Initials Only

  II. "I KNOW THE MAN"

  Yet he made no effort to detain Mr. Slater, when that gentleman, underthis renewed excitement, hastily left us. He was not the man to rushinto anything impulsively, and not even the presence of murder couldchange his ways.

  "I want to feel sure of myself," he explained. "Can you bear the strainof waiting around a little longer, Laura? I mustn't forget that youfainted just now."

  "Yes, I can bear it; much better than I could bear going to Adela's inmy present state of mind. Don't you think the man we saw had somethingto do with this? Don't you believe--"

  "Hush! Let us listen rather than talk. What are they saying over there?Can you hear?"

  "No. And I cannot bear to look. Yet I don't want to go away. It's all sodreadful."

  "It's devilish. Such a beautiful girl! Laura, I must leave you for amoment. Do you mind?"

  "No, no; yet--"

  I did mind; but he was gone before I could take back my word. Alone,I felt the tragedy much more than when he was with me. Instead ofwatching, as I had hitherto done, every movement in the room opposite,I drew back against the wall and hid my eyes, waiting feverishly forGeorge's return.

  He came, when he did come, in some haste and with certain marks ofincreased agitation.

  "Laura," said he, "Slater says that we may possibly be wanted andproposes that we stay here all night. I have telephoned Adela and havemade it all right at home. Will you come to your room? This is no placefor you."

  Nothing could have pleased me better; to be near and yet not the directobserver of proceedings in which we took so secret an interest! I showedmy gratitude by following George immediately. But I could not go withoutcasting another glance at the tragic scene I was leaving. A stir wasperceptible there, and I was just in time to see its cause. A tall,angular gentleman was approaching from the direction of the musicians'gallery, and from the manner of all present, as well as from thewhispered comment of my husband, I recognised in him the specialofficial for whom all had been waiting.

  "Are you going to tell him?" was my question to George as we made ourway down to the lobby.

  "That depends. First, I am going to see you settled in a room quiteremote from this business."

  "I shall not like that."

  "I know, my dear, but it is best."

  I could not gainsay this.

  Nevertheless, after the first few minutes of relief, I found it verylonesome upstairs. The pictures which crowded upon me of the variousgroups of excited and wildly gesticulating men and women through whichwe had passed on our way up, mingled themselves with the solemn horrorof the scene in the writing-room, with its fleeting vision of youthand beauty lying pulseless in sudden death. I could not escape the onewithout feeling the immediate impress of the other, and if by chancethey both yielded for an instant to that earlier scene of a desolatestreet, with its solitary lamp shining down on the crouched figure ofa man washing his shaking hands in a drift of freshly fallen snow, theyimmediately rushed back with a force and clearness all the greater forthe momentary lapse.

  I was still struggling with these fancies when the door opened, andGeorge came in. There was news in his face as I rushed to meet him.

  "Tell me--tell," I begged.

  He tried to smile at my eagerness, but the attempt was ghastly.

  "I've been listening and looking," said he, "and this is all I havelearned. Miss Challoner died, not from a stroke or from disease of anykind, but from a wound reaching the heart. No one saw the attack, oreven the approach or departure of the person inflicting this wound. Ifshe was killed by a pistol-shot, it was at a distance, and almost overthe heads of the persons sitting at the table we saw there. But thedoctors shake their heads at the word pistol-shot, though they refuseto explain themselves or to express any opinion till the wound has beenprobed. This they are going to do at once, and when that question isdecided, I may feel it my duty to speak and may ask you to support mystory."

  "I will tell what I saw," said I.

  "Very good. That is all that will be required. We are strangers to theparties concerned, and only speak from a sense of justice. It may bethat our story will make no impression, and that we shall be dismissedwith but few thanks. But that is nothing to us. If the woman has beenmurdered, he is the murderer. With such a conviction in my mind, therecan be no doubt as to my duty."

  "We can never make them understand how he looked."

  "No. I don't expect to."

  "Or his manner as he fled."

  "Nor that either."

  "We can only describe what we saw him do."

  "That's all."

  "Oh, what an adventure for quiet people like us! George, I don't believehe shot her."

  "He must have."

  "But they would have seen--have heard--the people around, I mean."

  "So they say; but I have a theory--but no matter about that now. I'mgoing down again to see how things have progressed. I'll be back for youlater. Only be ready."

  Be ready! I almost laughed,--a hysterical laugh, of course, when Irecalled the injunction. Be ready! This lonely sitting by myself, withnothing to do but think was a fine preparation for a sudden appearancebefore those men--some of them police-officers, no doubt.

  But that's enough about myself; I'm not the heroine of this story. In ahalf hour or an hour--I never knew which--George reappeared only totell me that no conclusions had as yet been reached; an element of greatmystery involved the whole affair, and the most astute detectives on theforce had been sent for. Her father, who had been her constant companionall winter, had not the least suggestion to offer in way of itssolution. So far as he knew--and he believed himself to have been inperfect accord with his daughter--she had injured no one. She had justlived the even, happy and useful life of a young woman of means,who sees duties beyond those of her own household and immediatesurroundings. If, in the fulfillment of those duties, she hadencountered any obstacle to content, he did not know it; nor could hemention a friend of hers--he would even say lovers, since that was whathe meant--who to his knowledge could be accused of harbouring any suchpassion of revenge as was manifested in this secret and diabolicalattack. They were all gentlemen and respected her as heartily as theyappeared to admire her. To no living being, man or woman, could he pointas possessing any motive for such a deed. She had been the victim ofsome mistake, his lovely and ever kindly disposed daughter, and whilethe loss was irreparable he would never make it unendurable by thinkingotherwise.

  Such was the father's way of looking at the matter, and I own that itmade our duty a trifle hard. But George's mind, when once made up, waspersistent to the point of obstinacy, and while he was yet talking heled me out of the room and down the hall to the elevator.

  "Mr. Slater knows we have something to say, and will manage theinterview before us in the very best manner," he confided to me nowwith an encouraging air. "We are to go to the blue reception room on theparlour floor."

  I nodded, and nothing more was said till we entered the place mentioned.Here we came upon several gentlemen, standing about, of a more orless professional appearance. This was not very agreeable to one of myretiring disposition, but a look from George brought back my courage,and I found myself waiting rather anxiously for the questions I expectedto hear put.

  Mr. Slater was there according to his promise, and after introducing us,briefly stated that we had some evidence to give regarding the terribleoccurrence which had just taken place in the house.

  George bowed, and the chief spokesman--I am sure he was a police-officerof some kind--asked him to tell what it was.

  George drew himself up--George is not one of your tall men, but he makesa very good appearance at times. Then he seemed suddenly to collapse.The sight of their expectation made him feel how flat and childishhis story would sound. I, who had shared his adventure, understood hisembarrassment, but the others were evidently at a loss to do so, forthey glanced askance at each other as he hesitated, and only looked backwhen I ventured to say:

  "It's t
he peculiarity of the occurrence which affects my husband. Thething we saw may mean nothing."

  "Let us hear what it was and we will judge."

  Then my husband spoke up, and related our little experience. If it didnot create a sensation, it was because these men were well accustomed tosurprises of all kinds.

  "Washed his hands--a gentleman--out there in the snow--just after thealarm was raised here?" repeated one.

  "And you saw him come out of this house?" another put in.

  "Yes, sir; we noticed him particularly."

  "Can you describe him?"

  It was Mr. Slater who put this question; he had less control overhimself, and considerable eagerness could be heard in his voice.

  "He was a very fine-looking man; unusually tall and unusually strikingboth in his dress and appearance. What I could see of his face was bareof beard, and very expressive. He walked with the swing of an athlete,and only looked mean and small when he was stooping and dabbling in thesnow."

  "His clothes. Describe his clothes." There was an odd sound in Mr.Slater's voice.

  "He wore a silk hat and there was fur on his overcoat. I think the furwas black."

  Mr. Slater stepped back, then moved forward again with a determined air.

  "I know the man," said he.