I could have told them Eleanore never left her room last night.”
“You could?”
What was I to think of this woman?
“Yes; my room is nearer the head of the stairs than hers; if she had passed my door, I should have heard her, don’t you see?”
Ah, that was all.
“That does not follow,” I answered sadly. “Can you give no other reason?”
“I would say whatever was necessary,” she whispered.
I started back.
Yes, this woman would lie now to save her cousin; had lied during the inquest.
But then I felt grateful, and now I was simply horrified.
“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, “nothing can justify one in violating the dictates of his own conscience, not even the safety of one we do not altogether love.”
“No?” she returned; and her lip took a tremulous curve, the lovely bosom heaved, and she softly looked away.
If Eleanore’s beauty had made less of an impression on my fancy, or her frightful situation awakened less anxiety in my breast, I should have been a lost man from that moment.
“I did not mean to do anything very wrong,” Miss Leavenworth continued. “Do not think too badly of me.”
“No, no,” said I; and there is not a man living who would not have said the same in my place.
What more might have passed between us on this subject I cannot say, for just then the door opened and a man entered whom I recognized as the one who had followed Eleanore Leavenworth out, a short time before.
“Mr. Gryce,” said he, pausing just inside the door; “a word if you please.”
The detective nodded, but did not hasten towards him; instead of that, he walked deliberately away to the other end of the room, where he lifted the lid of an inkstand he saw there, muttered some unintelligible words into it, and speedily shut it again.
Immediately the uncanny fancy seized me that if I should leap to that inkstand, open it and peer in, I should surprise and capture the bit of confidence he had intrusted to it.
But I restrained my foolish impulse, and contented myself with noting the subdued look of respect with which the gaunt subordinate watched the approach of his superior.
“Well?” inquired the latter as he reached him: “what now?”
The man shrugged his shoulders, and drew his principal through the open door.
Once in the hall their voices sank to a whisper, and as their backs only were visible, I turned to look at my companion.
She was pale but composed.
“Has he come from Eleanore?”
“I do not know; I fear so.
Miss Leavenworth,” I proceeded, “can it be possible that your cousin has anything in her possession she desires to conceal?”
“Then you think she is trying to conceal something?”
“I do not say so.
But there was considerable talk about a paper—”
“They will never find any paper or anything else suspicious in Eleanore’s possession,” Mary interrupted. “In the first place, there was no paper of importance enough”—I saw Mr. Gryce’s form suddenly stiffen—“for any one to attempt its abstraction and concealment.”
“Can you be sure of that?
May not your cousin be acquainted with something—”
“There was nothing to be acquainted with, Mr. Raymond.
We lived the most methodical and domestic of lives. I cannot understand, for my part, why so much should be made out of this.
My uncle undoubtedly came to his death by the hand of some intended burglar.
That nothing was stolen from the house is no proof that a burglar never entered it.
As for the doors and windows being locked, will you take the word of an Irish servant as infallible upon such an important point?
I cannot.
I believe the assassin to be one of a gang who make their living by breaking into houses, and if you cannot honestly agree with me, do try and consider such an explanation as possible; if not for the sake of the family credit, why then”—and she turned her face with all its fair beauty upon mine, eyes, cheeks, mouth all so exquisite and winsome—“why then, for mine.”
Instantly Mr. Gryce turned towards us.
“Mr. Raymond, will you be kind enough to step this way?”
Glad to escape from my present position, I hastily obeyed.
“What has happened?” I asked.
“We propose to take you into our confidence,” was the easy response. “Mr. Raymond, Mr. Fobbs.”
I bowed to the man I saw before me, and stood uneasily waiting.
Anxious as I was to know what we really had to fear, I still intuitively shrank from any communication with one whom I looked upon as a spy.
“A matter of some importance,” resumed the detective. “It is not necessary for me to remind you that it is in confidence, is it?”
“No.”
“I thought not.