Crawfordsville Weekly Journal, Crawfordsville, Montgomery County, 25 January 1901 — Page 12

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THE MYSTERY OF AGATHA WEBB.

By Anna Katharine Green, Author of "The Lcavenuxrrth Ctae#," "Lost Mail's ixine," "Hand and Ring," Etc., Etc.

OOPVKiariT. 1900, BT AKKA BL^THARHiB nBK

"Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction. I should never have attributed any such motive as you mention to the young girl 1 saw leaving this spot with many a backward look at the hole from Which we afterward extracted the large sum of money iu question. But say that this reburying of stolen funds "was out of consideration for the feeble old man you describe as having carried them there, do you not see that by this act you can be held as an accessory after the fact?"

Her eyebrows went up, and the delicate curve of her lips was, not without menace as she said: "You hate me, Mr. Sweetwater. Do you wish me to tell these gentlemen why?"

The flush which, notwithstanding this peculiar young man's nerve, instantly crimsoned his features was a surprise to Frederick. So was it to the others, who saw in it a possible hint as to the real cause of his persistent pursuit of this young .girl, which they had hitherto ascribed entirely to his love of Justice. Slighted love makes some hearts venomous. Could this ungainly fellow have once loved this bewitching piece of unreliability and suffered from her disdain?

It was a very possible assumption, though Sweetwater's blush was the only answer he gave to her question, which nevertheless had amply served its turn.

To fill the gap made by his silence Mr. Sutherland made an effort and addressed her himself. "Your conduct," said he, "has not been that of a strictly honorable person. Why did you fail to give the alarm when you re-entered my house after being witness to this double tragedy?"

Her serenity was not to be disturbed. "I have just explained," she reminded him, "that I had sympathy for the criminal." "We all have sympathy for James Zabel, but"— "I do not believe one word of this Story," interposed Sweetwater, in reckless disregard of the proprieties. "A hungry, feeble old man, like Zabel, on the verge of death, could not have found his way up into this woods, as you say. You carried that money there yourself, miss you are the"— "Hush!" Interposed the coroner authoritatively. "Do not let us go too fast —yet. Miss Tage has an air of speak-

Wit which half mystified and half im-

or

"this 1 am ready to swear to before Ood and be}ore man/" was something in this matter that could not be explained away by her argument, and his suspicion of that something he felt perfectly sure was shared by his son, toward whose cold, set face he had frequently cast the most uneasy glances. He was not ready, how-

erer, to probe Into the subject' more

lng the truth, strange and unaccountable as it may seem. Zabel was an ad- "Ppalled. lie had been amazed at the mirable man once, and if he was led Into theft and murder it was not until his faculties had been weakened bv his own suffering and that of his much loved brother." "Thank you," was her simple reply, and for the first time ever}' man there thrilled at her tone. Seeing it, all the dangerous fascination of her look and manner returned upon her with double force. "1 have been uuwise," said she, "and let my sympathy run away with my judgment. Women have impulses tof this kind sometimes, and men blame them for it till they themselves come to the point of feeling the need of just •uch blind devotion. I am sure I regret my shortsightedness now, for I have lost esteem by it, while he"— With a wave of the hand she dismissed the subject, and Dr. Talbot, watching I her, felt a shade of his distrust leave blm and in its place a species of ad- I miration for the lithe, graceful, be-! Witching personality before them,'with her childish impulses and womanlv

fession a young woman whom his unhappy son professed to love and In whose discretion he had so little confidence. As for Sweetwater, he had now fully recovered himself and bore himself with great discretion when Dr. Talbot finally said: "Well, gentleman, we have got more than we expected when we came here this morning. There remains, however, a point regarding which we have received no explanation. Miss Page, how came that orchid, which, I am told, you wore in your hair at the dance, to be found lying near the hem of Batsy's skirts? You distinctly told us that you did not go up stairs when you were in Mrs. Webb's house." "Ah, that's so!" acquiesced the Boston detective dryly. "How came that tlower on the scene of the murder?" I She smiled and seemed equal to the I emergency. "That is a mystery for us all to jsohe," she said quietly, looking into the eyes of her questioner. "A mystery it is your business to solve," corrected the district attorney. "Nothing that you have told us in support of your inuocence would in the eyes of the law weigh for one instant against the complicity shown by that one piece of circumstantial evidence against you."

Her smile carried a certain high handed denial of this to one heart there at least. But her words were humble enough. "I am aware of that." said she. Then, turning like lightning to where Sweetwater stood lowering upon her from out his half closed eyes, she impetuously cried: "You, sir. you who without call to do so have presumed to arrogate die oflice V)f detective from those whose right it was to act in this matter, prove yourself equal to your presumption by finding out the explanation of this mystery yourself. It can be found out, for, mark, I did not carry that flower into the room where it was found. This I am ready to swear to before God and before man!"

Iler hand was raised, her whole attitude spoke defiance and—hard as it was for Sweetwater to acknowledge it —truth. He felt that he had received a challenge, and, with a quick glance at Knapp, who barely responded by a shrug, lie shifted over to the side of Dr. Talbot.

Amabel at once dropped her hand. "May I go?" she now cried appeal ingly to Mr. Courtney. "I really have no more to say, and I am tired." "Did you see the figure of the man who brushed by you In the wood? Was Is that of the old man you saw on the doorstep?"

At this direct question Frederick quivered in spite of his dogged self control. But she, with her face upturned to meet the scrutiny of the speaker, showed only a childish kind of wonder. "Why do yon ask that? Is ttiere any doubt about its being the same?"

What an actress! Frederick stood

skill with which she had manipulated her story so as to keep her promise to him and yet leave the way open for that further confession which would alter the whole into a denunciation of himself which lie would find it difficult if not impossible to meet. But this extreme dissimulation made him lose heart:. It showed her to be an antagonist of almost illimitable resource and secrct determination. "1 did not suppose there could be any dotabt," she added, in such a natural tone of surprise that Mr. Courtney dropped the subject and Dr! Talbot turned to Sweetwater, who for the moment seemed to have robbed Knapp of his rightful place as the coroner's confidant. "Shall we let her go for the present?" he whispered. "She does look tired, poor girl!"

The public challenge which Sweetwater had received made him wary, and his reply was a guarded one. "I do not trust her, j-et there is much

to

posed upon them. vviches, now! She savs she dropped JU-r. Sutherland, on the contrary, was I them in Mrs. Webb's yard under the neither charmed from his antagonism I pear tree and that the bag that held

confirm her story. Those sand

convinced of her honesty. There them burst open. Gentlemen, the birds were so busy there on the morning after the murder that I could not but notice them, notwithstanding my absorption in greater matters. I remember wondering what they were all pecking at so eagerly. Then the length of time that elapsed between the moment Zabel was seen rushing from Mrs. Webb's gate and the hour in which he bought the bread has never been quite accounted for. Though I doubt that so old a man would find strength for that -journey to the woods, I can but acknowledge that it would account for those very minutes we have had some difficulty in tilling up. But the flower whose presence on the scene of guilt she challenges me to explain! How about that, sirs? And then the money so deftly reburied by her—can any explanation make her other than accessory to a crime on whose fruits she lays her hand in a way tending solely to concealment? No, sirs, and so 1 shall not relax my vigilance over her actions even if, in order to be faithful to it, I have to suggest that a warrant be made out for her imprisonment." "You are right," acquiesced the coroner, and, turning to Knapp, he suggested that Miss l'age was such an important witness in this matter that perhaps it would be better to have her down in the town where she could be itnore easily under his eye.

Nothing could have pleased Mr. Sutherland better. Glancing at Frederick and seeing that lie was rather pleased than disturbed by this suggestion, he gave his unqualified approval, and Miss Page was notified of the coroner's wishes.

She made no objection. On the contrary, her cheeks dimpled, and she turned away with alacrity to prepare herself for departure. But before go

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ever, to probe Into the subject more approach nearly, nor could he for the sake of

said

departure. But before go-

"l'Proached the coroner and

1)ers»as'vely:

Frederick urge on to any further con- I have told you all that came to my

mind this moment. But after thinking It over I may remember some little details that have escaped me today." "Call her back," cried Mr. Courtney. "She has kept back something let us hear it all."

But Mr. Sutherland, with a side look at Frederick, whispered: "Wait! She Is a subtle creature and under the excitement of the moment will contrive to elude you. Catch her alone, Mr. Courtney catch her alone, and if she has a secret, you of all men will succeed In surprising it."

He had noted that the rest were too preoccupied to observe that Frederick had reached the limit of his strength and could not be trusted to preserve his composure any longer under this searching examination into the conduct of a woman from whom he had so lately detached himself.

CHATTER MIX. A SYMPATHETIC FRIEND.

The next day was the day of Agatha's funeral. She was to be buried in Porchester, by the side of her six children, and, as the day was fine, the whole town, as by common consent, assembled In the road along which the humble cortege was to make Its way to the spot indicated.

From the windows of farmhouses, from between the trees of the few scattered thickets along the way, saddeued and curious faces looked forth, till Sweetwater, who walked as near as lie dared to the Immediate friends of the deceased, felt the Impossibility of rememberiug them all and gave up the task in despair.

Before one house, about a mile out of town, the procession paused, and at a gesture from the minister every one within sight took off their hats, amid a hush which made almost painfully apparent the twittering of birds and the other sounds of animate and inanimate nature which are inseparable from a country road. They bad reached Widow Jones' cottage, in which Philemon was then staying.

The front door was closed and so were the lower windows, but in one of the upper casements a movement was perceptible, and in another instant there came into view a woman and a man, supporting between them the impassible form of Agatha's husband. Holding him up in plain sight of the almost breathless throng below, the woman pointed to where his darling lay and appeared to say something to him.

Then there was to be seeii a strange sight. The old man, with his thin white locks fluttering in the breeze, leaned forward, with a smile, and. holding out his arms, cried in a faint but joyful tone, "Agatha!" Then, as if realizing for the first time that it was death lie looked upon and that the crowd below was a funeral procession, his face altered, and he fell back, with a low. heartbroken moan, into the arms of those who supported him.

As his white head disappeared from sight the procession moved on, and from only one pair of lips went up that groan of sorrow with .which every heart seemed surcharged—one groan. From whose lips did it come? Sweetwater endeavored to find out, but was not able, nor could any one inform

him unless it

whom lie dared not approach. This gentleman was on foot like the rest, with his arm fast linked in that of his sou Frederick. He had meant to ride., for the distance was long for men past (JO but, finding the latter resolved to walk, he had consented to do the same rather than be separated from his son.

He had fears for Frederick—he could hardly have told why—and as the ceremony proceeded and Agatha was solemnly laid away in the place prepared for her his sympathies grew upon him to such an extent that he found it difficult to quit the young man for a moment or even to turn his eyes away from the face he had never seemed to know till now. But as a friend and stranger were now rapidly leaving the yard he controlled himself and, assuming a more natural demeanor, asked his son if he were now ready to ride back. But. to his astonishment, Frederick replied that he did not intend to return to Sutherlandtown at present, that he had business in Porchester and that he was doubtful as to when be would be ready to go home. As the old gentleman did not wish to raise a controversy. he said nothing, but as soon as he saw Frederick disappear up the road he sent back the carriage he had ordered, saying that he would return In a Porchester gig as soon as lie had settled some affairs of his own, which might and might not detain him there till evening.

Then he proceeded to a little Inn, where he hired a room with windows that looked out on the highroad. In one of these windows he sat all day, watching for Frederick, who had gone further up the road.

But no Frederick appeared, and with vague misgivings, for which as yet he I had uo name, he left the window and set out on foot for home.

It was now dark, but a silvery gleam on the horizon gave promise of the speedy rising of a full moon. Otherwise he would not have attempted to walk- over a road proverbially dark I mil dismal.

The churchyard, in which they had just laid away Agatha, lay In his course. As lie approached he felt his heart fail, and stopping a moment at the stone wall that separated it from the highroad, he leaned against the trunk of a huge elm that guarded the gate of entrance. As he did so he heard a sound of repressed sobbing from some spot not very far away, and moved by some tindefinable impulse stronger than his will, he pushed open the gate and entered the sacred precincts.

Instantly the wierdness and desolation of the spot struck him. He wished, yet dreaded, to advance. Something in the grief of fhe mourner

THE CRAWFORDSVILLE WEEKLY JOURNAL

whose sobs he had heard had seized upon his heartstrings, and yet as he hesitated, the sounds came again, and, forgetting that his intrusion might not prove altogether welcome, he pressed forward till he came within a few feet from the spot from which the sobs Issued.

He had moved quietly, feeling the awe of the place, and when he paused It was with a sensation of dread not to be entirely explained by the sad and dismal surroundings. Dark as it was, he discerned the outline of a form lying stretched in speechless misery across a grave, but when impelled by an almost irresistible compassion he strove to speak, his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth and he only drew back further into the shadow.

He had recognized the mourner and the grave. The mourner was Frederick and the grave that of Agatha Webb.

A few minutes later Mr. Sutherland reappeared at the door of the inn and asked for a gig and driver to take him

A moment's convcr&ationproved the driver's supposition to be correct. back to Sutherlandtown. He said in excuse for his indecision that he had undertaken to walk, but had found his strength inadequate to the exertion. He was looking very pale and trembled so that the landlord, who took his order, asked him if he were ill. But Mr. Sutherland insisted that he was quite well, only in a hurry, and showed the greatest impatience till he was again started upon the road.

I*or the first half mile he sat perfectIv silent. The moon wus now ud and the road stretched before them flooded with light. As long as no one was to be seen on this road or on the path running beside it Mr. Sutherland held himself erect, his eyes fixed before him in an attitude of anxious inquiry, but as soon as any sound came to break the silence or there appeared in the distance ahead of them-the least appearance of a plodding wayfarer he drew back and hid himself in the recesses ot the vehicle. This happened several times. Then his whole man-

was Mr. Sutherland, ner changed. They had just

passed

Frederick, walking, with bowed head, toward Sutherlandtown. But he was not the only person on the road at this time. A few minutes previously they had passed another man walking in the same direction. As Mr. Sutherland mused over this lie found himself peering through the small window at the back of the buggy, striving to catch another glimpse of the two men plodding behind him. He could see them both, his son's form throwing its long shadow over the moonlit road, followed only too closely by that other, whose ungainly step he feared to acknowledge to himself was growing only too familiar in his eyes.

Falling into a troubled reverie, he beheld the well known houses and the great trees under whose shadow he had grown from youth to manhood flit by him like phantoms in a dream. But suddenly one house and one place drew his attention with a force that started him again into an erect attitude, and, seizing with one hand the arm of the driver, he pointed with the other at the door of the cottage they were passing, saying in choked tones: "See, see! Something dreadful has

hanging from the doorpost yonder!" "Yes. it is crape," answered the driver, jumping out and running up the path to look. "Fhilemon must be dead, tlio good Philemon."

Here was a fresh blow. Mr. Sutherland bowed before it for a moment. Then he rose hurriedly and stepped down into the road beside the driver. "Get in again," said he, "and drive on. Hide a half mile, then come back for me. I must see the Widow Jones."

The driver, awed both by the occasion and the feeling it had called up in Mr. Sutherland, did as he was bid and drove away. Mr. Sutherland, with a glance back at the road he had just traversed, walked painfully up the path to Mrs. Jones' door.

A moment's conversation with the \\omau who answered his summons proved the driver's supposition to be correct. Philemon had passed away. He had never rallied from the shock he had received. lie had joined his beloved Agatha on the day of her burial, and the long tragedy of their mutual life was over. "It is a mercy that no inheritor of their misfortune remains," quoth the good woman as she saw the affliction her tidings caused in this much revered friend.

The assent Mr. Sutherland gave was mechanical. He was anxiously studying the road leading toward Porchester.

Suddenly he stepped hastily in. ill 3*ou be so good as to let me sit

happened since we passed by here this I suffering to you. Tell me what to do morning. That is crape, Samuel, crape, Shall I be deaf, dumb"—

down in your parlor for a few minutes?" he asked. "I would like to rest there for an instant alone. This final blow has upset me."

The good woman bowed. Mr. Sutherland's word was law in that town. She did not even dare to protest against the "alone" which he had so pointedly emphasized, but left him after making him, as she said, comfortable, and went back to her duties in the room above.

It was fortunate she was so amenable to his wishes, for no sooner had her steps ceased to be heard than Mr. Sutherland rose from the easy chair in

which he had been seated and, putting I

out the l.'inin WirW w,...

out the lamp Widow Jones had insisted on lighting, passed directly to the window, through which he began to peer with looks of the deepest anxiety.

A man was coming up the road, a young man —Frederick. As Mr. Sutherland recognized him he leaned forward with increased anxiety till at the appearance of his son in front his scrutinj grew so strained and penetrating that it seemed to exercise a magnetic influence upon the passerby, for when directly opposite the window Frederick involuntarily roused from his abstraction and looked up. The glance he gave the house was but momentary, but in that glance the father saw all that he had secretly dreaded. As his son's eye fell on that fluttering bit of crape, testifying to another death in this already much bereaved community, he staggered wildly, then in a pause of doubt drew nearer and nearer till his fingers grasped this symbol of mourning and clung there. Next moment he was far down the road, plunging toward home in a state of great mental disorder.

With sinking heart Mr. Sutherland let his eyes drop from this flying figure to search for the man whom a little while before he had seen following immediately behind his son. He was following him still and hastened by the

fell on him, so that whatever was strange or pitiful in the foregoing scene must have had this man for a witness.

A half hour afterward Mr. Sutherland reached home. He had not overtaken Frederick again or even his accompanying shadow. Ascertaining at his own door that his son had not yet come in, but had been seen going farther up the hill, he turned back again into the road and proceeded after him on foot.

The next place to his own was occupied by Mr. Ilalliday. As he approached it he caught sight of a man standing half in and half out of the honeysuckle porch, whom he at first thought to be Frederick. But he soon saw that It was the fellow who had been following his son all the way from Porchester, and. controlling his first movement of dislike, he stepped up to him anc quietly said: "Sweetwater, is this you?"

The young man fell back and showed a most extraordinary agitation, quickly suppressed, however. "Yes, sir: it is no one else. Do you know what I am doing here?" "I fear I do. You have been to Porchester. You have seen my son"—

Sweetwater made a hurried, almost an entreating, gesture. Never mind that. Mr. Sutherland. I

house just as Mr. Sutherland's glance also. "Mr. Sutherland, I am not a

I LI 1 I N •. .. ,. ... I. I. I

about that. I am as much broken up by what I have seen as you are. I never suspected him, sir only the girl to whom he has so unfortunately attached himself. But after seeing him abandoned to grief in that place, over that grave, what am I to think? What am I to do? I honor you I would not grieve you, but—but—oh, sir, perhaps you can help me put of the maze into which I have stumbled! Perhaps you can assure me that Mr. Frederick did not leave the hall at the time she did. I missed him from among the dancers. did not see him between 12 and 3. but perhaps you did, and—and"—

Ilis voice broke. lie was almost as profoundly agitated as Mr. Sutherland. As for the latter, who found himself unable to reassure the other on this very vital point, having no remembrance himself of having seen Frederick among his guests during those fatal hours, he stood speechless, lost in abysses, the depth and horror of which only a father can appreciate. Sweetwater respected his anguish and

Here Mr. Sutherland found voice. "You make too much of what you saw," said he. "My boy has faults a.nd

"You- have a riaht to command me." has' lived anything but a satisfactory life, but he is not as bad as your fears would show. lie could never have

_. ...

for a moment was silent himself. Then and they were both facing him. he burst out: "Good evening, Agnes." "I had rather never have livedo to see Mr. Sutherland forced himself to this day than be the cause of shame or speak lightly. "Ah. Frederick, do I find you herer'"

1

crime, he had uo motive to do so Sweetwater, he had no motive. A few hundred dollars! But these he could have got from me, and did, but"—

Why did the wretched father stop? Did he recall the circumstances under which Frederick had obtained these last hundreds from him? They were not ordinary circumstances, and Frederiek had been in no ordinary strait. I Mr. Sutherland could not but acknowlI edge to himself that there was something iu that whole matter which contradicted the very plea he was making, and not being able to establish the conviction of his son's innocence In his

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honorable to try

to establish it in another. IIis next words showed the struggle he was laboring under. "It is that girl who has ruined him,':Sweetwater. He loves her, but he doubts her. as who could help doing after the story she told us day before yesterday. Indeed he has doubted her ever since that fatal night, and it is this which has broken his heart and not—not"— Again the old gentleman paused: again he recovered himself, this time with a touch of his usual dignity and self command. Leave me!" he cried. "Leave us! Nothing that you have seen has escaped me, but our interpretations of it may differ. I will wateli over my son from this hour, and you may trust to my vigilance."

Sweetwater bowed. "You have a right to command me," said he. "You may have forgotten, but I have not, that I owe my life to you. Years ago—perhaps you can recall it it was at the Black pond—I was going down for the third time, and my mother was screaming in terror on the bank, when you—you plunged in and— Well, sir, such things are never forgotten! and, as I said before, you have only to command me." He turned to go, but suddenly came back. There were signs of mental conflict iu his face and voice

talkative man. If I trust your vigilance, you may trust my discretion. Only I must have your word that you will convey no warning to your son that you will not even let him see he lies under any suspicion, least of all your own."

Mr. Sutherland made an Indefinable gesture, and Sweetwater again disappeared, this time not to return. As for Mr. Sutherland, he remained standing before Mr. Halliday's door. What had the young man meant by this emphatic repetition of his former suggestion? That he would be quiet also and not speak of what he had that night seen? Why, then— But to the hope thus given this honest hearted gentleman would yield no quarter, and, seeing a duty before him, a duty he dare not shirk, he brought his emotions, violent as they were, into complete and absolute subjection and, -opening Mr, Halliday'e door, entered the house. They were old neighbors, and ceremony was ignored between them.

Finding the 11a 11 empty ami tile parlor door open, he walked immediately into the latter room. The sight that met his eyes never left his memory. Agnes, his little Agnes, whom he had always loved and whom he had vainly longed to call by the endearing name 1. »v nutui li tlIJ iI

had rather you wouldn't say anything or daughter, sat with her face toward

him. looking up at Frederick. That yiV.ing gentleman hail just spoken to her, or she had just received something from his tiand. for her own was held out. and her expression was one of gratitude and acceptance. She was not a beautiffil girl, but she had a beautiful look, and at this moment it was exalted by a feeling the old gentleman had once longed, but now dreaded inexpressibly, to see there. What could it mean? Why did she show interest, devotion, passion almost, at this especial moment of her life, when In all the years that had gone by. and when it was the dearest wish of his heart to see these two united, she had never betrayed In all their intercourse anything but distrust, if not an uneasy dislike? It was one of the contradictions of our mysterious human nature, and at this crisis and in this moment of secret heartbreak and miserable doubt it made the old gentleman shrink, with his first feeling of actual despair.

The next moment Agues had risen,

"Jvmvwi, fo »-i tTO UUU

The latter question had more of constraint in it. Frederick, with a slight flush suffusing his cheek, which had been only too pale until now, acknowledged his father's greeting with a smile in which that father was surprised to see a faint shade of relief if not of joy. Then he backed toward the door. •"...

TO UK CONTINITKI)

I. T., Is 1jI'OK]HI'IU4.

Fifty-five car loads of coal are shipped from Lehigh. I. T.. daily. The town has also bought o,U0) bales of cotton this season and expects to have electric lights in thirty days. New coal mines are being opened.

A xxl Tii iug..

German Syrup is the special prescription of Dr. A. Boschee, a celebrated German physician,and is acknowledged to be one of the most fortunate discoveries of medicine. It quickiv eurc-« coughs, colds and lung troubles of the

severest nature, removing, as it doe-C the cause of the afi'ection and leaving the parts in a strong and healthy condition. It is not an experimental medicine, but has stood the test of years, giving satisfaction in every oa«e which its rapidly increasing sale everv season confirms. Two million bottles sold annually. Boschee's German Syrup was introduced in the United'5 States in 1868, and is now sold in every

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taken life. That would be incredible, town and village 'n the civilized world* monstrous, in one brought up as he has Three doses will relieve any ordinary been. Besides, if he were so far gone in evil as to be willing to attempt

IO JJWW ^MN

in pv-firr

cough. Price 75 cents. Get Grin's* prize almanac. For sale bv Moffett .V Morgan.

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