Chapter XIV
_Another Break in the Circle_
It was the first of June and the loveliest time of the year at the"Hundred." Why had I never realized before that, in spite of my urbanupbringing, I was a born countryman? Can there be a greater pleasure inlife than living on one's own land, and honestly plying the oldest andmost important of human industries--the tilling of the soil! Provided,of course, that one possesses a reasonable amount of capital; thehand-to-mouth struggle of the poor farmer is deadening to both soul andbody; as one of my less fortunate neighbors once put it: "It isn'tliving; it's just staying on."
Certainly I had no cause for complaint. The "Hundred" was easily thebest farm anywhere about. I could command sufficient ready money to beindependent of the banks, and I was beginning to learn my trade. Whatmore could the heart of man desire? And finally, there was Betty--buthow could one inventory that immeasurable asset! Enough that ourhappiness was as complete as anything mundane could be, and I had onlyto bear in mind the old Greek admonition: "Tread softly lest the highgods overhear and be moved to celestial ire against a mortal sofelicitous!"
Eunice Trevor was still living at the "Hundred," and the question ofthat other arrangement had been suffered to remain in abeyance. I didnot fancy the ungracious task of turning her out of the house, and bytemperament I am something of an opportunist; time is the great resolverof our difficulties; moreover, to do the woman justice, she seemeddesirous of effacing herself in every possible way; for days on end Iwould hardly see her except at dinner, our one formal function. And thenone day something occurred to set me thinking, an incident small initself and yet curiously disquieting.
Miss Trevor was in the habit of driving over alone to Calverton two orthree times a week. Still she was never absent more than a couple ofhours, and it was none of my business how she employed her leisure.Betty commented upon these journeys once or twice, but neither of uscared to press the direct inquiry; there were plenty of horsesavailable, and the girl's time was her own; what did it matter.
On this particular morning I chanced to be in the house at the moment ofher return from town. She passed me in the hall, nodded briefly, andwent up to her room. As I walked through the front door I noticed aletter lying on the threshold. I picked it up and saw that it wasaddressed to Miss Eunice Trevor, Lockbox 31, Calverton, Maryland. Thehandwriting was that of John Thaneford, a square, bold script with whichI was perfectly familiar. The post-mark was that of a small town inFlorida.
So Eunice and Thaneford were engaged in correspondence, and a secret oneat that. It didn't look well, and I felt the blood reddening my temples.After all she was my house guest and eating my bread and salt. Spy is anugly word, but Thaneford was an enemy, a quiescent one for the timebeing, yet none the less to be guarded against. "Hildebrand Hundred" wasa goodly heritage, and it would have been his had it not been for myfortuitous meeting with Francis Graeme. There were no immediateprospects that Betty would present me with an heir to the property, andI realized guiltily that I had put off the duty of making a will.Suppose that I died intestate and without issue. Betty would have herdower rights, but Thaneford could put in a plausible claim forrecognition as next of kin. I made instant resolve that I would see Mr.Eldon on the morrow and erect every possible legal safeguard to conserveBetty's interests. I could rest assured that if Thaneford were able toget enough ready money he would fight for his alleged rights. In themeantime, I could do nothing but let the letter lie where it had fallen.I whistled to Gyp and strode off to the stables. At the corner of thehedge I ventured to look back, and caught just a glimpse of femininedrapery disappearing into the cavernous gloom of the great hall door. Somy lady had discovered her loss, and had been prompt in retrieving herproperty. Very well, but I should certainly call on Mr. Eldon in themorning.
But, as it so often happens, my fine resolutions came to naught, and sixhours later I was on my way North, summoned by wire to the bedside of myonly living relative, my good Aunt Livy Marston, who had been more thana mother to me for the best part of my life. Dear old lady! She finallywon her battle with death, but it was not until nearly three weeks laterthat the doctors pronounced her to be out of danger, and I was free toreturn home; to be precise, it was on Monday night, June thetwenty-second, that I left for Maryland, arriving at our little stationof Crown Ferry late in the afternoon of the following day.
To my surprise Doctor Marcy, with his gig, was waiting for me. Oneglance at his face was enough. I tried to speak, but a great fearclutched at my throat.
"Betty is perfectly well," said Marcy hastily. "She sends her love, andis expecting you at the 'Hundred.'"
I threw my traveling bag in behind, and climbed to my place at his side;the doctor's whiplash flickered along the blue-roan's broad back, and wewere quickly out of earshot, so far as the station loungers wereconcerned.
"Who is it then?" I asked.
"Eunice Trevor."
"Yes."
"She died day before yesterday--suddenly."
"An accident?"
"She was found dead, sitting in the library at the big, flat-toppeddesk," and Doctor Marcy shot me a sharp glance from the remote corner ofhis eye.
"You mean that her death recalls the mystery of Francis Graeme's takingoff?"
"Just that."
"Go on and tell me the whole story, doctor. There's no need for us tobeat about the bush."
"But it's so little I have to tell," protested Marcy. "The bare factsare these:"
"I was coming back from Lynn Saturday, and, on passing your gate, Ithought I would drive in and ask Betty for a cup of tea. Lucky I did so,for I found her in a great state of mind. It seems that early in themorning Eunice had shut herself up in the library on the plea of doingsome writing. She did not appear in the dining room at one o'clock, theluncheon hour, and Effingham reported that the door was locked on theinside. He had knocked repeatedly without getting any reply.
"Well, you can understand how all this recalled to Betty the peculiarcircumstances surrounding Graeme's death. And the servants were scaredout of their very wits; you know by this time the psychological vagariesof the African mind.
"There was only one thing to do. I had Effingham produce his master-key,and the door was opened. The room seemed to be in perfectorder--absolutely no signs of a struggle of any kind. When I passed thescreen--that same leather screen--I saw the girl. She was sitting in theswivel-chair, but her head had fallen forward on the table. The bodywas still warm, but she was stone dead."
"Any marks of violence?" I asked, thinking of the wound on FrancisGraeme's forehead.
"None whatever."
"When did all this happen?"
"To-day is Monday the twenty-second. As I told you, the day was Saturdaythe twentieth. By the way, you never received Betty's telegram?"
"No, it must have reached Bangor just after I left. Probably, it neveroccurred to Aunt Livy to have it relayed to me on the train."
"No great matter. There was nothing to be done but to put the poor girldecently away."
"You mean that you've had the funeral?"
"Yes, this morning. We could get no word of you, and I rather pushed iton Betty's account."
"Was there an autopsy?"
"I couldn't see any reason for it. The general indications were those ofcerebral hemorrhage, and I had no hesitation in giving apoplexy as thecause of death. Yes, I know I changed my mind about Graeme, but in thiscase there could be no doubt about it."
"She seemed to be in excellent general health," I remarked. "Had youever noticed any premonitory signs--you know what I am trying to say?"
"I never had Miss Trevor as a patient," said Marcy, "and so I can't giveany definite opinion."
"But you wouldn't put her down--I mean on the strength of your generalobservation--as predisposed to that sort of thing?"
"No, I shouldn't."
"You said virtually the same thing about my Cousin Francis."
"I admit it. Still in that case the presence of an external wound
gaveample justification for going further."
"Just one or two more questions. Was the postern-door closed?"
"Tight as a safety vault. You and Betty have the only keys in existencethat unlock it."
"How about the pridellas in the windows--the little ventilatingapertures?"
"They were all shut, too. Afterwards I spoke to Warriner about that verypoint, and he confirmed my impression."
"Warriner!"
"He arrived at the 'Hundred' very soon after I did. I believe they weregoing horseback riding."
An unworthy thought crossed my mind, but I did my best to stamp it outof existence. Perhaps Betty had been feeling lonely during my longabsence from home--perhaps.
"There's one thing more," continued the doctor. "Eunice had beenwriting, and there were a number of sheets of MS. lying on the desk.Betty had them sealed up, pending your return."
"Nothing has been heard of John Thaneford, I suppose?"
"Not that I know of."
I relapsed into silence, and presently we were at the house. Betty waswaiting for me on the portico, and behind her loomed up the tall figureof Chalmers Warriner. I took my dear girl in my arms, and the tears camespeedily to her relief; after all, Eunice Trevor had been her cousin andchildhood playmate.
Betty went to her room, and Doctor Marcy had to keep a professionalengagement. Warriner and I had a whiskey-and-soda apiece, and over itdiscussed the meager details of the distressing occurrence.
"Darker than ever," I remarked, when he had finished with his version ofthe affair.
"It does look that way," he admitted. "Understand, there is no evidenceof suicide."
"So Marcy said."
"Her written statement may shed some light."
"You had better stay to dinner," I suggested, "and go over it with us."
Warriner assented with such friendly frankness that I felt a littleashamed of my somewhat perfunctory invitation. But perhaps he had notnoticed the lack of cordiality in my voice. At any rate, he stayed, andthe dinner passed off tolerably enough. After dessert I proposed anadjournment to the library for coffee, but Betty objected. "I couldn'tsit in that room," she protested earnestly. So we compromised on the bigliving room on the left of the hall as one enters. I took the packetBetty handed me, and broke the seal. A dozen or more sheets ofnote-paper, written in pencil, fell out.
"It's a rather difficult handwriting," said Betty, "and I suppose I'mmore familiar with it than either of you men." So Warriner and I lit ourcigars and prepared to listen.