The Confession

during thoseyears. In his "Fifty Years in Bolivar County," the father had rathernaively quoted a letter from Carlo Benton in Melbourne. A record, then,in all probability, of sums paid by this harassed old man to a worthlessson.

  Only the handkerchief refused to be accounted for.

  I did not sleep that night. More and more, as I lay wide-eyed throughthe night, it seemed to me that Miss Emily must be helped, that she wasdrifting miserably out of life for need of a helping hand.

  Once, toward morning, I dozed off, to waken in a state of terror that Irecognized as a return of the old fear. But it left me soon, although Ilay awake until morning.

  That day I made two resolves--to send for Willie and to make adetermined effort to see the night telephone-operator. My letter toWillie off, I tried to fill the day until the hour when the nighttelephone-operator was up and about, late in the afternoon.

  The delay was simplified by the arrival of Mrs. Graves, in white silkgloves and a black cotton umbrella as a sunshade. She had lost her airof being afraid I might patronize her, and explained pantingly that shehad come on an errand, not to call.

  "I'm at my Christmas presents now," she said, "and I've fixed on abedroom set for Miss Emily. I suppose you won't care if I go right upand measure the dresser-top, will you?"

  I took her up, and her sharp eyes roved over the stairs and the upperhall.

  "That's where Carlo died," she said. "It's never been used since, unlessyou--" she had paused, staring into Miss Emily's deserted bedroom."It's a good thing I came," she said. "The eye's no use to trust to,especially for bureaus."

  She looked around the room. There was, at that moment, something tenderabout her. She even lowered her voice and softened it. It took on,almost comically, the refinements of Miss Emily's own speech.

  "Whose photograph is that?" she asked suddenly. "I don't know that Iever saw it before. But it looks familiar, too."

  She reflected before it. It was clear that she felt a sort of resentmentat not recognizing the young and smiling woman in the old walnut frame,but a moment later she was measuring the dresser-top, her mind set onChristmas benevolence.

  However, before she went out, she paused near the photograph.

  "It's queer," she said. "I've been in this room about a thousand times,and I've never noticed it before. I suppose you can get so accustomed toa thing that you don't notice it."

  As she went out, she turned to me, and I gathered that not only themeasurement for a gift had brought her that afternoon.

  "About those books," she said. "I run on a lot when I get to talking.I suppose I shouldn't have mentioned them. But I'm sure you'll keep thestory to yourself. I've never even told Mr. Graves."

  "Of course I shall," I assured her. "But--didn't the hackman see youpacking the books?"

  "No, indeed. We packed them the afternoon after the funeral, and it wasthe next day that Staley took them off. He thought it was old beddingand so on, and he hinted to have it given to him. So Miss Emily and Iwent along to see it was done right."

  So I discovered that the box had sat overnight in the Benton house.There remained, if I was to help Miss Emily, to discover what hadoccurred in those dark hours when the books were taken out and somethingelse substituted.

  The total result of my conversation that afternoon on the front porch ofthe small frame house on a side street with the night telephone-operatorwas additional mystery.

  I was not prepared for it. I had anticipated resentment and possiblyinsolence. But I had not expected to find fright. Yet the girl wasundeniably frightened. I had hardly told her the object of my visitbefore I realized that she was in a state of almost panic.

  "You can understand how I feel," I said. "I have no desire to report thematter, of course. But some one has been calling the house repeatedly atnight, listening until I reply, and then hanging up the receiver. It isnot accidental. It has happened too often."

  "I'm not supposed to give out information about calls."

  "But--just think a moment," I went on. "Suppose some one is planning torob the house, and using this method of finding out if we are there ornot?"

  "I don't remember anything about the calls you are talking about," sheparried, without looking at me. "As busy as I am--"

  "Nonsense," I put in, "you know perfectly well what I am talking about.How do I know but that it is the intention of some one to lure medownstairs to the telephone and then murder me?"

  "I am sure it is not that," she said. For almost the first time shelooked directly at me, and I caught a flash of something--not defiance.It was, indeed, rather like reassurance.

  "You see, you know it is not that." I felt all at once that she did knowwho was calling me at night, and why. And, moreover, that she would nottell. If, as I suspected, it was Miss Emily, this girl must be to someextent in her confidence.

  "But--suppose for a moment that I think I know who is calling me?" Ihesitated. She was a pretty girl, with an amiable face, and more than asuggestion of good breeding and intelligence about her. I made a quickresolve to appeal to her. "My dear child," I said, "I want so very much,if I can, to help some one who is in trouble. But before I can help, Imust know that I can help, and I must be sure it is necessary. I wonderif you know what I am talking about?"

  "Why don't you go back to the city?" she said suddenly. "Go away andforget all about us here. That would help more than anything."

  "But--would it?" I asked gently. "Would my going away help--her?"

  To my absolute amazement she began to cry. We had been sitting on acheap porch seat, side by side, and she turned her back to me and puther head against the arm of the bench.

  "She's going to die!" she said shakily. "She's weaker every day. She isslipping away, and no one does anything."

  But I got nothing more from her. She had understood me, it was clear,and when at last she stopped crying, she knew well enough that she hadbetrayed her understanding. But she would not talk. I felt that she wasnot unfriendly, and that she was uncertain rather than stubborn. In theend I got up, little better off than when I came.

  "I'll give you time to think it over," I said. "Not so much about thetelephone calls, because you've really answered that. But about MissEmily. She needs help, and I want to help her. But you tie my hands."

  She had a sort of gift for silence. As I grew later on to know AnneBullard better, I realized that even more. So now she sat silent, andlet me talk.

  "What I want," I said, "is to have Miss Emily know that I amfriendly--that I am willing to do anything to--to show my friendliness.Anything."

  "You see," she said, with a kind of dogged patience, "it isn't reallyup to you, or to me either. It's something else." She hesitated. "She'svery obstinate," she added.

  When I went away I was aware that her eyes followed me, anxious andthoughtful eyes, with something of Miss Emily's own wide-eyed gaze.

  Willie came late the next evening. I had indeed gone up-stairs to retirewhen I heard his car in the drive. When I admitted him, he drew me intothe library and gave me a good looking over.

  "As I thought!" he said. "Nerves gone, looks gone. I told you Maggiewould put a curse on you. What is it?"

  So I told him. The telephone he already knew about. The confession heread over twice, and then observed, characteristically, that he would beeternally--I think the word is "hornswoggled."

  When I brought out "The Handwriting of God," following Mrs. Graves'sstory of the books, he looked thoughtful. And indeed by the end of therecital he was very grave.

  "Sprague is a lunatic," he said, with conviction. "There was a body, andit went into the river in the packing-case. It is distinctly possiblethat this Knight--or Wright--woman, who owned the handkerchief, was thevictim. However, that's for later on. The plain truth is, that there wasa murder, and that Miss Emily is shielding some one else."

  And, after all, that was the only immediate result of Willie's visit--anew theory! So that now it stood: there was a crime. There was no crime.Miss Emily had committed it. Miss Emily had not c
ommitted it. Miss Emilyhad confessed it, but some one else had committed it.

  For a few hours, however, our attention was distracted from Miss Emilyand her concerns by the attempted robbery of the house that night.I knew nothing of it until I heard Willie shouting downstairs. I wasdeeply asleep, relaxed no doubt by the consciousness that at last therewas a man in the house. And, indeed, Maggie slept for the same reasonthrough the entire occurrence.

  "Stop, or I'll fire!" Willie repeated, as I sat up in bed.

  I knew quite well that he had no weapon.