Heart to heart

In the lower hallway of the Rosemore, as the house in which Allen Chesterbrook had his bachelor apartments was called, stood Jimmie Neirney, the young man’s faithful valet, but a brief half hour before. Jimmie had just returned from a trip to the post office, where he had deposited several letters, all for his master, saving one, which he himself had written to his sweetheart in Saratoga Springs.

Jimmie’s face was not very cheerful just then, in spite of the fact that his master had given him notice of a two weeks’ vacation, with no pay to be lost; said vacation to take place while Allen and his bride were off on their honeymoon.

“Locked out of his room fer th’ first time in me life!” he murmured to himself. “An’ me that willin’ to do me best fer him, a-cleanin’ up his boots an’ a-brushin’ of his clothes! Well, if he don’t look his very best on this, his weddin’ day, divil a bit is it my fault. Says he to me, says he: ‘Jimmie, I want to be entirely alone this mornin’; don’t disturb me unless it’s very important.’ An’ when I axed about the juties to be done, he says, says he, he would do them all himself. Now, what do he be a-wantin’ to keep me for if not to do th’ work?”

There was no consolation in remaining in the wide, empty hall, with no one to console with, so, with a heavy sigh, Jimmie turned to the back stairs to go down into the janitor’s half-public sitting room, to talk it over with Jackson. He had just reached the stairs, when a slight rustle beside him caused him to turn, and he caught a brief view of a veiled lady as she passed hurriedly out the back door and down into the yard among the clothes hung up to dry.

Being filled with his grievances Jimmie gave no thought to the woman he had seen; indeed, he had almost forgotten her by the time he reached the sitting room below. He found Jackson there looking over a number of bills to be sent to the owner of the premises for payment.

“Hello, Jimmie! Why ain’t you upstairs helping Mr. Chesterbrook?” cried Jackson cheerily; and Jimmie at once began his tale of woe, cut short in the middle by the sound of an automobile engine, as the finest turn-out in Lakeview drove up to the curb.

“Humph! Only twenty minutes to ten!” sniffed Jimmie, as he consulted his big silver watch. “Larkins will have to wait ten minutes. Mr. Chesterbrook said he would not leave till ten minutes of ten, an’ I can tell you he is particular this mornin’, so he is!” and again Jimmie sighed.

The valet went outside, and a short discussion took place between him and the chauffeur. Then Jimmie entered the house again, by the hallway, and walked slowly upstairs, looking at his watch once more as he went. It was twelve minutes to ten.

Allen Chesterbrook occupied two rooms on the second floor, one room facing the street and the other directly behind it. The second room was that in which Chesterbrook slept, and it was upon the door of this that Jimmie knocked. He waited for a summons to enter, but none came. Then he rapped again. Still the silence continued. Thinking his master might be in the front room, he walked to the other door and knocked. As the silence continued he grew alarmed.

“Mr. Chesterbrook, the car is waiting!”

No reply was vouchsafed to this announcement, and now the man began to bang on the door with all the strength of his big knuckles.

While he was knocking, a gentleman came down from the floor above. He was rather young in appearance, faultlessly dressed, and wore a bright buttonhole bouquet.

“Locked out, Jimmie?” he queried, with a smile.

“I can’t git no reply from Mr. Chesterbrook, sir. I’ve been a-thumpin’ like mad for siveral minutes, too.”

“I heard you. I suppose he has already gone. It is time. I am late, too.”

“Gone, sir! Why, his automobile is waitin’ below, sir, an’ has been these tin minutes!”

“And you are certain he has not gone?”

“Sure, sir. Isn’t Jackson watchin’ downstairs for him, to give him his best wishes?”

“Then something must be wrong. Have you a key to either door?”

“Yes, sir; here it is.”

The man of all work produced the key as he spoke. But it could not be used, for both doors already held keys on the inner side.

“We can’t use them, Mr. Cross.”

“Perhaps we had better force open one of the doors,” replied Henry Cross, with quick decision. “He must be inside, or how could the doors be locked in this way?”

Pocketing the gloves he had started to put on, the young man put his broad shoulders to the rear door. It creaked several times, and then burst open with a crash that brought Jackson and several others to the scene in quick order.

The little party paused on the threshold. By the bright light which streamed in from the room in front they saw that everything was in disorder—chairs overturned, bureau drawers drawn out, and their contents scattered, and that numerous articles of bric-a-brac from the stand in the corner had been knocked down and crushed under foot.

“There he is! Merciful saints preserve us!”

It was Jimmie who uttered the shrill cry of horror, as with trembling finger he pointed to a spot between the bed and a closet. All eyes followed the direction indicated by the man’s pointing finger, and there beheld a sight that was enough to make the stoutest heart quail.

Allen Chesterbrook lay there, flat on his back, with a dagger thrust through his heart.

The face of the handsome, gifted young man was distorted with pain, and his hands were clenched so tightly that the nails were imbedded in the flesh. He was dressed in his favorite morning suit, a mixed brown, and this was saturated with his life’s blood, which had run down the side and soaked into the carpet and the white fleece rug partly under his back.

Nevermore would his friends hear his happy, cheery voice; nevermore would those he had helped in a hundred ways receive his aid. There he lay, stone dead, at the time he should have been on his way to his wedding.

It was Henry Cross who first sprang forward and caught hold of that cold, stiffening hand. One touch was enough.

“He is dead,” was all he said, and his voice sounded strangely unnatural.

“Dead, dead!” wailed Jimmie Neirney. “Stabbed with a dagger, too! Oh, who could have done this divil’s own work! Who do you think did it, Mr. Cross?”

“I can’t say. I am too astounded to think. Run for a doctor—but, no; that is useless. It is the coroner who is wanted here.”

“An’ the weddin’ to come off!” cried Jackson. “What will Maud Willowby say to this?”

Henry Cross gasped at the last words. His face paled and he staggered back.

“Somebody must hasten to the church with the news,” he faltered. “I—cannot go. Quick! I will remain here till the coroner or the police come.”

“I’ll go!” said a man in the crowd, and disappeared on a run. He spread the news as he went, and soon all of the residents of Lakeview knew of the mysterious tragedy which had been enacted within their very midst.

“Open all of the windows wide, Jimmie,” said Henry Cross, a second later. “And Jackson, keep out the crowd; the coroner and the detectives must have full sway here first. It looks like robbery as well as murder.”

Almost beside himself with grief and terror, Jimmie stumbled into the front room to do as he was bidden. Jackson, who had come up and placed his hand on the dead man’s chest, only to snatch it away when it came in contact with blood, stalked over to the door and closed it in the face of the gathering crowd.

“The authorities must come in here first!” he exclaimed, with a sudden show of command, for the situation made him feel his importance even at that chilling time.

As Henry Cross knelt by the side of the corpse, his eyes fell upon the bouquet in the buttonhole of his coat. A sudden feeling of the unfitness of the decoration at such a time seized him, and, wrenching the bouquet loose, he cast it on the floor. It fell into a pool of blood, and the white carnations became red. Made sick by the sight, he sprang up and stepped into the front room, where Jimmie was still at the window, parting the curtains and pulling the sashes down from the top.

At one side of the front room stood a flat-top writing desk, where Allen Chesterbrook had been wont to write his letters and occasionally to transact business, for he was erratic in his habits and had seldom spent a whole day at his office.

On the top of the desk lay several sheets of paper, unmarked in any way. But on the leather seat of the chair before it rested half a sheet filled with writing. Almost mechanically, Henry Cross picked up this part of a sheet and began to peruse it.

Hardly had he read three lines when he became deeply interested. He read on to the end, and then looked about for the remainder of the sheet, but it could not be found. Into his pocket he thrust the slip he held, and turned once more toward the body, and now his face bore a mingled look of sorrow and contempt.

“The coward!” he half whispered to himself. “And to think she loved him!”

For fully ten seconds he stood gazing at the corpse before him. Then he pressed his hand to his forehead and a look of deep perplexity came over his features. He walked again toward the desk, took from his pocket the slip he had picked up, and thrust it under the loose sheets of paper.

“The world ought to know the truth. If it does not, some innocent person may suffer,” he went on, almost inaudibly.

“Did you speak, Mr. Cross?” questioned Jimmie, and Henry Cross started as though a gun had gone off beside his ear.

“Me? I—why, no, Jimmie,” he stammered. “Look out of one of the windows and see if the coroner is coming yet,” he went on.

“Here comes Mr. Granby, sir, with a policeman.”

“Mr. Granby is the coroner.”

“Sure an’ what will he do wid poor Mr. Chesterbrook?”

“I do not know—I never saw anything like this before,” returned Henry Cross. “Poor Maud!” he murmured as he turned away.