American Illustrated Magazine/The Woman in the Alcove/Part 1
I
THE LADY WITH THE DIAMOND
was, perhaps, the plainest girl in the room that night. I was also the happiest—up to one o'clock. Then my whole world crumbled, or, at least, suffered an eclipse. Why and how, I am about to relate.
Anson Durand had been the man of my preference from the day of our first meeting, but I had never allowed myself to consider the possibility of his returning my admiration. I was too small and much too unbeautiful for expectations of that nature. Indeed, love had never entered into my plan of life, as was evinced by the nurse's diploma I had just gained after three years of study and severe training.
When, therefore, at an early hour of that eventful evening this man of marked gifts and striking personality drew me from the dance and, amid the intoxicating perfumes and opalescent lights of Mr. Ramsdell's conservatory, whispered ardent vows and begged me to be his wife, my surprise was so great and the event so wonderful that I made no attempt to express my joy, but stood quite still, searching his face to see if this Paradise whose gates I was thus passionately entreated to enter, was indeed a verity or only a dream born of the excitement of the dance and the charm of a scene exceptional in its splendor and picturesque qualities even for so luxurious a city.
But it was no mere dream. Truth and earnestness were in his manner, and his words were neither feverish nor forced. He honestly loved me, and for very substantial reasons (or so he said), and I, in my willingness to listen and believe, soon found the plans and purposes of years disappearing in the glamour of this new hope which filled my whole woman's heart with the ecstatic joy of living.
Perhaps I was too happy. The glimpse I caught of myself in a mirror we chanced to pass as we sauntered back into the hall startled me into thinking so for a moment. For had it not been for the odd color of my gown and the unique way in which my hair was dressed that night, I should not have recognized the beaming girl who faced me so naïvely from the depths of that responsive glass.
Can one be too happy? I do not know. I know that one can be too perplexed, too burdened and too sad.
Thus far I have spoken only of myself in connection with the evening's elaborate function. But though entitled by my old Dutch blood to a certain social consideration, which I am happy to say never failed me, I even in this hour of supreme satisfaction, attracted little attention and awoke small comment. There was another woman present better calculated to do this. A fair woman, large and of a bountiful presence, accustomed to conquest, and gifted with the power of carrying it off with a certain lazy grace irresistibly fascinating to the ordinary man; a gorgeously appareled woman, with a diamond on her breast, too vivid for most women, almost too vivid for her. I noticed this diamond early in the evening, and then I noticed her. She was not as fine as the diamond, but she was very fine, and had I been in a less ecstatic frame of mind, I might have envied the homage she received from all the male sex, not excepting him who walked with my hand on his arm. Later, there was no one in the world I envied less.
The ball was a private and very elegant one. There were some notable guests. One gentleman in particular was pointed out to me as an Englishman of great distinction and political importance. I thought him a very interesting man for his years, but odd and a trifle self-centered. Though greatly courted, he seemed strangely restless under the fire of eyes to which he was constantly subjected, and only happy when free to use his own in contemplation of the scene about him. Had I been less absorbed in my own happiness I might have noted sooner than I did that this contemplation was confined to such groups as gathered about the lady with the diamond. But this I failed to observe at the time, and consequently was much surprised to come upon him, at the end of one of the dances, talking with this lady in an animated and courtly manner totally opposed to the apathy, amounting to boredom, with which he had hitherto met all advances.
Yet it was not admiration for her person which he openly displayed. During the whole time he stood there his eyes seldom rose to her face; they lingered mainly—and this was what aroused my curiosity so that I continued to watch him—on the great fan of ostrich plumes which the beauty held against her breast. Was he desirous of seeing the great diamond she thus unconsciously (or was it consciously) shielded from his gaze? It was very possible, for, as I continued to note him, he suddenly bent toward her and as quickly raised himself again with a look which was quite inexplicable to me. The lady had shifted her fan a moment and his eyes had fallen on the gem.
The next thing I recall with any definiteness was a tête-à-tête conversation which I held with my lover on a certain yellow divan at the end of one of the halls.
To the right of this divan rose a curtained recess, highly suggestive of romance, called "The Alcove." As this alcove figures prominently in my story, I will pause right here to describe it.
It was originally intended to contain a large group of statuary which Mr. Ramsdell, the host, had ordered from Italy to adorn his new house. He is a man of original ideas in regard to such matters, and in this instance had gone so far as to have this end of the house constructed with a special view to an advantageous display of this promised work of art. Fearing the ponderous effect of a pedestal large enough to hold such a considerable group, he had planned to raise it to the level of the eye by causing the alcove floor to be built a few feet higher than the main one. A flight of low, wide steps connected the two, which, following the curve of the wall, added much to the beauty of that portion of the hall.
The group was a failure and was never shipped; but the alcove remained, and, possessing as it did all the advantages of a room in the way of heat and light, had been turned into a miniature retreat of exceptional beauty.
The seclusion it offered extended, or so we were happy to think, to the solitary divan at its base on which Mr. Durand and myself were seated and, taking advantage of our position, we were discussing a subject interesting only to ourselves, when Mr. Durand interrupted himself to declare:—"You are the woman I want, you and you only. And I want you soon. When do you think you can marry me? Within a week—if—if—"
Did my look stop him? I was startled, I had heard no incoherent phrase from him before.
"A week!" I remonstrated. "We take more time than that to fit ourselves for a journey or some transient pleasure. I hardly realize my engagement yet."
"You have not been thinking of it for these last two months as I have."
"No," I replied demurely, forgetting everything else in my delight at this admission.
"Nor are you a nomad among clubs and restaurants."
"No, I have a home."
"Nor do you love me as deeply as I do you."
This I thought open to argument.
"A striking woman—and what a diamond!"
"The home you speak of is a luxurious one," he continued. "I cannot offer you its equal. Did you expect me to?"
I was indignant.
"You know that I didn't. Shall I, who deliberately chose a nurse's life when I might have had wealth, because wealth without work is hateful to me, shrink from braving poverty with the man I love? We will begin as simply as you please—"
"No," he peremptorily put in, yet with a certain hesitancy which seemed to speak of doubts he hardly acknowledged to himself, "I will not marry you if I must expose you to privation or to the genteel poverty I hate. I love you more than you realize and wish to make your life a happy one. I cannot give you all you have been accustomed to in your rich uncle's house, but if matters prosper with me, if any chance I have built on succeeds—and it will fail or succeed to-night—you will have those comforts which love will heighten into luxuries and—and—"
"Lock the doors!"
He was becoming incoherent again and this time with his eyes fixed elsewhere than on my face. Following his gaze, I saw what had distracted his attention. The lady with the diamond was approaching us on her way to the alcove. She was accompanied by two gentlemen both strangers to me, and her head, all alive with brilliants, was turning from one to the other with an indolent grace. I was not surprised that the man at my side quivered and made a start as if to rise. She was a gorgeous image. In comparison with her imposing figure in its trailing robe of rich pink velvet, my diminutive frame in its sea-green gown must have looked as faded and colorless as a half obliterated pastel.
"A striking woman," I remarked as I saw he was not likely to resume the conversation which her presence had interrupted. "And what a diamond!"
The glance he cast me was peculiar.
"Did you notice it particularly?" he asked.
Astonished, for there was something very uneasy in his manner so that I half expected to see him rise again and join the group he was so eagerly watching and before my lips could frame a response, I quickly replied:—
"It would be difficult not to notice what one would naturally expect to see only on the breast of a queen. But perhaps she is a queen. I should judge so from the homage which follows her."
His eyes sought mine. There was inquiry in them but it was an inquiry I did not understand.
"What can you know about diamonds?" he presently demanded. "Nothing but their glitter, and glitter is not all, the gem she wears may be a very tawdry one."
I flushed with humiliation. He was a dealer in gems—that was his business—and the check which he had put upon my enthusiasm certainly made me conscious of my own presumption. Yet I was not disposed to take back my words. I had had a better opportunity for seeing this remarkable jewel than he, and with the perversity of a somewhat ruffled mood, I burst forth, as soon as the color had subsided from my cheeks:—
"No, no. It is glorious, magnificent. I never saw its like. I doubt if you ever have, for all your daily acquaintance with jewels. It's value must be enormous. Who is she? You seem to know her."
It was a direct question but I received no reply. Mr. Durand's eyes had followed the lady who had lingered somewhat ostentatiously on the top step, and did not return to me till she had vanished with her companions behind the long plush curtains which partly veiled the entrance. By this time he had forgotten my words if he had ever heard them and it was with the forced animation of one whose thoughts are elsewhere that he finally returned to the old plea.
When would I marry him? If he could offer me a home in a month—and he would know this to-morrow—would I come to him then? He would not say in a week; that was perhaps too soon; but in a month? Would I not promise to be his in a month?
What I answered I scarcely recall. His eyes had stolen back to the alcove and mine had followed them. The gentlemen who had accompanied the lady inside were coming out again, but others were advancing to take their places and soon she was holding a regular court in this favored retreat.
Why should this interest me? Why should I notice her or look that way at all? Because Mr. Durand did? Possibly, I remember that for all his ardent love-making, I felt a little piqued that he should divide his attentions in this way. Perhaps I thought he might have been blind to such a coquette's fascinations for this one evening at least.
I was then thus doubly engaged in listening to my lover's words and in watching the various gentlemen who went up and down the steps, when a former partner advanced and reminded me that I had promised him a waltz. Loth to leave Mr. Durand, yet seeing no way of excusing myself to Mr. Fox, I cast an appealing glance at the former and was greatly chagrined to find him already on his feet.
"Enjoy your dance," he cried, "I have a word to say to Mrs. Fairbrother," and was gone before my new partner had taken me on his arm.
Was Mrs. Fairbrother the lady with the diamond? Yes, as I turned to enter the parlor with my partner, I caught a glimpse of Mr. Durand's tall figure just disappearing from the step behind the sage green curtains.
"Who is Mrs. Fairbrother?" I inquired of Mr. Fox, at the end of the dance.
Mr. Fox, who is one of society's perennial beaux, knows everybody.
"She is—well she was Abner Fairbrother's wife. You know Fairbrother, the millionaire who built that curious structure on Eighty-sixth Street. At present they are living apart—an amicable understanding I believe. Her diamond makes her conspicuous. It is one of the most remarkable stones in New York, perhaps in the United States. Have you observed it?"
"Yes—that is at a distance. Do you think her very handsome?"
"Mrs. Fairbrother? She's called so, but she's not my style." Here he gave me a killing glance. "I admire women who think and feel. They do not need to wear jewels worth an ordinary man's fortune."
I looked about for an excuse to leave this none too desirable partner.
"Let us go back into the long hall," I urged. "The ceaseless whirl of these dancers is making me dizzy."
With the ease of a gallant man he took one me on his arm and soon we were promenading again in the direction of the alcove. A passing glimpse of its interior was afforded me as we turned to retrace our steps in front of the yellow divan. The lady with the diamond was still there. A fold of the superb pink velvet she wore protruded across the gap made by the half drawn curtains just as it had done a half hour before. But it was impossible to see her face or who was with her. What I could see, however, and did, was the figure of a man leaning against the wall at the foot of the steps. At first I thought his person unknown to me, then I perceived that he was no other than the chief guest of the evening, the Englishman of whom I have previously spoken.
His expression had altered. He looked now both anxious and absorbed, particularly anxious and particularly absorbed; so much so that I was not surprised that no one ventured to approach him. Again I wondered and again I asked myself for whom or for what he was waiting. For Mr. Durand to leave this lady's presence? No, no, I would not believe that. Mr. Durand could not be there still, yet some women make it difficult for a man to leave them and I could not forbear casting a parting glance that way before entering the supper-room. It showed me the Englishman in the act of lifting two cups of coffee from a small table standing near the reception-room door. As his manner plainly betokened whither he was bound with this refreshment, I felt all my uneasiness vanish, and was able to take my seat at one of the small tables with which the supper-room was filled and for some few minutes, at least, lend an ear to Mr. Fox's vapid compliments and trite opinions. Then my attention wandered. I had not moved nor had I shifted my gaze from the scene before me—the ordinary scene of a gay and well filled supper-room, yet I found myself looking, as through a mist I had not even seen develop, upon something strange, unusual, and remote as any phantasm, yet distinct enough in the outlines for me to get a decided impression of a square of light surrounding the figure of a man in a peculiar pose not easily imagined and not easily described. It all passed in an instant and I sat staring at the window opposite me with the feeling of one who had just seen a vision. Yet almost immediately I forgot the whole occurrence in my anxiety as to Mr. Durand's whereabouts. Certainly he was amusing himself very much elsewhere or he would have found an opportunity of joining me long before this. He was not even in sight and I grew weary of the endless menu and the senseless chit-chat of my companion, and finding him amenable to my whims, rose from my seat at table and made my way to a group of acquaintances standing just outside the door. As I listened to their greetings some impulse led me to cast another glance down the hall towards the alcove, A man—a waiter—was issuing from it in a rush. Bad news was in his face and as his eyes encountered those of Mr. Ramsdell advancing hurriedly to meet him, he plunged down the steps with a cry which drew a crowd about the two in an instant.
What was it? What had happened?
Mad with an anxiety I did not stop to define, I rushed towards this group now swaying from side to side in irrepressible excitement, when suddenly everything swam before me and I fell in a faint to the floor.
II
THE GLOVES
I must have remained insensible for many minutes, for when I returned to full consciousness the supper-room was empty and the two hundred guests I had left seated at table were gathered in agitated groups about the hall. This was what I first noted; not till afterward did I realize my own situation. I was lying on a couch in a remote corner of this same hall and beside me, but not looking at me, stood my lover, Mr. Durand.
How he came to know my state and find me in the general disturbance I did not stop to inquire. It was enough for me at that moment to look up and see him so near. Indeed, the relief was so great, the sense of his protection so comforting that I involuntarily stretched out my hand in gratitude toward him, but, failing to attract his attention, slipped to the floor and took my stand at his side. This roused him and he gave me a look which steadied me, in spite of the thrill of surprise with which I recognized his extreme pallor and a certain peculiar hesitation in his manner not at all natural to it.
Meanwhile, some words uttered near us were slowly making their way into my benumbed brain. The waiter who had raised the first alarm was endeavoring to describe to an importunate group in advance of us what he had come upon in that murderous alcove.
"I was carrying about a tray of ices," he was saying, "and seeing the lady sitting there, went up. I had expected to find the place full of gentlemen, but she was all alone, and did not move as I picked my way over her long train. The next moment I had dropped ices, tray and all. I had come face to face with her and seen that she was dead. She had been stabbed and robbed. There was no diamond on her breast, but there was blood."
A hubbub of disordered sentences seasoned with horrified cries followed this simple description. Then a general movement took place in the direction of the alcove, during which Mr. Durand stooped to my ear and whispered:—
"We must get out of this. You are not strong enough to stand such excitement. Don't you think we can escape by the window over there?"
"What, without wraps and in such a snowstorm?" I protested. "Besides, uncle will be looking for me. He came with me, you know."
An expression of annoyance, or was it perplexity, crossed Mr. Durand's face, and he made a movement as if to leave me.
"I must go," he began, but stopped at my glance of surprise and assumed a different air, and one which became him very much better. "Pardon me, dear, I will take you to your uncle. This—this dreadful tragedy, interrupting so gay a scene, has quite upset me. I was always sensitive to the sight, the smell, even to the very mention of the word blood."
So was I, but not to the point of cowardice. But then I had not just come from an interview with the murdered woman. Her glances, her smiles, the lift of her eyebrows were not fresh memories to me. Some consideration was certainly due him for the shock he must be laboring under. Yet I did not know how to keep back the vital question.
"Who did it? You must have heard some one say."
"I have heard nothing," was his somewhat fierce rejoinder. Then, as I made a move, "What you do not wish to follow the crowd there?"
"I wish to find my uncle, and he is in that crowd."
Mr. Durand said nothing further, and together we passed down the hall. A strange mood pervaded my mind. Instead of wishing to fly a scene which under ordinary conditions would have filled me with utter repugnance, I felt a desire to see and hear everything. Not from curiosity, such as moved most of the people about me, but because of some strong instinctive feeling I could not understand; as if it were my heart which had been struck, and my fate which was trembling in the balance.
We were consequently among the first to hear such further details as were allowed to circulate among the now well-nigh frenzied guests. No one knew the perpetrator of the deed nor did there appear to be any direct evidence calculated to fix his identity. Indeed, the sudden death of this beautiful woman in the midst of festivity might have been looked upon as suicide, if the jewel had not been missing from her breast and the instrument of death removed from the wound. So far, the casual search which had been instituted had failed to produce this weapon; but the police would be here soon and then something would be done. As to the means of entrance employed by the assassin, there seemed to be but one opinion. The alcove contained a window opening upon a small balcony. By this he had doubtless entered and escaped. The long, plush curtains which, during the early part of the evening, had remained looped back on either side of the casement, were found at the moment of the crime's discovery closely drawn together. Certainly a suspicious circumstance. However, the question was one easily settled. If any one had approached by the balcony there would be marks in the snow to show it. Mr. Ramsdell had gone out to see. He would be coming back soon.
"Do you think this a probable explanation of the crime?" I demanded of Mr. Durand at this juncture. "If this window overlooks the carriage drive, as it must, from its location, then it is within plain sight of the door through which some three hundred guests have passed to-night. How could any one climb to such a height, lift the window and step in without being seen?"
"You forget the awning." He spoke quickly and with unexpected vivacity. "The awning runs up very near this window and quite shuts it off from the sight of arriving guests. The drivers of departing carriages could see it if they chanced to glance back. But their eyes are usually on their horses in such a crowd. The probabilities are against any of them having looked up." His brow had cleared; a weight seemed removed from his mind. "When I went into the alcove to see Mrs. Fairbrother, she was sitting in a chair near this window looking out. I remember the effect of her splendor against the snow sifting down in a steady stream behind her. The pink velvet—the soft green of the curtains on either side—her brilliants—and the snow for a background! Yes, the murderer came in that way. Her figure would be plain to any one outside, and if she moved and the diamond shone—. Don't you see what a probable theory it is? There must be ways by which a desperate man might reach that balcony. I believe—"
How eager he was and with what a look he turned when the word came filtering through the crowd that while footsteps had been found in the snow pointing directly toward the balcony, there was none on the balcony itself, proving, as any one could see, that the attack had not come from without, since no one could enter the alcove by the window without stepping on the balcony.
"Mr. Durand has suspicions of his own," I explained determinedly to myself. "He met some one going in as he stepped out. Shall I ask him to name this person?" No, I did not have the courage. We had approached very close in our talk to the conservatory, but not near enough for that, not while his face wore so stern a look and was so resolutely turned away.
The next excitement was a request from Mr. Ramsdell for us all to go into the drawing-room. This led to various cries from hysterical lips, such as, "We are going to be searched!" "He believes the thief and murderer to be still in the house!" "Do you see the diamond on me?" "Have I the look of an assassin?" "Why don't they confine their suspicions to the favored few who were admitted to the alcove?"
"They will," remarked some one close to my ear.
But quickly as I turned I could not guess from whom the comment came. Possibly from a much beflowered, bejeweled, elderly dame, whose eyes were fixed on Mr. Durand's averted face. If so, she received a defiant look from mine, which I do not believe she forgot in a hurry.
Alas! it was not the only curious, I might say searching glance I surprised directed against him as we made our way to where I could see my uncle struggling to reach us from a short side hall. The whisper seemed to have gone about that Mr. Durand had been the last one to converse with Mrs. Fairbrother prior to the tragedy.
In time I had the satisfaction of coming upon my uncle. He betrayed great relief at the sight of me, and, encouraged by his kindly smile, I introduced Mr. Durand. My conscious air must have produced its impression, for he turned a startled and inquiring look upon my companion, then took me resolutely on his own arm, saying:—
"There is likely to be some unpleasantness ahead for all of us. I do not think the police will allow any one to go till that diamond has been looked for. This is a very serious matter, dear. So many think the murderer was one of the guests."
"I think so, too," said I. But why I thought so or why I should say so with such vehemence, I do not know even now.
My uncle looked surprised.
"You had better not advance any opinions," he advised. "A lady like yourself should have none on a subject so gruesome. I shall never cease regretting bringing you here to-night. I shall seize on the first opportunity to take you home. At present we are supposed to await the action of our host."
"He can not keep all these people here long," I ventured.
"No; most of us will be relieved soon. Had you not better get your wraps so as to be ready to go as soon as he gives the word?"
"I should prefer to have a peep at the people in the drawing-room first," was my perverse reply. "I don't know why I want to see them, but I do; and, uncle, I might as well tell you now that I engaged myself to Mr. Durand this evening—the gentleman with me when you first came up."
"You have engaged yourself to—to this man—to marry him, do you mean?"
I nodded, with a sly look behind to see if Mr. Durand were near enough to hear. He was not, and I allowed my enthusiasm to escape in a few quick words.
"He has chosen me," I said, "the plainest, most uninteresting puss in the whole city." My uncle smiled. "And I believe he loves me; at all events, I know that I love him."
My uncle sighed, while giving me the most affectionate of glances.
"It's a pity you should have come to this understanding to-night," said he. "He's an acquaintance of the murdered woman, and it is only right for you to know that you will have to leave him behind when you start for home. All who have been seen entering that alcove this evening will necessarily be detained here till the coroner arrives."
My uncle and I strolled toward the drawing-room and as we did so we passed the library. It held but one occupant, the Englishman. He was seated before a table, and his appearance was such as precluded any attempt at intrusion, even if one had been so disposed. There was a fixity in his gaze and a frown on his powerful forehead which bespoke a mind greatly agitated. It was not for me to read that mind, much as it interested me, and I passed on, chatting, as if I had not the least desire to stop.
I can not say how much time elapsed before my uncle touched me on the arm with the remark:—
"The police are here in full force. I saw a detective in plain clothes look in here a minute ago. He seemed to have his eye on you. There he is again! What can he want? No, don't turn; he's gone away now."
Frightened as I had never been in all my life, I managed to keep my head up and maintain an indifferent aspect. What, as my uncle said, could he want? I had nothing to do with the crime; not in the remotest way could I be said to be connected with it; why, then, had I caught the attention of the police? Looking about, I sought Mr. Durand. He had left me on my uncle's coming up but had remained as I supposed within sight. But at this moment he was nowhere to be seen. Was I afraid on his account? Impossible; yet—
Happily just then the word was passed about that the police had given orders that, with the exception of such as had been requested to remain to answer questions, the guests generally should feel themselves at liberty to depart.
The time had now come to take a stand and I informed my uncle, to his evident chagrin, that I should not leave as long as any excuse could be found for staying.
He said nothing at the time, but as the noise of departing carriages gradually lessened and the great hall and drawing-rooms began to wear a look of desertion he at last ventured on this gentle protest:—
"You have more pluck, Rita, than I supposed. Do you think it wise to stay on here? Will not people imagine that you have been requested to do so? Look at those waiters hanging about in the different doorways. Run up and put on your wraps. Mr. Durand will come to the house fast enough as soon as he is released. I give you leave to sit up for him if you will; only let us leave this place before that impertinent little man dares to come around again," he artfully added.
But I stood firm, though somewhat moved by his final suggestion; and, being a small tyrant in my way, at least with him, I carried my point.
Suddenly my anxiety became poignant. A party of men, among whom I saw Mr. Durand, appeared at the end of the hall, led by a very small but self-important personage whom my uncle immediately pointed out as the detective who had twice come to the door near which I stood. As this man looked up and saw me still there, a look of relief crossed his face, and, after a word or two with another stranger of seeming authority, he detached himself from the group he had ushered upon the scene, and, approaching me respectfully enough, said with a deprecatory glance at my uncle whose frown he doubtless understood:—
"Miss Van Arsdale, I believe?"
I nodded, too choked to speak.
"I am sorry, Madam, if you were expecting to go. Inspector Dalzell has arrived and would like to speak to you. Will you step into one of these rooms? Not the library, but any other. He will come to you as quickly as he can."
I tried to carry it off bravely and as if I saw nothing in this summons which was unique or alarming. But I succeeded only in dividing a wavering glance between him and the group of men of which he had just formed a part. In the latter were several gentlemen whom I had noted in Mrs. Fairbrother's train early in the evening and a few strangers, two of whom were officials. Mr. Durand was with the former, and his expression did not encourage me.
"The affair is very serious," commented the detective on leaving me. "That's our excuse for any trouble we may be putting you to."
I clutched my uncle's arm.
"Where shall we go?" I asked. "The drawing-room is too large. In this hall my eyes are forever traveling in the direction of the alcove. Don't you know some little room? O what, what can he want of me?"
"Nothing serious, nothing important," blustered my good uncle. "Some triviality such as you can answer in a moment. A little room? Yes, I know one; there, under the stairs. Come, I will find the door for you. Why did we ever come to this wretched ball?"
I had no answer for this. Why, indeed!
My uncle, who is a very patient man, guided me to the place he had picked out, without adding a word to the ejaculation in which he had just allowed his impatience to expend itself. But once seated within, and out of the range of peering eyes and listening ears, he allowed a sigh to escape him which expressed the fullness of his agitated heart.
"My dear," he began, and stopped. "I feel—" here he again came to a pause—"that you should know—"
"What?" I managed to ask.
"That I do not like Mr. Durand and—that others do not like him."
"Is it because of something you knew about him before to-night?"
He made no answer.
"Or because he was seen, like many other gentlemen, talking with that woman some time before—a long time before—she was attacked for her diamond and murdered?"
"Pardon me, my dear, he was the last one seen talking to her. Some one may yet be found who went in after he came out, but as yet he is considered the last. Mr. Ramsdell himself told me so."
"It makes no difference," I exclaimed, in all the heat of my long suppressed agitation. "I am willing to stake my life on his integrity and honor. No man could talk to me as he did early this evening with any vile intentions at heart. He was interested, no doubt, like many others, in one who had the name of being a captivating woman, but—"
I paused in sudden alarm. A look had crossed my uncle's face which assured me that we were no longer alone. Who could have entered so silently? In some trepidation I turned to see. A gentleman was standing in the doorway, who smiled as I met his eye.
"Is this Miss Van Arsdale?" he asked.
Instantly my courage, which had threatened to leave me, returned and I smiled.
"I am," said I. "Are you the Inspector?"
"Inspector Dalzell," he explained with a bow, which included my uncle.
Then he closed the door.
"I hope I have not frightened you," he went on, approaching me with a gentlemanly air. "A little matter has come up concerning which I mean to be perfectly frank with you. It may prove to be of trivial importance; if so, you will pardon my disturbing you. Mr. Durand—you know him?"
"I am engaged to him," I declared before poor uncle could raise his hand.
"You are engaged to him. Well, that makes it difficult, and yet, in some respects, easier for me to ask a certain question."
It must have made it more difficult than easy, for he did not proceed to put this question immediately, but went on:—
"You know that Mr. Durand visited Mrs. Fairbrother in the alcove a little while before her death?"
"I have been told so."
"He was seen to go in, but I have not yet found any one who saw him come out; consequently we have been unable to fix the exact minute when he did so. What is it? You want to say something?"
"No, no," I protested, reconsidering my first impulse. Then, as I met his look, "He can probably tell you that himself. I am sure he would not hesitate."
"We shall ask him later," was the inspector's response. "Meanwhile, are you ready to assure me that since that time he has not entrusted you with a little article to keep— No, no, I do not mean the diamond," he broke in, in very evident dismay, as I fell back from him in irrepressible indignation and alarm. "The diamond—well, we shall look for that later; it is another article we are in search of now, one which Mr. Durand might very well have taken in his hand without realizing just what he was doing. As it is important for us to find this article, and as it is one he might very naturally have passed over to you when he found himself in the hall with it in his hand, I have ventured to ask you if this surmise is correct."
"It is not," I retorted fiercely, glad that I could speak from my very heart. "He has given me nothing to keep for him. He would not—"
Why that peculiar look in the Inspector's eye? Why did he reach out for a chair and seat me in it before he took up my interrupted sentence and finished it?
"Would not give you anything to hold which had belonged to another woman? Miss Van Arsdale, you do not know men. They do many things which a young, trusting girl like yourself would hardly expect from them."
"Not Mr. Durand," I maintained stoutly.
"Perhaps not; let us hope not." Then, with a quick change of manner, he bent toward me, with a sidelong look at uncle, and, pointing to my gloves, remarked: "You wear gloves. Did you feel the need of two pairs, that you carry another in that pretty bag hanging from your arm?"
I started, looked down, and then slowly drew up into my hand the bag he had mentioned. The white finger of a glove was protruding from the top. Any one could see it; many probably had. What did it mean? I had brought no extra pair with me.
"This is not mine," I began, faltering into silence as I perceived my uncle turn and walk a step or two away.
"The article we are looking for," pursued the inspector, "is a pair of long, white gloves, supposed to have been worn by Mrs. Fairbrother when she entered the alcove. Do you mind showing me those, a finger of which I see?"
I dropped the bag into his hand. The room and everything in it was whirling around me. But when I noted what trouble it was to his clumsy fingers to open it, my senses returned and, reaching for the bag, I pulled it open and snatched out the gloves. They had been hastily rolled up and some of the fingers were showing.
"Let me have them," he said.
With quaking heart and shaking fingers I handed over the gloves.
"Mrs. Fairbrother's hand was not a small one," he observed as he slowly unrolled them. "Yours is. We can soon tell—"
But that sentence was never finished. As the gloves fell open in his grasp he uttered a sudden, sharp ejaculation and I a smothered shriek. An object of superlative brilliancy had rolled out from them. The diamond! the gem which men said was worth a king's ransom, and which we all knew had just cost a life.
[To be continued.]