked to reseat myself in my old place at the supper-tableand take another look in that slightly deflected glass, I knew that myeffort had met with its reward, and that for the second time I wasto receive the impression of a place now indelibly imprinted on myconsciousness.
"Is not that it?" asked the inspector, pointing at the glass with a lastlook at the imperfect sketch I had made him, and which he still held inhis hand.
"Yes," I eagerly responded. "All but the man. He whose figure I seethere is another person entirely; I see no remorse, or even fear, in hislooks."
"Of course not. You are looking at the reflection of one of my men. MissVan Arsdale, do you recognize the place now under your eye?"
"I do not. You spoke of an arch in the hall, at the left of the carriageentrance, and I see an arch in the window-pane before me, but--"
"You are looking straight through the alcove,--perhaps you did notknow that another door opened at its back,--into the passage which runsbehind it. Farther on is the arch, and beyond that arch the side halland staircase leading to the dressing-rooms. This door, the one in therear of the alcove, I mean, is hidden from those entering from the mainhall by draperies which have been hung over it for this occasion, butit is quite visible from the back passageway, and there can be no doubtthat it was by its means the man, whose reflected image you saw, bothentered and left the alcove. It is an important fact to establish, andwe feel very much obliged to you for the aid you have given us in thismatter."
Then, as I continued to stare at him in my elation and surprise, headded, in quick explanation:
"The lights in the alcove, and in the several parlors, are all hung withshades, as you must perceive, but the one in the hall, beyond the arch,is very bright, which accounts for the distinctness of this doublereflection. Another thing,--and it is a very interesting point,--itwould have been impossible for this reflection to be noticeablefrom where you sit, if the level of the alcove flooring had not beenconsiderably higher than that of the main floor. But for this freak ofthe architect, the continual passing to and fro of people would haveprevented the reflection in its passage from surface to surface. MissVan Arsdale, it would seem that by one of those chances which happenbut once or twice in a lifetime, every condition was propitious at themoment to make this reflection a possible occurrence, even the locationand width of the several doorways and the exact point at which theportiere was drawn aside from the entrance to the alcove."
"It is wonderful," I cried, "wonderful!" Then, to his astonishment,perhaps, I asked if there was not a small door of communication betweenthe passageway back of the alcove and the large central hall.
"Yes," he replied. "It opens just beyond the fireplace. Three smallsteps lead to it."
"I thought so," I murmured, but more to myself than to him. In my mind Iwas thinking how a man, if he so wished, could pass from the very heartof this assemblage into the quiet passageway, and so on into the alcove,without attracting very much attention from his fellow guests. I forgotthat there was another way of approach even less noticeable that bythe small staircase running up beyond the arch directly to thedressing-rooms.
That no confusion may arise in any one's mind in regard to these curiousapproaches, I subjoin a plan of this portion of the lower floor as itafterward appeared in the leading dailies.
"And Mr. Durand?" I stammered, as I followed the inspector back to theroom where we had left that gentleman. "You will believe his statementnow and look for this second intruder with the guiltily-hanging head andfrightened mien?"
"Yes," he replied, stopping me on the threshold of the door and takingmy hand kindly in his, "if--(don't start, my dear; life is full oftrouble for young and old, and youth is the best time to face a sadexperience) if he is not himself the man you saw staring in frightenedhorror at his breast. Have you not noticed that he is not dressed inall respects like the other gentlemen present? That, though he has notdonned his overcoat, he has put on, somewhat prematurely, one might say,the large silk handkerchief lie presumably wears under it? Have you notnoticed this, and asked yourself why?"
I had noticed it. I had noticed it from the moment I recovered from myfainting fit, but I had not thought it a matter of sufficient interestto ask, even of myself, his reason for thus hiding his shirt-front. NowI could not. My faculties were too confused, my heart too deeply shakenby the suggestion which the inspector's words conveyed, for me to beconscious of anything but the devouring question as to what I should doif, by my own mistaken zeal, I had succeeded in plunging the man I lovedyet deeper into the toils in which he had become enmeshed.
The inspector left me no time for the settlement of this question.Ushering me back into the room where Mr. Durand and my uncle awaitedour return in apparently unrelieved silence, he closed the door uponthe curious eyes of the various persons still lingering in the hall, andabruptly said to Mr. Durand:
"The explanations you have been pleased to give of the manner inwhich this diamond came into your possession are not too fanciful forcredence, if you can satisfy us on another point which has awakenedsome doubt in the mind of one of my men. Mr. Durand, you appear tohave prepared yourself for departure somewhat prematurely. Do you mindremoving that handkerchief for a moment? My reason for so peculiar arequest will presently appear."
Alas, for my last fond hope! Mr. Durand, with a face as white as thebackground of snow framed by the uncurtained window against which heleaned, lifted his hand as if to comply with the inspector's request,then let it fall again with a grating laugh.
"I see that I am not likely to escape any of the results of myimprudence," he cried, and with a quick jerk bared his shirt-front.
A splash of red defiled its otherwise uniform whiteness! That it was thered of heart's blood was proved by the shrinking look he unconsciouslycast at it
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The Woman in the Alcove Page 3