The Woman in the Alcove (American Illustrated serial)/Part 2

. ''The central figure at a grand ball is Mrs. Fairbrother, a very beautiful woman, gorgeously dressed and wearing a diamond of immense value. Among the men who talk with her is Anson Durand, a dealer in precious stones. In the course of the evening, Durand proposes to Miss Van Arsdale who is telling the story, and is accepted by her. At the height of the ball the cry arises that Mrs. Fairbrother has been murdered and her body is found in an alcove with her gloves gone and the diamond stolen. The Inspector of Police cross-questions those present and, in talking to Miss Van Arsdale, discovers that she has in a bag carried on her arm Mrs. Fairbrother's gloves. As she takes them from the bag, the lost diamond rolls out on the floor''.

ITH benumbed senses and a dismayed heart, I stared at the fallen jewel as at some hateful thing menacing both my life and honor.

"I have had nothing to do with it," I vehemently asserted. "I did not put the gloves in my bag, nor did I know the diamond was in them. I fainted at the first alarm, and—"

"There! there! I know," interposed the Inspector, kindly. "I do not doubt you in the least; not when there is a man to doubt Miss Van Arsdale, you had better let your uncle take you home. I will see that the hall is cleared for you. To-morrow I may wish to talk to you again, but I will spare you all further importunity to-night.

I shook my head. It would require more courage to leave at that moment than to stay. Meeting the Inspector's eyes firmly, I quietly declared—

"If Mr. Durand's good name is to suffer in any way, I will not forsake him. I have confidence in his integrity, if you have not. It was not his hand, but one much more guilty, which dropped this jewel into the bag."

"So! so! do not be too sure of that, little woman. You had better take your lesson at once. It will be easier for you, and more wholesome for him."

Here he picked up the jewel. "Well, they said it was a wonder!" he exclaimed, in his sudden admiration. "I am not surprised, now that I have seen a great gem, at the famous stories I have read of men risking life and honor for their possession. If only no blood had been shed!"

"Uncle! uncle!" I wailed aloud in my agony.

It was all my lips could utter, but to uncle, it was enough. Speaking up for the first time, he asked to have a passage made for us, and when the Inspector moved forward to comply, he threw his arm about me, and was endeavoring to find fitting words with which to fill up the delay, when a short altercation was heard from the doorway, and Mr. Durand came rushing in, followed immediately by the Inspector.

His first look was not at myself, but at the bag, which still hung from my arm. As I noted this action, my whole inner self seemed to collapse, dragging my happiness down with it. But, my countenance remained steady, too steady, for when his eye finally rose to my face, he found there what made him recoil and turn with something like fierceness on his companion.



"You have been talking to her," he vehemently protested. "Perhaps you have gone further than that. What has happened here? I think I ought to know. She is so guileless, Inspector Dalzell; so perfectly free from all connection with this crime. Why have you shut her up here, and plied her with questions, and made her look at me with such an expression, when all you have against me is just what you have against some half dozen others,—that I was weak enough, or unfortunate enough, to spend a few minutes with that unhappy woman in the alcove before she died?"

"It might be well if Miss Van Arsdale herself would answer you," was the Inspector's quiet retort. "What you have said may constitute all that we have against you, but it is not all we have against her."

I gasped, not so much at this seeming accusation, the motive of which I believed myself to understand, but at the burning blush with which it was received by Mr. Durand.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, with certain odd breaks in his voice. "What can you have against her?"

"A triviality," returned the Inspector, with a look in my direction not to be mistaken.

"I do not call it a triviality," I burst out. "It seems that Mrs. Fairbrother, for all her elaborate toilette, was found without gloves on her arms. As she certainly wore them on entering the alcove, the police have naturally been looking for them. And where do you think they have found them? Not in the alcove with her,—not in the possession of the man who undoubtedly carried them away with him, but—"

"I know, I know," Mr. Durand hoarsely put in. "You need not say any more. Oh, my poor Rita! what have I brought upon you by my weakness?"

"Weakness!"

He started; I started; my voice was totally unrecognizable.

"I should give it another name," I added, coldly.

For a moment he seemed to lose heart, then he lifted his head again, and looked as handsome as when he had plead for my hand in the little conservatory.

You have that right," said he; "besides, weakness at such a time, and under such exigencies, is little short of wrong. It was unmanly in me to endeavor to secrete these gloves; more than unmanly for me to choose for their hiding-place the recesses of an article belonging exclusively to yourself. I acknowledge it, Rita, and shall meet only my just punishment if you deny me in the future both your sympathy and regard. But you must let me assure you and these gentlemen also, one of whom can make it very unpleasant for me, that consideration for you, much more than any miserable anxiety about myself, lay at the bottom of what must strike you all as an act of unpardonable cowardice. From the moment I learned of this woman's murder in the alcove, where I had visited her, I realized that everyone who had been seen to approach her within a half hour of her death would be subjected to a more or less rigid investigation, and I feared if her gloves were found in my possession, some special attention might be directed my way which would cause you unmerited distress. So, yielding to an impulse which I now recognize as a most unwise, as well as unworthy one, I took advantage of the bustle about us, and of the insensibility into which you had fallen, to tuck these miserable gloves into the bag I saw lying on the floor at your side. I will not ask your pardon. My whole future life shall be devoted to winning that; I simply wish to state a fact."

"Very good," it was the Inspector who spoke. I could not have uttered a word to save my life. "Perhaps you will now feel that you owe it to this young lady to add how you came to have these gloves in your possession?"

"Mrs. Fairbrother handed them to me."

"Handed them to you?"

"Yes, I hardly know why myself. She asked me to take care of them for her. I know that this must strike you as a very peculiar statement. It was my realization of the unfavorable effect it could not fail to produce upon those who heard it, which made me dread any interrogation on the subject. But I assure you it was as I say. She put the gloves in my hand while I was talking to her, saying they incommoded her."

"And you?"

"Well, I held them for a few minutes, then I put them in my pocket, but quite automatically, and without thinking very much about it. She was a woman accustomed to have her own way. People seldom questioned it, I judge."

Here the tension about my throat relaxed, and I opened my lips to speak. But the Inspector, with a glance of some authority, hastily forestalled me.

"Were the gloves open or rolled up when she offered them to you?"

"They were rolled up."

"Did you see her take them off?"

"Assuredly."

"And roll them up?"

"Certainly."

"After which she passed them over to you?"

"Not immediately. She let them lie in her lap for awhile."

"While you talked?"

Mr. Durand bowed.

"And looked at the diamond?"

Mr. Durand bowed for the second time.

"Had you ever seen so fine a diamond before?"

"No."

"Yet you deal in precious stones?"

"That is my business."

"And are regarded as a judge of them?"

"I have that reputation."

"Mr. Durand, would you know this diamond if you saw it?"

"I certainly should."

"The setting was an uncommon one, I hear."

"Quite an unusual one."

The Inspector opened his hand.

"Is this the article?"

"Good God! Where—"

"Don't you know?" "I do not."

The Inspector eyed him gravely.

"Then I have a bit of news for you. It was hidden in the gloves you took from Mrs. Fairbrother. Miss Van Arsdale was present at their unrolling."

Do we live, move, breathe at certain moments? It hardly seems so. I know that I was conscious of but one sense, that of seeing, and of but one faculty, that of judgment. Would he flinch, break down, betray guilt, or simply show astonishment? I chose to believe it was the latter feeling only which informed his slowly whitening and disturbed features. Certainly it was all his words expressed, as his glances flew from the stone to the gloves and back again to the Inspector's face.

"I cannot believe it I cannot believe it." And his hand flew wildly to his forehead.

"Yet it is the truth, Mr. Durand, and one you have now to face. How will you do this? By any further explanations or by what you may consider a discreet silence?" "I have nothing to explain; the facts are as I have stated."

The Inspector regarded him with an earnestness which made my heart sink.

"You can fix the time of this visit, I hope; tell us, I mean, just when you left the alcove. You must have met or seen some one who can speak for you."

"I fear not"

Why did he look so disturbed and uncertain.

"There were but few persons in the hall just then," he went on to explain. "No one was sitting on the yellow divan."

"You know where you went, though? Whom you saw and what you did before the alarm spread?"

"Inspector, I am quite confused. I did go somewhere; I did not remain in that part of the hall. But I can tell you nothing definite, save that I walked about, mostly among strangers, till the cry rose which sent us all in one direction and me to the side of my fainting sweetheart"

"Can you pick out any stranger you talked to or any one who might have noted you during this interval? You see, for the sake of this little woman, I wish to give you every chance."

"Inspector, I am obliged to throw myself on your mercy. I have no such witness to my innocence as you call for. Innocent people seldom have. It is only the guilty who provide for such contingencies."

This was all very well if it had been uttered with a straightforward air and in the clear tone of perfect innocence. But it was not. I who loved him felt that it was not, and consequently was more or less prepared for the change which now took place in the Inspector's manner. Yet it pierced me to the heart to observe this change, and I instinctively dropped my face into my hands when I saw him move towards Mr. Durand with some final order or word of caution.

Instantly (and who can account for such phenomena!) there floated into view before my retina a reproduction of the picture I had seen, or imagined myself to have seen, in the supper-room; and as at that time it opened before me an unknown vista quite removed from the surrounding scene, so it did now, and I beheld again in faint outlines, and yet with the effect of complete distinctness, a square of light through which appeared an open passage partially shut off from view by a half lifted curtain and the tall figure of a man holding back this curtain and gazing, or seeming to gaze, at his own breast, on which he had already laid one quivering finger.

What did it mean? In the excitement of the horrible occurrence which had engrossed us all, I had forgotten this curious experience, but on feeling anew the vague sensation of shock and expectation which seemed its natural accompaniment, I became conscious of a sudden conviction that the picture which had opened before me in the supper-room was the result of a  reflection in glass or a mirror of something then going on in a place not otherwise within the reach of my vision; a reflection, the importance of which I suddenly realized when I recalled at what a critical moment it had occurred. A man in a state of dread looking at his breast, within five minutes of the stir and rush of the dreadful event which had marked this evening!

A hope, great as the despair in which I had just been sunk, gave me courage to drop my hands and advance impetuously towards the Inspector.

"Don't speak, I pray; don't judge any of us further till you have heard what I have to say."

In great astonishment and with an aspect of some severity, he asked me what I had to say now which I had not had the opportunity of saying before. I replied with all the passion of a forlorn hope that it was only at this present moment I remembered a fact which might have a very decided bearing on this case; and, detecting evidences as I thought of relenting on his part, I backed up this statement by an entreaty for a few words with him apart, as the matter I had to tell was private and possibly too fanciful for any ear but his own.

He looked as if he apprehended some loss of valuable time, but touched by the involuntary gesture of appeal with which I supplemented my request, he led me into a corner where, with just an encouraging glance towards Mr. Durand, who seemed struck dumb by my action, I told the Inspector of that momentary picture I had seen reflected in what I was now sure was some window pane or mirror. "It was at a time coincident with, or very nearly coincident, with the perpetration of the crime you are now investigating," I concluded. "Within five minutes afterward came the shout which roused us all to what had happened in the alcove. I do not know what passage I saw or what door or even what figure; but I am sure anyway, that it was that of a guilty man. Something in the outline (and it was the outline only I could catch) expressed an emotion incomprehensible to me at the moment, but which, in my remembrance, impresses me as that of fear and dread. It was not the entrance to the alcove I beheld—that would have struck me at once—but some other opening which I might recognize if I saw it. Cannot that opening be found, and may it not give a clue to the man I saw skulking through it with terror and remorse in his heart?"

"Was this figure, when you saw it, turned toward you or away?" the Inspector inquired with unexpected interest. "Was it his back you saw or his face?"

"His back. He was going from me."

"And you sat—where?"

"Shall I show you?"

The Inspector bowed, then with a low word of caution turned to my uncle. "I am going to take this young lady into the hall for a moment, at her own request. May I ask you and Mr. Durand to await me here?"

Without pausing for reply, he threw open the door and presently we were pacing the deserted supper-room, seeking for the place where I had sat. I found it almost by a miracle,—everything being in great disorder. Guided by my bouquet, which I had left behind me in my escape from the table I laid hold of the chair before which it lay, and declared quite confidently to the Inspector:—

"This is where I sat."

Naturally his glance and mine both flew to the opposite wall. A window was before us of an unusual size and make. Unlike any which had ever before come under my observation, it swung on a pivot, and, though shut at the present moment, might very easily, when opened, present its huge pane at an angle capable of catching reflections from some of the many mirrors decorating the reception-room situated diagonally across the hall. As all the doorways on this lower floor were of unusual width, an open path was offered, as it were, for these reflections to pass, making it possible for scenes to be imaged here which, to the persons involved, would seem as safe from any one's scrutiny as if they were taking place in the adjoining house.

As we realized this, a look passed between us of more than ordinary significance. Pointing to the window, the Inspector turned to a group of waiters watching us from the other side of the room in evident curiosity and asked if it had been opened any time this evening.

The answer came quickly:—

"Yes, sir,—just before the—the—"

"I understand," broke in the Inspector; and, leaning over me, he whispered: "Tell me again, exactly what you thought you saw."

But I could add but little to my former description.

"Perhaps you can tell me this much," he kindly persisted. "Was the picture, when you saw it, on a level with your eye, or did you have to lift your head, in order to see it?"

"It was high up,—in the air, as it were. That seemed its oddest feature."

The Inspector's mouth took a satisfied curve.

"Possibly, I might identify the door and passage, if I saw them," I suggested.

"Certainly, certainly," was his cheerful rejoinder; and, summoning one of his men, he was about to give some order, when his impulse changed, and he asked if I could draw.

I assured him, in some surprise, that I was far from being an adept in that direction, but that possibly I might manage a rough sketch; whereupon, he pulled a pad and pencil from his pocket, and requested me to make some sort of attempt to reproduce, on paper, my memory of this passage and the door.

My heart was beating violently, and the pencil shook in my hand, but I knew that it would not do for me to show any hesitation in fixing for all eyes what, unaccountably to myself, continued to be perfectly plain to my own. So, I endeavored to do as he bade me, and succeeded, to some extent, for he uttered a slight ejaculation at one of its features, and, while duly expressing his thanks, honored me with a very sharp look.

"Is this your first visit to this house?" he asked.

"No; I have been here before."

"In the evening, or in the afternoon, making calls?"

"In the afternoon."

"I am told that the main entrance is not in use to-night"

"No. A side door is provided for occasions like the present. Guests entering there find a special hall and staircase, by which they can reach the upstairs dressing-rooms, without crossing the main hall. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, that is what I mean."

I stared at him in wonder. What lay back of such questions as these?

"You came in, as others did, by this side entrance," he now proceeded. "Did you notice, as you turned to go upstairs, an arch opening into a small passage-way at your left?"

"I did not," I began, flushing, for I thought I understood him now. "I was too eager to reach the dressing-room, to look about me." "Very well, I may want to show you that arch."

The outline of an arch backing the figure we were endeavoring to identify, was a marked feature in the sketch I had shown him.

"Will you take a seat nearby, while I make a study of this matter?"

I turned with alacrity to obey. There was something in his air and manner which made me almost buoyant. Had my fanciful interpretation of what I had seen reached him with the like conviction it had me? If so, there was hope,—hope for the man I loved, who had gone in and out between curtains, and not through any such arch as he mentioned, or I had described. Providence was working for me. I saw it in the way the men now moved about, swinging the window to and fire, under the instruction of the Inspector, manipulating the lights, opening doors and drawing back curtains. Providence was working for me, and when, a few minutes later, I was asked to reseat myself in my old place at the supper table, and take another look in that slightly deflected glass, I knew that my effort had met with its reward, and that for the third time I was to receive the impression of a place now indellibly [sic] imprinted on my consciousness.

"Is not that it?" asked the Inspector, pointing at the glass with a last look at the imperfect sketch I had made him, and which he still held in his hand.

"Yes," I eagerly responded. "All but the man. He whose figure I see there is another person entirely; I see no remorse, or even fear, in his looks."

"Of course not. You are looking at the reflection of one of my men. Miss Van Arsdale, do you recognize the place now under your eye?"

"I do not. You spoke of an arch in the hall, at the left of the carriage entrance, and I see an arch in the window-pane before me, but—" "You are looking straight through the alcove,—perhaps you did not know that another door opened at its back,—into the passage which runs behind it. Further on is the arch, and beyond that arch the side hall and staircase leading to the dressing-rooms. This door,—the one in the rear of the alcove, I mean, is hidden from those entering from the main hall by draperies which have been hung over it for this occasion, but it is quite visible from the back passage-way, and there can be no doubt that it was by its means the man whose reflected image you saw, both entered and left the alcove. It is an important fact to establish, and we feel very much obliged to you for the aid you have given us in this regard." Then, as I continued to stare at him in my elation and surprise, he added, in quick explanation, "The lights in the alcove, and in the several parlors, are all hung with shades, as you must perceive, but the one in the hall, beyond the arch, is very bright, which accounts for the distinctness of this double reflection. Another thing,—and it is a very interesting point,—it would have been impossible for this reflection to have been noticeable from where you sat, if the level of the alcove flooring had not been considerably higher than that of the main floor. But for this freak of the architect, the continually passing to and fro of people would have prevented the reflection in its passage from surface to surface. Miss Van Arsdale, it would seem that by one of those chances which happen but once or twice in a life-time, every condition was propitious at the moment to make this reflection a possible occurrence. Even the location and width of the several doorways and the exact point at which the portière was drawn aside from the alcove's entrance."

"It is wonderful," I cried, "wonderful." Then, to his astonishment perhaps, I asked if there was not a small door of communication between the passageway back of the alcove and the large central hall. "Yes," he replied. "It opens just beyond the fire-place. Three small steps lead to it."

"I thought so," I murmured, but more to myself than to him. In my mind I was seeing how a man, if he so wished, could pass from the very heart of this assemblage into this quiet passageway and so on into the alcove, without attracting very much attention from his fellow guests. I forgot that there was another way of approach even less noticeable; that by the small staircase running up beyond the arch directly to the dressing-rooms. That no confusion may arise in one's mind in mind to these curious approaches, I subjoin a plan of a portion of this lower floor as it afterwards appeared in the leading dailies.



"And Mr. Durand?" I stammered, as I followed the Inspector back to the room where we had left that gentleman. "You will believe his statement now and look for this second intruder with the guiltily hanging head and frightened mien?"

"Yes," he replied, stopping me on the threshold of the door and taking my hand kindly in his, "if—(don't start, my dear; life is full of trouble for young and old, and youth is the best time to face a sad experience,) if he is not himself the man you saw staring in frightened horror at his breast. Have you not noticed that he is not dressed in all respects like the other gentlemen present? That though he has not donned his overcoat, he has put on, somewhat prematurely one might say, the large silk handkerchief he presumably wears under it? Have you not noticed this, and asked yourself why?"

I had noticed it I had noticed it from the moment I recovered from my fainting fit, but I had not thought it a matter of sufficient interest to ask, even of myself, his reason for thus hiding his shirt front. Now I could not. My faculties were too confused, my heart too deeply shaken by the suggestion which the Inspector's words conveyed for me to be conscious of anything but the devouring question as to what I should do if by my on mistaken zeal I had succeeded in plunging the man I loved yet deeper into the toils in which  he had become enmeshed.

The Inspector left me no time for the settlement of this question. Ushering me back into the room where Mr. Durand and my uncle awaited our return in apparently unrelieved silence, he closed the door upon the curious eyes of the various persons still lingering in the hall, and abruptly said to Mr. Durand:—

"The explanations you have been pleased to give of the manner in which this diamond came into your possession are not too fanciful for credence, if you can satisfy us on another point which has awakened some doubt in the mind of one of my men. Mr. Durand, you appear to have prepared yourself for departure somewhat prematurely. Do you mind removing that handkerchief for a moment? My reason for so peculiar a request will presently appear."

Alas, for my last fond hope! Mr. Durand, with a face as white as the background of snow framed in by the uncurtained window, against which he leaned, lifted his hand as if to comply with the Inspector's request, then let it fall again with a grating laugh. "I see that I am not likely to escape any of the results of my imprudence," he cried, and with a quick jerk bared his shirt front.

A splash of red defiled its otherwise uniform whiteness! That it was the red of heart's blood was proved by the shrinking look he unconsciously cast at it.

My love died at sight of that crimson splash—or I thought it did. In this spot of blood on the breast of him to whom I had given my heart, I could read but one word—guilt, heinous guilt, guilt denied and now brought to light in language that could be read and seen of all men. Why should I stay in such a presence! Had not the Inspector himself advised me to go?

Yes, but another voice bids me remain. Just as I reached the door, Anson Durand found his voice and I heard, in the full, sweet tones I loved so well:—

"Wait! I am not to be judged like this, I will explain."

But here the Inspector interposed.

"Do you think it wise to make any such attempt without the advice of counsel, Mr. Durand?"

The indignation with which Mr. Durand wheeled toward him raised in me a faint hope.

"Good God, yes!" he cried. "Would you have me leave the woman who has just done me such honor one minute longer than is necessary to such dreadful doubts! Rita—Miss Van Arsdale—weakness, and weakness only, has brought me into my present position. I did not kill Mrs. Fairbrother, nor did I knowingly take her diamond, though appearances look that way, as I am very ready to acknowledge. I did go to her in the alcove, not once, but twice, and these are my reasons for doing so: About three months ago a certain well-known man of enormous wealth came to me with the request that I would procure for him a diamond of superior beauty. He wished to give it to his wife, and he wished it to outshine any which could now be found in New York. This meant sending abroad; an expense he was quite willing to incur on the sole condition that the stone should not disappoint him when he saw it, and that it was to be in his hands on the eighteenth of February—his wife's birthday. I had never had such an opportunity before for a large stroke of business, and naturally was much elated. I entered at once into correspondence with the best known dealers on the other side, and last week a diamond was delivered to me which seemed to fill all the necessary requirements. I had never seen a finer stone, and was consequently rejoicing in my success, when some one, I do not remember who now, chanced to speak in my hearing of the wonderful stone possessed by a certain Mrs. Fairbrother—a stone so large, so brilliant and so precious altogether that she seldom if ever wore it, though it was known to connoisseurs and had a great reputation at Tiffany's, where it had once been sent for some alteration in the setting. Was this stone larger and finer than the one I had procured with so much trouble? If so, my labor had all been in vain, for my patron must have known of this diamond and would expect to see it surpassed.

"I was so upset by this possibility that I resolved to see this jewel and make comparisons for myself! I found a friend who undertook to introduce me to the lady, who received me very graciously and was amiable enough until the subject of diamonds was broached, when she immediately stiffened and left me without an opportunity of proffering my request. However, on every other subject she was affable, and I found it easy enough to pursue the acquaintance till we were almost on friendly terms. But I never saw the diamond, nor would she talk about it, though I caused her some surprise when one day I drew out before her eyes the one I had procured for my patron and made her look at it 'Fine,' she cried, fine!' But I failed to detect any envy in her manner, and so knew that I had not achieved the object set me by my wealthy customer. This was a woful disappointment; yet, as Mrs. Fairbrother never wore her diamond, it was among the possibilities that he might be satisfied with the very fine gem I had    obtained for him, and, influenced by this hope, I sent him this morning a request to come and see it to-morrow. To-night I attended this ball, and almost as soon as I enter the drawing-room I hear that Mrs. Fairbrother is present and is wearing her famous jewel What could you expect of me? Why, that I would make an effort to see it and so be ready with a reply to my exacting customer when he should ask me to-morrow if the stone I showed him had its peer in the city. But she was not in the drawing-room then, and later I became interested elsewhere"—here he cast a look at me—"so that half the evening passed before I had an opportunity to join her in the so-called alcove, where I had seen her set up her miniature court. What passed between us in the short interview we held together you will find me prepared to state, if necessary. It was chiefly marked by the one short view I succeeded in obtaining of her marvelous diamond, in spite of the pains she took to hide it from me by some natural movement whenever she caught my eyes leaving her face. But in that one short look I had seen enough. This was a gem for a collector, not to be worn save in a royal presence. How had she come by it? And could Mr. Smythe expect me to procure him a stone like that? In my confusion I rose to depart, but the lady showed a disposition to keep me, and began chatting so vivaciously that I scarcely noticed that she was all the time engaged in drawing off her gloves. Indeed, I almost forgot the jewel, possibly because her movements hid it so completely, and only remembered it when, with a sudden turn from the window where she had drawn me to watch the falling flakes, she pressed the gloves into my hand with the coquettish request that I would take care of them for her. I remember as I took them striving to catch another glimpse of the. stone, whose brilliancy had dazzled me, but she had opened her fan between us. A moment after, thinking I heard approaching steps, I quitted the room. This was my first visit."

As he stopped, possibly for breath, possibly to judge to what extent I was impressed by his account, the Inspector seized the opportunity to ask if Mrs. Fairbrother had been standing any of this time with her back to him. To which he answered, "Yes," while they were in the window.

"Long enough for her to have plucked off the jewel and thrust it into the gloves, if she had so wished?"

"Quite long enough."

"But you did not see her do this?"

"I did not."

"And so took the gloves without suspicion?"

"Entirely so."

"And carried them away?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Without thinking that she might want them the next minute?"

"I doubt if I was thinking seriously of her at all. My thoughts were on my own disappointment."

"Did you carry these gloves out in your hand?"

"No, in my pocket."

"I see. And you met—"

"No one. The sound I heard must have come from the rear hall."

"And there was nobody on the steps?"

"No. A gentleman was standing at their foot,—Mr. Grey, the Englishman; but, his face was turned another way, and he looked as if he had been in that same position for several minutes."

"Did this gentleman,—Mr. Grey,—see you?"

"I cannot say, but I doubt it. He appeared to be in a sort of dream. There were other people about, but nobody with whom I was acquainted."

"Very good. Now for the second visit you acknowledge having paid this unfortunate lady."

The Inspector's voice was hard. I clung a little more tightly to uncle, and Mr. Durand, after one agonizing glance my way, drew himself up as if quite conscious that he had entered upon the most serious part of the struggle.

"I had forgotten the gloves, in my hurried departure; but, presently, I remembered them, and grew very uneasy. I did not like carrying this woman's property about with me. I had engaged myself, an hour before, to Miss Van Arsdale, and was very anxious to rejoin her. The gloves worried me, and finally, after a little aimless wandering through the various rooms, I determined to go back and restore them to their owner. The doors of the supper-room had just been flung open, and the end of the hall near the alcove was comparatively empty, save for a certain quizzical friend of mine, whom I saw sitting with his partner on the yellow divan. I did not want to encounter him just then, for he had already joked me about my admiration for the lady with the diamond, and so I conceived the idea of approaching her by means of a second entrance to the alcove, unsuspected by most of those present, but perfectly well known to me, who  have been a frequent guest in this house. A door, covered by temporary draperies, connects, as you may know, this alcove with a passage-way communicating directly with the hall of entrance and the upstairs dressing-rooms. To go up the main stairs and come down by the side one, and so on, through a small archway there is to this door was a very simple matter for me. If no early departing or late arriving guests were in that hall, I need fear but one encounter, and that was with the servant stationed at the carriage entrance. But even he was absent at this propitious instant, and I reached the door I sought, without any unpleasantness. This door opened out instead of in,—this I also knew when planning this surreptitious intrusion, but, after pulling it open and reaching for the curtain, which hung completely across it, I found it not so easy to proceed as I had imagined. The stealthiness of my action held back my hand; then the faint sounds I heard within advised me that she was not alone, and that she might very readily regard with displeasure my unexpected entrance by a door of which she was possibly ignorant. I tell you all this for the reason that, if by any chance I was seen hesitating in face of that curtain, doubts might have been raised, which I am anxious to dispel." Here his eyes left my face for that of the Inspector. "It certainly had a bad look,—that I don't deny; but, I did not think of appearances then. I was too anxious to complete a task which had suddenly presented unexpected difficulties, That I listened before entering was very natural, and when I heard no voice, only something like a great sigh, I ventured to lift the curtain and step in. She was sitting, not where I had left her, but on a couch at the left of the usual entrance, her face towards me, and,—you know how, Inspector. It was her last sigh I had heard. Horrified, for I had never looked on death before, much less crime, I reeled forward, meaning, I presume, to rush down the steps shouting for help, when, suddenly, something fell splashing on my shirt front, and I saw myself marked with a stain of blood. This both frightened and bewildered me, and it was a minute or two before I had the courage to look up. When I did do so, I saw whence this drop had come. Not from her, though the red stream was pouring down the rich folds of her dress, but, from a sharp, needle-like instrument which had been thrust, point downwards, in the open work of an antique lantern hanging near the doorway. What had happened to me might have happened to anyone who had chanced to be in that spot at that special moment, but I did not realize this then. Covering the splash with my hands, I edged myself back to the door by which I had entered, watching those deathfull eyes and crushing under my feet the remnants of some broken china with which the carpet was bestrewn. I had no thoughts of her, hardly any of myself. To cross the room was all; to escape as secretly as I came, before the portière so nearly drawn between me and the main hall should stir under the hand of some curious person entering. It was my first sight of blood; my first contact with crime, and that was what I did,—I fled."

The last word was uttered with a gasp. Evidently he was more affected in the relation of this horrible experience than he had been while undergoing it.

"I am ashamed of myself, " he muttered, "but, nothing can now undo the fact. I slid from the presence of this murdered woman as though she had been the victim of my own rage or cupidity; and, being fortunate enough to reach the dressing-room before the alarm had spread beyond the immediate vicinity of the alcove, found and put on the handkerchief, which made it possible for me to rush down and find Miss Van Arsdale, who, somebody told me, had fainted. Not till I stood over her in that remote corner beyond the supper-room did I again think of the gloves. What I did when I happened to think of them, you already know. I could have shown no greater cowardice if I had known that the murdered woman's diamond was hidden inside them. Yet, I did not know this, or even suspect it. Nor do I understand now, her reason for placing it there. Why should Mrs. Fairbrother risk such an invaluable gem to the custody of one she knew so little? An unconscious custody, too? Was she afraid of being murdered if she retained this jewel?"

The Inspector thought a moment, and then said:—

"You mention your dread of some one entering by the one door before you could escape by the other. Do you allude to the friend you left sitting on the divan opposite?"

"No, my friend had left that seat. The portière was sufficiently drawn for me to detect that much. If I had waited a minute longer," he bitterly added, "I would have found my way open to the regular entrance, and so escaped all this."

"Mr. Durand, you are not obliged to answer any of my questions; but, if you wish, you may tell me whether, at this moment of apprehension, you thought of the danger you ran of being seen from outside by some one of the many coachmen passing by on the driveway?"

"No,—I did not even think of the window,—I don't know why; but, if anyone passing by did see me, I hope they saw enough to substantiate my story."

The Inspector made no reply. He seemed to be thinking. I heard afterwards that the curtains, looped back in the early evening, had been found hanging at full length over this window, by those who first rushed in upon the scene of death. Had he hoped to entrap Mr. Durand into some damaging admission? Or, was he merely testing his truth. His expression afforded no clue to his thoughts, and Mr. Durand, noting this, remarked with some dignity:—

"I do not expect strangers to accept these explanations, which must sound strange and inadequate in face of the proof I carry of having been with that woman after the fatal weapon struck her heart. But, to one who knows me, and knows me well, I can surely appeal for credence to a tale which I here declare to be as true as if I had sworn to it in a court of justice."

"Anson!" I passionately cried out, loosening my clutch upon my uncle's arm. My confidence in him had returned.

And then, as I noted the Inspector's business-like air, and my uncle's wavering look and unconvinced manner, I felt my heart swell, and flinging discretion to the wind, I bounded eagerly forward, and, laying my hands in those of Mr. Durand's, cried fervently:—

"I believe in you. Nothing but your own words shall ever shake my confidence in your innocence."

The sweet, glad look I received, was my best reply. I could leave the room, after that.

But not the house. Another experience awaited me, and others collected under this roof, before this full, eventful evening, came to a close.