Rensselaer Democrat, Volume 1, Number 11, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 June 1898 — A TANGLED SKEIN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A TANGLED SKEIN

MRS. ALEXANDER

CHAPTER XL Luke Dillon was a rare specimen of his race, a money-loving Irishman. It was the flaw in a very shrewd, farseeing intellect, but ns yet indulgence had not developed it to that degree of intensity which dulls perception in other directions. A few tastes still remained to Dillon not quite dwarfed by the master passion, among them a certain pleasure in his own keenness and such creature comforts as good food and drink. The circumstances of Mrs. Callander’s death exercised him a good deal. He would have been rather disgusted to think that his task offered no greater difficulty than tracing a common seaman, a mere vulgar thief. For his own credit sake he Loped and expected to find a far deeper, subtler motive below the apparent simplicity of the crime. If he could find the sailor, the supposed murderer, and prove him guilty, well and good, he would get a thousand pounds. If he could find a more highly placed assassin so much the better —he should unearth spme disgraceful secret which it would be of the last importance to conceal, even at the price of immunity to the murderer. This would mean a heavy bribe to insure his own silence. Two thousand instead of one —ay, more--with the possibility of retaining fees for many a year to come. With this idea Dillon applied all the force of his keen, and in some ways imaginative, mind first to invent probabilities, and then to seek proof of them, for he had often discovered very unexpected proof while following the scent of a false theory. Given a beautiful young woman, separated by many a league from a husUunl considerably older than herself, what more likely than a lover? and given a lover, the amount of gnilt and cruelty, deceit and* treachery, depended on the strength of passion, the difficulties and provocations of the position. •'There must be a confidante somewhere,” mused the detective as he strolled along the common the day after the funeral. “I wish I could find her—if it is a ‘her’ —I wish 1 could get a word with that Mr. Egerton.” At this point in his meditations Dillon came upon a gentleman who was walking slowly along the beach, and had crossed from the water’s edge as if to mount some steps that led to the low embankment. Dillon recognized Egerton. and waited till he came near. “Beg your pardon, sir,” he said, deferentially touching his hat. “I wanted a word or two with yon.” “Who are you?” asked Egerton, haughtily. “My name is Dillon, and I am in the employment of Mr. Standish at present.” “Ah! the detective,” with a tinge of contempt in bis tone. “Are you sent from Scotland Yard?” “No, sir, I am not in any service except that of the person who engages me temporarily. lam free to do as my employer directs; to press on to full discovery or to hold my hand ” “What do you want with me?" “I’d make bold to ask you a question or two, if I may, sir.” “Go on, we can walk while I speak. What is it?” “They toil me you spoke to these men, the sailors who are suspected of the murder. Now, I’d like to know what your opinion is.” *T have none. They may have done it, but there are base scoundrels of every nation who’d stab their mothers for gold and jewels.” “May be so, but not their sweethearts, sir.” “What do you mean?” cried Egerton, liis eyes lighting up angrily, while a deep flush passed over his face, so deadly ■white before. “Do you think this tragedy a fit subject for vulgar jests?” “Heaven forbid, sir,” gravely. “But you see rough men like me are not accustomed to touch things gingerly as gentlefolks do. Yom see it’s rather hard to hunt up men that may be innocent, and waste a lot of time and money into the bargain without looking round a bit for any other possible party." “I think it is all wasted time,” said Egerton, passionately. “We’ll never catch the real murderer, though I’d give all I possess to stand by and see him die inch by inch, under the grasp of a torturer, but I don’t want you or any like you to handle and dissect the simple details of a life like There,” stopping himself, “I am tolerably sure some bloodthirsty thief stole in and silenced her forever, some wretch who will assuredly meet his puniehqient sooner or later, who is perhaps That is all I think about it! If you want money to prosecute your search, come to me —L.ere, take that and let me go. I don’t want to speak to you again.” He took out his purse and put five or six sovereigns in Dillon’s ready hand, then ■with a gesture of infinite abhorrence turned from him and walked rapidly in the direction of the pier. “Oh! I’m too dirty to be touched, am I?” muttered the detective, looking after him with an unpleasant grin. “All the fitter to take the ‘filthy lucre.’ ” Drawing a small leather bag from hi* pocket, he put the sovereigns into it; carefully twisting the string round it he placed the bag in his breast pocket, and, quickening his pace, directed his steps to The Knoll. “There is something wrong with you, my fine gentleman,” he mused. “A man’s not always so wild with grief about his friend’s wife, unless—he’s not the sort of man though to stick a knife in a woman —unless he was riled to that extent! Faith, jealousy and revenge have brought finer gentlemen than you into ugly places. Now let’s see what is to be doue with the other one.” Dorothy had forced herself to sit downstairs in the drawing room that morning to tfnstfer some of the many letters which had poured in upon her since the dreadful death of her sister had been described by every newspaper in England and some abroad—chiefly hoping to exchange a few

words with Standish as he came and went. It seemed that long years had passed since she had written letters in that room last; was it not hideously soon to be clothed in her right mind, and able to resume anything of her ordinary ways? Was life to go on just as usual without Mabel? How was Herbert to bear existence unless he could shake off something of the awful silent grief which oppressed him? He was hardly master of himself! Then when Standish went away, palling her loneliness would be! As she thought this, with her elbow on the table, her cheek on her hand, a voice, a strange voice, said: “Oh! I beg your pardon, miss.” She started, and turning, recognized Dillon. “I beg your pardon-miss,” he repeated. “I thought Mr. Standish was here.” “He wag here half an hour ago, and will return soon," she said, rising and looking earnestly at him; something in him repelled her, yet she had a curious wish to speak to him. “Thank you, miss. I only wanted to ask him a question or two, and maybe you could answer them as well.” “Mr. Dillon, do you hope to get any due?” "Well, miss, I may and I may not. There are many points to be considered. It’s all very well to offer rewards and hunt up those foreign chaps, but it’s just possible others may have a hand in it. Things look black enough, I grant, against those men, still ” he stopped and looked down, as if considering deeply. “Still, in what other way can you possibly account for the horrible crime?” asked Dorothy. “As to a>ccounting for it—why, that’s not to be thought of yet. Then you see there’s a heap of crimes-done from spite, and jealousy and revenge, besides the desire to grab booty.” “There could be no such motives in this case,” returned Dorothy, trying to speak calmly, while her heart beat with almost painful violence at this corroboration of her own horrible suspicions. “Who could be jealous of or wish to hurt my sister, who only lived among her own family and had no intimacies outside them?” “Well, I suppose that’s true; but you know, miss. I am a stranger, and don’t know nothing of how you and she lived. Sometimes good, kind ladies manage to offend spiteful people who don’t stop at trifles. If you could remember now that she scorned anyone, or turned her back on anyone, it might be a help, and of course you would like to bring the villain to justice!” He kept his small, searching eyes fixed on her while he spoke,' noting how the swift blood mounted almost to her brow, and then left her paler than before; how her eyes avoided his, and she seemed to. shrink together. “How dare you suggest such fearful possibilities!” interrupted Dorothy, hardly able to refrain from screaming aloud with terror. “You are thinking of wicked, uncivilized people, not of English gentlemen and ladies; these vile motives do not exist here and—and you ought not to si>eak of them to any one! Don’t you see what frightful conclusions they point to? What a cruel construction the world we live in would put upon them. You must not speak in that way—to any one!” "Trust me,” he returned, with a hideously confidential air—while he thought, “She knows more than she chooses to tell, there’s a tile off the rcof here somehow.” “I have kept many a curious story quiet before this,” he said aloud. “If yon trust me, miss, and just tell me every little trifle such as, of course, you wouldn't speak out before a low, vulgar policeman who has neither discretion nor delicacy. I’ll lay my hand on the miscreant—or,” with strong emphasis, "the real miscreant’s tool!” Dorothy was overwhelmed. How was it that this stranger, this common man, had evolved suspicions so like her own? What clue had he gained? How did he 'dare—her head swam. She dreaded to think what inculpatory morsel of writing, either from or to Egerton, might have fallen into his hands; papers, notes, letters were so easily mislaid, so dreadfully dangerous! She made a gallant effort to pull herself together, for she felt he was trying to read her thoughts with his sly, mean eyes. "I nm so unnerved.” she said with sudden composure, “that everything frightens me. Of course a man of your experience must know much that seems impossible to me. I can but hope your skill may bring the real felon to justice. To me, of course, ft is clear that robbery and the fear of detection were the only motives for the crime that has robbed us of one so dear.” A sob choked her words. Dillon stood respectfully silent. “She’s a plucky one,” thought the detective, while he said aloud, “No, of course not, miss; but I'll be careful all the same, ami you may be sure I’ll do my best to find out the real truth.” He suddenly raised his eyes as he uttered the last words. Dorothy could not resist a shiver; there was, to her ear, a threat in his tone. “Now,” he resumed—when to Dorothy’s delight the door ojiened to admit Standish, who came in quickly, saying: “You here. Dillon?” He stopped beside Dorothy. “Yes, sir. I just came in, thinking you were here.” “Well,” returned Standish, somewhat impatiently, “Miss Wynn looks very much exhausted. The sooner we can leave her to rest the better.” While he spoke Dorothy, as if unconsciously, slipped her arm through his and drew close to him, so that be felt the beating of her heart, the tremor that occasionally ran through her slight frame. “I am sorry I disturbed the young lady.” With an abrupt bow and a satis-, fled smile the detective left the room,

thinking! “She could tell a good bit if she chose. She was in a proper fright when I hinted at jealousy. I suspect I sailed pretty <flosc to the wind. She does not want his high mightiness there to know what I was driving at. She spoke up pretty quick when I began about the bar. I fancy I have a fine job in band. She is an uncommon pretty piece of goods. I would not mind her cuddling me up as she does that guardian. But a big bag of sovs. is worth ail that moonshine." ’chapter XII. Meantime Standish, looking kindly into Dorothy’s eyes, exclaimed: “I was afraid that fellow’s questions would only open your wounds; I wanted to be with you when he came. You are looking so pale and worn, Dorothy! I must get you away from this.” Dorothy withdrew her arm from his and sat down, beginning to put her papers and letters together. “I should be pleased, too. The sight of this room, of everything, the recollection of our happy days is insupportable.” “I have been consulting with Miss Oakeley. Mrs. Callander wants you all to go to her house in London—at least till yon can settle in an abode of your own. Miss Oakeley proposes to take a house and reside with you, for the winter at least. What do you think of this? She is kind and human.” “I should like to be with Henrietta, but not with Mrs. Callander. You must save me from Mrs. Callander, Paul.” “I will as far as I can, my dear child. Do you know, she has just gone in to pay her son an unexpected visit?” “Indeed!” cried Dorothy, dismayed. “I am sorry—it will irritate him, and he may wound her. His dislike to the idea of seeing her almost alarms me. It is so unnatural, it is unlike him when he is himself.” “I imagine that her unfriendly feeling to his sweet wife was a source of annoyance to him, and now she is gone he resents it as he never would have done during her lifetime.” Dorothy bent her head, but did pot reply. “Then I have your permission to arrange so far your winter abode, at least, with Miss Oakeley?” “Yes, dear Paul. Shall you be long away?” “As short a time as I can manage— a month, perhaps. Indeed, I must come back to look after you and the children, for poor Callander seems to shrink from me—from us all. He told Egerton he would leave a power of attorney with his solicitors, and would lodge money for current expenses in their hands as he wanted to stay a long time abroad. He will, no doubt, return sooner than he expects. The first cruel keenness of his grief blunted, he will long to see his poor children.” Here a sound of voices and steps outside attracted their attention. The door was partly open, and Dorothy heard Mrs. Callander’s voice saying very distinctly, “No; I shall leave at once. It is insupportable.” Dorothy looked interrogatively at Standish. “I would not go if I were you,” he said, answering the glance. “She can come in here if she likes.” In another minute the noise as of a carriage driving away was heard, and at the same time Miss Oakeley came in, looking rather scared. "Isn’t it unfortunate?” she said, throwing herself into a chair. “He would pot allow her to stay or even to sit down.” “Who? Herbert?” asked Dorothy. “Yes. When his mother went in he stood up, looking perfectly awful, and said, ‘I did not ask you to come here.’ “ ‘I know that,’ she returned, quite subdued, ‘but I could not keep away. 1 longed to see you, my dear san—to see ’ “ ‘I may see you hereafter,’ he said in such a strange, choked sort of voice. ‘But here, while all is fresh, I will not. You were the one enemy she had on earth. Yow only distrusted and disliked her; you made her shrink from you, and I will neither see nor speak with you till heaven has given me grace to forgive.’ “Poor Herbert,” continued Miss Oakeley, weeping and wiping her eyes; “he was always a religious man. I was sorry for my aunt, too, poor old thing; I wanted her to come in here and sit down, but no, she was too hurt and offended. She has gone back, and I really think I must go after her.” “Do, dear Henrietta. She was cross and disagreeable, but this is a terrible punishment—to be rejected by her own son I” “Yes, and Mr. Egerton was with me this morning and says Herbert does not wish the children to be with her. We must try and smooth him down.” “It is a relief to me that Egerton is going with Callander. This dreadful blow seems almost more than his brain can stand. Still, he was always just and reasonable. Change of scene will, no doubt, restore his balance, and his extraordinary antipathies will fade away,” said Standish, thoughtfully. “I wish, I do wish you were going with Herbert,” said Dorothy, wringing her bands in her earnestness. There was a note of anguish in her voice that struck Standish. “My dear Dorothy,” he said seriously, “you have always been a sensible girl; yon must not let yourself brood over imaginary trouble now, when you have so terrible a grief to contend with; you will fritter away your strength, which has been sorely tried. Egerton is an excellent companion for Callander. I do not understand your prejudice against him.” “Nor I,” added Miss Oakeley. “I nm sure he hus been like a brother to Herbert, only a great deal more brotherly than a brother! —now I must go to my aunt,” and Henrietta, who, though truly sympathetic, was in a way exhilarated by having so much to do—real work, too — went away quickly. (To be continued.)