Rensselaer Democrat, Volume 1, Number 10, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 June 1898 — A TANGLED SKEIN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A TANGLED SKEIN

MRS. ALEXXANDER

CHAPTER IX—(Continued.) The nwful shock, the terrible sense that the dear, dead woman might have been saved had any one of the household been near her, was too much even for Dorothy’s strong vitality. With a deep sigh she sank senseless into Nurse’s arms, who was thankful to assist in taking her back to her own room, where she left her in charge of the children’s maid. Dorothy came gradually to her senses ■and, as the dreadful knowledge of her sister’s tragic death returned to her, she rose up, and attempted to teave the room. “Oh, no, Miss Dorothy,” cried the little maid. “Mrs. McHugh said you were not to be let go down stairs. She says .you’ll just be breaking your heart, miss, •and you can do no good. The police and the doctor are there now, and Mrs. McHugh, she’ll come up as soon as she has anything to tell. Do lie down again.” “Ah, no; I can indeed do no good! No •one can do any good,” cried Dorothy, wringing her hands. “Who could have hurt her? She has not an enemy in the world. Was it some wretch who wanted to rob her?” “I heard Mrs. McHugh say that all her jewels were gone.” Dorothy walked to and fro, remembering confusedly the events of the last few days—the painful scene between her sister and herself. At last Nurse softly opened the door and approached her, her own eyes streaming, her face haggard. “My poor dear,” she said, in low, hurried tones, “the docto rthinks she must have been dead these four or five hours. The blow, he says, must have killed her at once. It somehow struck the spine, though it looks as if it were on the back of the head. He doesn’t think she felt any pain or fright. She looks like a peaceful infant. The master —heaven help him!—would let no one touch her but himself. His face is set like an iron mask. “The coroner’s come now, and Mr. Egerton. Ah! he has a feeling heart! I thought he’d have dropped when he came into the room; for all he .is a tall, strong man, he was trembling like a leaf, and his eyes looked like to start out of his head. Oh! what a day of sorrow! My dear, beautiful angel of a mistress! To think of them foreign devils stealing in on her sweet sleep to take her innocent life! and it will be hard to catch them! They say the ship was away at dawn this morning, no one knows where.” Here Nprse utterly broke down, and, sinking into a seat, threw her apron over her face, and rocked herself to and fro. “Where are these blessed children? Go, Peggy, my girl,” to the nursemaid, “go, see to them, they’ll be wanting some bread and butter. Oh, here is Miss Oakeley! thank heaven!” It was indeed Henrietta, pale and tearful. She ran to Dorothy, and, kneeling down, clasped her arms round her. “I have only just heard! Dorothy, my dear Dorothy. Let me stay with you. It is too —too cruel,” and, pressing the silent, half-unconscious girl closely, she burst into hysterical weeping—for once, Henrietta Oakeley forgot herself, her “part,” her pretensions to originality, everything, save the human anguish round her! Dorothy returned her embrace mechanically. “Have they sent for Paul—Paul Standish?” she whispered. “I don’t know, dear! but Mr. Egerton is with Herbert, and he will do all he can." A convulsive shudder passed through the slight form in Henrietta’s arms, and Dorothy clung to her with a midden movement. “Oh! send for Paul! Do not leave us defenseless here without Paul Standish! He will not have left London yet,” and with feverish eagerness she pushed Henrietta from her. “Has anyone telegraphed for Mr. Standish?” she asked, looking nt Nurse. “I don’t know, miss,” said the griefstricken woman. “I’ll go and ask.” “Telegraph for him at once,” said Henrietta. “Yes, miss; Collins knows his address,” and Nurse went feebly from the room. CHAPTER X. Eastport had rarely, if ever, been so ehocked and excited as by the murder of, the charming and admired Mrs; Herbert •Callander. Though she had not Ynixed much with the local society, she was well known, and everyone who could find ata nd ing room crowded to hear the evidence given at the inquest. The verdict rendered was “Murder, by some person or persons unknown.” The first act of this sad drama was closed next day by the funeral of the fair young victim. It was long since Eastport had such a sensation. Wreaths, crosses, pyramids of flowers hid the coffin; everyone who had an equipage and the slightest acquaintance with Colonel or Mrs. Callander sent their carriage to swell (he long procession. The bells tolled, and the ntreets through which the cortege passed were crowded' with onlookers. It was a soft gray day, as if nature mourned tenderly for the brief young life, so ruthlessly cut off for merg base* greed, in the midst of Us bright morning. '"•'The resting place selected by (Milan* der was the burial ground attached to aq old chapel on the hillside between Fordsea and Rooks tone; an ancient gray wall, breast-high.and lichen-grown, snrroended It; great masses of gorse breathed a p»fume of their honey-sweet blossonjs in spring from the grassy slops above, while beneath spread out the restless waters of the bay with the towers and spires of Eastport beside them. The fresh winds from sea and land swept over it, and the blessed silence of the quiet country seemed tq keep all sounds hushed, lest they should trouble the last sleep of those weary ones who found rest beneath its grassy monads. The spectators ware greatly moved by the scene, and deeply impressed by the dignified self-control of Colonel Callander, by the deep despair of hia set face. Also by the pallid grief

of the friend who stood beside him, whose unsteady step as he approached the grave, showed how hard was the struggle not to break down. Standish devoted himself to support Dorothy, but she bore up better than he expected. It was all over at last, and as Dorothy drove back, her hand in Henrietta Oakeley’s, she felt indeed alone — worse than alone—burdened with a secret conviction which for potent reasons she must not speak, with a bitter sense of wrong for which she must seek no sympathy. Standish found a detective awaiting him on his return from paying the last tribute of respect to the dead. As soon as Colonel Callander, with a hastily expressed desire to be left alone, had retired to his own room, the two men, accompanied by Mrs. McHugh, began the examination which the former had been so anxious to make. “We have lost too much time,” he said, in his peculiar drawling nasal voice, with every here and there strongly Irish tones. “In cases of this kind, time is everything. It would have done the poor lady no harm if I had rummaged about a bit while she lay there; she was past being disturbed.” “It would have been offensive to her sister and to Colonel Callander,” returned Standish. “And a day or two more or less don’t matter,” put in Mrs. McHugh, “when them cruel devils have got clean off!” “We are not sure yet who is guilty,” said Dillon, dryly, and, -walking to the window, looked intently at the bank opposite. “Come here,” he said to Nurse. “How was the window fastened when your mistress went to bed that night?” “It was Mary, the housemaid, waited on her —not me.” “Call Mary.” Mrs. McHugh went in search of her. “The top of the bank is lower than this window,” observed Dillon, “and you see the holes made by the ends of the ladder are a good bit lower still; the ladder sloped enough for a man to climb up easy.” “I see that,” returned Standish. Here Mrs. McHugh returned with Mary looking very uncomfortable. “Now, my girl, Come along, tell me all you can remember about your mistress when you last saw her.” “It was close on eleven, sir. just after Mr. Egerton left. I had been shutting master’s windows, as look out to the front, and I saw the light of Mr. Egerton’s cigar when he walked past.” "Which side did he pass?” “Right, sir, by the Beach road!” “Ha! Where did Mr. Egerton put up?” asked Dillon. “At the Beach Mansion Hotel,” said Standish. “That is not to the right?” “No, sir. I suppose he went for a turn while he smoked, for when I went to put up the shutters to the door I saw the red of the cigar going down by the sunk fence as if he were going round by the beach.” “You went to your mistress immediately after?” “Yes! she rang the bell just as .1 was turning back from the door.” “Did she seem the same as usual?” “Well, yes! I think she had been crying. Her eyes looked like crying, now and again, lately. She was weak-like and poorly.” “Do yon know of anything to vex her?” “Bless you, no, sir. Everyone loved her, poor dear lady. Everyone tried to please her, from the Colonel down,” cried the girl, tears coming to her eyes. “Well, how did you leave her?” “She had put on her dressing gown, and said she would not have her hair brushed, because she was tired. She told mo to light the night light.” “The night light? Where did you put it? Could it be seen from the outside?” “I don’t know; I stood it here by this window,” going over to one which opened on the east side of the house. The bed intervened between the place indicated and the window by which the murderer had entered. “If the light were visible from without of course it would have been a guide. Put a similar ligfbt in the same.place after dark and I will test it. Weil’ your mistress told you to light this watch light?” “She says, ‘Mary, I think I’ll have a night light. I feel so nervous and feverish,’ says she, ‘and open a bit of the volets’ (that's what she called those shutter blinds) ‘as well as the window,’ says she, ‘I don’t feel able to breathe.’ ” “And you opened them?” “I did. You see, the’ middle piece folds back, and I set it a tiny bit open, fastening the bar across the inside. You see it goes right across. I’ll show you ” “Stop!” cried Dillon, grasping her arm as she made a step towards the dressing table, “don’t touch that. Has it been touched or stirred since the murder?” “No, not that I know of,” said the girl, a little frightened by his vehemence; “Mrs. McHugh kept the key to the room* ever since the coroner came, and would never let .none of us come next or nigh it.” “I did that, sir,” added Mrs. McHugh, “for Mr. Standish warned me you wanted to see the place as It was ” “Right, ma’a m. Ah!" going carefully •to the side of the dressing table. “There is not ihuch roc an for s Biau to come in here without moving this. How come the outer blinds open if this,” touching the table, “has not been moved?” **l made ColNns open them from the outside,” said Nurse. • Dillon then looked carefully at the carpet, the portion bf the painted flooring left uncovered along the side of the bed where the murderer must have stood; he even stooped down and felt all. th* edge of the carpet which lay beside It. Standish saw that one of his hands was closed as he rose up.

“Haye you found anything?’ he asked. Dillon shook fiis head. “Only a pin,” he said. “I always remember that, he who sees a pin, and lets it lay, may live to wnqt a pin another day!” “Well, and that’s true,” said Nurse, emphatically, w For some minutes Dillon continued to search under Wardrobe and chests of drawers. In corners and all dim nooks—every possible spot where the smallest article could have been dropped or forgotten by the murderer or murderers. “Now, my girl, I’li not keep you nor Mrs. McHugh any longer; you’ve been very helpful, and I’m obliged to you.” “I’m sure you are welcome,” they said in chorus, and retired. Dillon followed them to the door, and moving it backwards and forwards, observed : “It goes easily and silently!” Then, stepping over the threshold, he seemed to look most intently on the other side. He stood in the opening, so that Standish could not pass. “Ay,” he said, “It has not been touched. It’s just thick with dust,” and drawing out his pocket handkerchief, he rubbed it with some force; finally, re-enter-ing the room, he closed the,door and stood a moment, his thick eyebrows almost meeting with a frown of intense thought. Then, looking up, as if some gleam of light had come to him, he walked again to the window, and pulling the table a little aside, closed the outer shutters and put up the bar, leaving the center portion slightly open. “Will you stay here, while I get the ladder and see if I can enter without noise?” Standish nodded. He felt curiously affected by the exhaustive search Dillon was making. He almost shuddered at the possibility of his discovering some unexpected depths of horror greater even than what was patent. At last Standish heard the scraping of the ladder as Dillon fixed it against the window ledge. Next the shutter opened softly, then the bar was lifted cautiously, and as cautiously let down, but not without a certain amount of noise. Dillon appeared at the window, and, stepping in, came against the dressing table. “There,” he said, restoring it to its place, “I defy any one to unfasten that bar and let it down without making noise enough to waken a light sleeper. Then the dressing table would be another source of disturbance. As to getting up here on the ladder, it was perfectly easy, but 1 am amazed to think the fellows left it there.” “They were so sure of getting away early next morning, I suppose, they were reckless. Now, Mr. Dillon, what do you think ?” “Well; sir, I do not know what to think. It is quite possible that a murderous thief might have got in that way; I wish the poor lady had bad a bit of a noisy pet terrier.” “Ah, I understand. Well, it so happens there is no dog about the premises.* What do you propose to do next?” Dillon stood silent, in deep meditation. Then looking up straight into his interrogator’s eyes, he said: "I’ve a bit of a plan forming in my mind, sir, but I don’t like to talk about it yet. Will you trust me for a while, and ask no questions? Ay, and trust me with a goodish bit of money, for I may have to cross the channel and disappear.” “Thank you, sir. Might I speak to Miss Wynn—the young lady who heard, or thought she heard, the bar fall?” “Of course —only I should like to be present.” “Just as you like, Mr. Standish, but you must remember nobody ever speaks out her thoughts and impressions quite easy. To do this I just want to come on her unawares, like—not to ask to see her formally. If you are there, well and good, but I don’t want to lose an opportunity waiting for you.” "What is he at?” thought Standish; “he does not want me, that is Oh, jrery well,” he said aloud, “only pray remember that Miss Wynn is in a terribly low, nervous state. Be careful not to shock or startle her.” “Bless your heart, sir, do you think I never spake to a lady before?” “Have you studied the room sufficiently, or would you wish it to be kept still untouched?” asked Standish. “I have learned all it can tell. I have quite done with it.” (To be continued.)