The Four-Fingered Glove; Or, The Cost of a Lie

“Brief and to the point,” said Nick, putting down the letter; and as he did so Mercedes rose in her place and crossed the room to him, extending both hands.

“You have been our savior,” she said; “my savior as well as Reginald’s. God bless you!”

CHAPTER XI.

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF MERCEDES.

Had they succeeded much trouble might have been spared the house of Danton, over which dark clouds were even then gathering, and plots dark and threatening that involved death and disaster were hatching. For days, aided by the counsel and experience of Nick, the detectives sought high and low for the missing valet. But without success. With the man still at large Nick could not overcome a feeling that the family at Linden Fells was in danger. What that danger might be, or what form it might take, he could not conjecture. But, unlike most criminal cases which he had successfully unraveled, this one of the murder of Ramon Orizaba was not easily dismissed from his mind. It was, perhaps, the rose-garden picture that fixed in his mind all the ramifications of the murder of Orizaba.

Nick had just left the Waldorf-Astoria by way of the main entrance on Thirty-fourth Street. He walked slowly toward Fifth Avenue and was in the act of turning the corner toward the southward when a carriage halted at the curb at a point about midway of the block.

The door of the carriage swung open and a woman appeared for one instant at the opening. At the same instant two men, who were passing and who happened to be directly abreast of the point where the carriage had halted, came to a sudden stop. One of them uttered an exclamation of mingled astonishment and anger and darted forward away from his companion and toward the woman, who had not yet wholly emerged into view, and whose identity the detective could not determine.

It was evident that she discovered the man almost as soon as he saw her, for she uttered a little startled cry of consternation and leaped back into the carriage again.

At the same instant the driver, as if warned by her cry, and also as if prepared for just such an attack, brought the butt of his whip down with a sharp blow against the aggressor’s head, and so jammed his hat over his eyes and almost felled him to the pavement. Then, reversing the whip, and using it to good advantage upon the horses, the vehicle was hurried away at a furious pace, and was soon out of sight around the corner of Thirty-third Street.

Nick witnessed the whole thing, which did not occupy more than three or four seconds of time; but during those few seconds he was steadily approaching nearer to the spot where it happened, so that by the time he reached it the man with his hat over his eyes had succeeded in removing it. But he was standing with his back toward the detective, shaking his fist in the direction the carriage had gone and was swearing softly to himself.

Nick, however, recognized him at once, and he came to a halt, smiling, while he waited for the angry man to turn in his direction—which, after a moment of contemplative profanity, he did.

“Thank God!” he exclaimed instantly and impulsively, for he also recognized the detective; and he grasped Nick Carter’s extended hand with a fervor which was as genuine as his rage had been a moment before.

“I say, Nick, old chap, did you see that?” he asked, rubbing his head ruefully.

“Yes,” replied Nick, still smiling. “Nothing serious, I hope. Only one of your many adventures, eh, Danton? Really, I supposed you were serious when you told me not two weeks ago that you had turned over a new leaf. Or, is this a left-over affair?”

“Left-over affair! Didn’t you see her?”

“No. I merely saw a woman—that is, I merely saw the costume of a woman, not the woman herself.”

“Then you didn’t recognize her?”

“Certainly not. Do I know her?”

“Know her! Say, will you wait here a second until I excuse myself to my companion who was with me? I want to talk to you.”

“Yes; I will wait.”

Danton hurried away, made his excuses to the man who had halted a few feet distant and was awaiting him, and then returned to Nick Carter.

“Shall we go into the hotel, shall we walk, or shall we—what shall we do, Carter? I want dreadfully to talk with you.”

“Let’s walk. We can go in the direction of my house. That is where I was headed for when your episode of the carriage arrested my attention. Now, what is the matter, Danton?”

“Everything is the matter.”

“Your reply is neither lucid nor comprehensive.”

“No, I suppose not. I wish you had seen who it was who started to descend from the carriage.”

“In that case, and as I did not see, or recognize the person, suppose you tell me who the lady was.”

“It was my sister, Mercedes.”

“Ah!” said Nick, and stopped. He was greatly astonished, but not a sign of his feelings appeared in his voice. He uttered the exclamation in exactly the same tone he would have used if Danton had said that the woman was the Queen of Sheba, or the High Duchess of Benkakakiak.

“Ever since the murder of Ramon Orizaba about two weeks ago—it will be two weeks to-morrow, will it not?—one trouble has followed another until it seems almost as if the family and the home at Linden Fells is accursed. My mother was taken ill the day of the funeral. Her illness came on so suddenly that I cannot get it out of my head that she was poisoned. However, we sent her away at once, and she is better now. She is at Newport.”

“Well?” said Nick.

“Well, Mercedes was preparing for an extended trip abroad, even before this misfortune came to the house. After the murder she was more determined than ever to go, and sought to hurry the preparations of her friends who were to accompany her on the trip; but they did not hurry fast enough, so she resolved to start on alone with only her two maids. In the meantime, Nick, she did not act at all like herself. I saw very little of her, and even that little was most unsatisfactory. She was strangely unlike herself.”

“Did you not talk with her about it?”

“I tried to, but she wouldn’t talk.”

“But I supposed there was the utmost confidence and sympathy between you and your sister.”

“So there always has been until now. The fact is, a week ago last night we quarreled.”

“Not seriously, I hope?”

“N-no. That is, I did not regard it as serious at the time, for we have had worse spats than that one, many a time. However, she disappeared the following day.”

“What is that?” asked Nick, stopping abruptly in their walk. “Disappeared, you say?”

“Yes, that is what I said. We quarreled a week ago last night—Saturday night. Sunday morning I slept late, breakfasted alone, and came into the city almost immediately after. I did not return to the Fells until toward evening. When I arrived there she had gone.”

“Gone where?”

“How do I know where? If I had known, I wouldn’t have cared. I have neither seen nor heard a sign of her from that time till just now when that carriage drove up against the curb and she started to alight from it. Naturally, when the carriage stopped almost in front of me, I looked toward it. You can imagine my astonishment when I saw and recognized Mercedes. You saw what happened then.”

“Yes. I saw what happened then. Are you sure that the lady was Mercedes?”

“Am I certain that you are you? I saw her as plainly as I see you now.”

“Did you also recognize the coachman who struck you?”

“No.”

“Did you see him at all, so that you would have recognized him if you had seen him?”

“Sure, I saw him—quite well enough to know him again, the next time I see him.”

“And he was a stranger to you?”

“I do not remember that I ever saw him before.”

“Did she—did the woman, whom you believed to be Mercedes, say anything to him when you started toward the carriage?”

“Not a word.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am positive. Why?”

“Well, it seems strange that a coachman whom you do not know, and who, therefore, would not have been likely to have struck you without instructions, should do that very thing without orders. Now, please be particular, Danton. Is it not possible that you may be mistaken and that the woman in the carriage was not Mercedes?”

“No; it is not possible. I saw her plainly.”

“In that case, I do not see just why you wish to talk to me about the story.”

“Good heavens, Carter! Don’t you suppose I want to find my sister?”

“I don’t know, I am sure. But if that was your sister, it is quite evident that she does not want to find you, or care to have you find her. If the occupant of that carriage was Mercedes Danton, she had mighty good reasons for acting as she did, and I will tell you very frankly, Reginald, as between you and Mercedes, I will take her side of the question every time.”

Reginald Danton took a quick step forward and turned, thus placing himself directly in front of the detective, so that both were obliged to come to a stop. Then he held out his hand and smiled.

“Shake,” he said.

“Why?” asked Nick.

“On that last proposition—that, as between Mercedes and me, you will take her side of the question every time. That is what I want you to do. In other words, I don’t care a fig whose side of the question you take as long as it benefits her in the end. I love my sister better than anybody else in the world—better than everybody else in the world put together. She’s in trouble of some kind, and I haven’t any more idea what it is than the man in the moon; neither can I find out what it is any more than the same mythical personage. Mercedes left the house without a written word to anybody. She took one of her maids with her—a new one, who has been in her employ only a month or so, and she left word with the other one that she would write.

“She did not write. I supposed, of course, she had gone to Newport, where mother is, and on Wednesday I ran over there. She was not there, and had not been there. Mother did not even know that she was not at home, and I didn’t enlighten her; and there you are. Mercedes went out of the house last Sunday, a week ago to-day, and——”

Danton stopped and brushed his eyes quickly. Then, with his tones filled with emotion, he said:

“The fact is, Nick, I’ve got a ‘hunch,’ as the racetrack people say. It never occurred to me till this very moment, but as sure as fate I believe that there is foul play somewhere. What you said about the coachman suggests it. Good God, Carter! do you suppose it could be possible that Mercedes did not leave home of her own free will?”

CHAPTER XII.

A STRANGE LEAVE-TAKING.

“About me! Hmmph! I should like you to tell me the particulars of that quarrel, if you please.”

“The whole thing did not really amount to a row of pins.”

“Nevertheless, I should like to see the point of each pin.”

“Your name has been mentioned very often between us, ever since the death of Orizaba.”

“Well?”

“I could see, when you were there at that time, that—er—well, that you admired Mercedes very much indeed.”

“You were entirely correct in that decision.”

“I could also see that she was especially drawn toward you; in short, that she admired you almost as much as you did her.”

“I am very much pleased to hear you say that. I did not suppose that she had had time to remember my existence.”

“It is a funny thing, Carter, that you can be so mighty shrewd about seeing things in one light, and still not be able to see a deuced thing in another—that is, from another and different point of view.”

“That is a very ordinary human failing, Danton. But, go on.”

“Mercedes has always held rather extraordinary ideas about love and marriage; about men, women and things socially, much to the annoyance of mother and to the amusement of my father. I think, Carter, that you almost came up to her idea of the ideal man.”

“Nonsense, Danton!”

Nick could feel that tingling around the heart region again.

“I am speaking seriously. Please remember that I am talking of my sister.”

“I do, my boy; but get down to the quarrel.”

“I’m getting down to it. All this is a preamble which must be told in order that you may understand all of it—and in understanding it, I want you to be particular not to misunderstand anything I may say.”

“You are rather obscure just now.”

“Not intentionally. In order to explain so that you will understand, I must confess to you that I made her believe that I thought she was more than half in love with—you.”

“In other words, you bantered her upon what you knew to be untrue; you merely teased her because you had discovered a theme which did tease.”

“Exactly.”

“Well?”

“It was all raillery, you know. Just making fun.”

“Yes.”

“And, in doing so, in order to tease her the more, I did not hesitate to make fun of you.”

“Naturally.”

“In short—you know I want to be entirely frank with you. That is one of my few virtues, frankness, is it not? In short, at the time when we quarreled, I permitted myself to speak slightly of you. Quite so, in fact.”

“Suppose you tell me what you said.”

“I say, Carter, that’s mean, you know, to make me tell what I said.”

“You have already explained why you said the things you did say.”

“I know, but they will sound differently now, repeated in cold blood.”

“Tell me what you said about me to your sister. I want to know all about the quarrel.”

“Well, if I do, you will have to promise me first that you will forgive, beforehand, all that I shall say.”

“Certainly, Danton. I understand perfectly that you were only teasing your sister, and I know something about the lengths to which brothers will go on occasions of that kind, as well as some of the liberties they will take, not alone with their sister themselves, but also with any other person who happens to be under discussion. Believe me, I will take all that you said in an utterly impersonal manner.”

“Well, I accused her of being in love with you, of course.”

“Yes. And then?”

“I told her that you were a widower, but——”

“Go on.”

“Confound it, I can’t! I simply explained in my own way, which won’t bear repeating now, that you had worshiped your first wife, and that you would wear sackcloth and ashes the rest of your days—please forgive me, old man!—and that there was no hope that another could ever take her place in your heart.”

“What next?” asked Nick curtly.

“Why, then I made fun of your profession. I asked her how she would like to be known as Mrs. Detective Carter, and all that, don’t you know—and I kept at it until I got her thoroughly angry.”

“Well?”

“She told me that if I were half the man that Nick Carter is people would have a lot more respect for me, which I admitted, and that if she loved a man it would make no difference to her whether he was a detective, or what he was, so long as he was a good and honorable man, who did his duty to his neighbor and to himself, and all that. Really, she read me quite a lecture, until I’m blowed if she didn’t get me mad, too.”

“She told you a few facts, I suppose.”

“Facts! Good Heaven! You ought to have heard her. I felt like a kitten in the grasp of a bull terrier before she got through with me.”

“And then——”

“Well, among other things she told me that I belonged to a class that was ruining posterity, whatever that may mean, inasmuch as posterity isn’t here to be ruined; that I had never earned a cent of money in my life, and that all on earth I was good for was to spend the money which my father provided—and a whole lot more of that sort until I left her in a rage. That is all; but you can see that the quarrel was not serious.”

“That was Saturday afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“And you did not see her again?”

“No. I came into the city in the evening, and I did not go out home until late. Then, in the morning, Sunday, I slept late, breakfasted alone, and came into town again. She went away Sunday.”

“And you say she left no written message?”

“No.”

“But she left a verbal one with one of the maids?”

“Yes.”

“What was that message—just as it was repeated to you?”

“Simply that she was going away, and that she would write.”

“Nothing more?”

“Not a thing.”

“She took one maid with her?”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

“Eh?”

“What else did she take with her?”

“Pretty nearly everything she owned, I should say.”

“Do you mean that she took all of her trunks?”

“Yes; all of her own and some of mother’s as well.”

“How many in all?”

“Good gracious, Carter, you don’t suppose I have kept tabs on the number of trunks those two women own, do you? I only know what the maid told me about it.”

“Well, what did she tell you?”

“She said that it seemed strange that my sister had taken the new maid, who was not entirely accustomed to her ways, and left her behind, who knew all about her, particularly when she was intending to be gone for a long time—but that she thought it stranger still that her mistress had said nothing to her about her intention of going.”

“Ah! The maid who was left behind did not know that your sister intended to go that day, then?”

“No.”

“Where was she when Mercedes started away?”

“Where was she when the many trunks were being made ready for the journey?”

“She had been sent into the city on an errand. The trunks had left the house when she returned and she was only just in time to see my sister depart.”

“What was it she said to you about the trunks?”

“Merely that she thought it strange that her mistress had taken so many trunks and so many things with her.”

“In short, Danton, the maid told you those things simply to give you an opportunity to question her.”

“By Jove, Carter, I believe now that she did that very thing. She wanted me to question her.”

“Which proves that she knew many things which she believed you should know, but which her position forbade her from volunteering to tell.”

“Yes. I see it now. But it is better as it is, for I would have garbled the whole thing. Now, you will question her, and so get at the core of the thing.”

“I hope so, Danton—I hope so.”

CHAPTER XIII.

MERCEDES’ FLIGHT FROM HOME.

“You see,” he said, in conclusion, in talking with his friend, “it is one thing if she has been induced to leave home through any undue influence, and it is another if she has simply gone away of her own free will. But I agree with you, Danton, for from what I know of your sister, I do not think she would do such a thing, when there is, or appears to be, no reason for her action.”

When, however, Danton had taken his departure, and the detective was seated alone in his room, he went slowly over the ground that had already been covered, much more deliberately than he had done while the young millionaire was with him.

His first remark, too, made to himself in the privacy of his own den, demonstrated the general trend of his conjectures.

“Mercedes Danton never left her home in that manner of her own free will,” he said aloud. “I am as positive of that point as if she had told me so herself. Now, let me see what I already know about the circumstances surrounding her, in her home, which might lead to some clue for the reasons of her going. I’ll go back first to the killing of Orizaba.”

“Ramon Orizaba was reputed to be a distant relative. He was killed by Paul Rogers, Reginald Danton’s valet. Letters found among the effects of Orizaba showed that he had been pursued by a Nemesis for upward of ten years, but they do not demonstrate clearly why. Rogers had been in the employ of Danton for about two years—something more, I believe. I found the whole family rather reticent about both Orizaba and Rogers, and while at the time I attributed that reticence to mere family pride, it now appears that there might have been another reason for it.

“After the murder Rogers left a letter for Danton in which he confessed the murder, told how he did it, refused to tell why he did it—and then he disappeared. Since that time not a trace of Rogers has been discovered. He disappeared off the face of the earth almost as completely as if he had gone to the edge of it and jumped off.

“Next: When young Danton was describing to me the death of Orizaba, he referred, in an abstract way, to some pretentions to the hand of Mercedes which Orizaba had made. That was a matter which I had no occasion to inquire into at the time, and now, of course, it is too late to do so. Danton would resent it; Mercedes would resent it; their mother would resent it—and, in fact, at the present moment at least, I can think of no good excuse for doing so.

“Next: If I am any reader of character at all, I must concede that Mercedes and her brother appeared to love each other with a fondness that is unusual, and it was certainly sincere on both sides. Now it is absurd to suppose that the quarrel which took place between the brother and sister had anything whatever to do with the fact of her leaving home, it was merely an incident, and——

“Next: There is only one feature of the case that has come under my observation or knowledge which is at all significant, and that is that Mercedes should cry out in alarm upon seeing her brother on the street, should retreat back into her carriage and drive hastily away, and that her coachman should strike him.

“Now: I do not believe that Mercedes Danton would dodge any living person on earth—I think she is made of the stuff that would dare to face anybody or anything at any time or place. In other words, if ever I saw a young woman upon whose character was stamped every indication of courage, Mercedes Danton was that woman. Again: If Mercedes had left home willingly and taken all that baggage with her, she would not have remained in the city of New York at this time of the year, and hence she would not have been where her brother could have encountered her, and if such an encounter really took place, Mercedes would not seek to avoid it, and, least of all, would she have instructed her driver to strike her brother with his whip.

“Ergo: The woman in the cab was not Mercedes Danton. Reginald, for some reason, believed her to be his sister, and for some reason also, the woman, whoever she was, considered it imperative that she should avoid an interview with Reginald.

“Now, there is not a circumstance connected with this whole affair which should induce me to investigate it, if I regard it purely from a professional standpoint; but, on the other hand, if I regard it from a personal standpoint, considering myself the friend of Reginald—or shall I confess it to myself?—considering myself as solicitous only for the welfare of Mercedes herself, there is every reason why I should at least satisfy myself that all is well—or, rather, that nothing is wrong.”

Nick Carter had just arrived at this decision when he was told that a client awaited him in the reception-room, and he descended quickly, to find there a woman, who rose from her chair and bowed respectfully to him when he entered the room.

“I do not know if you will remember me, Mr. Carter,” she said, coming at once to the point, “and I hardly know, sir, how to explain the reason for my coming here at all. I fear that you will consider it a great liberty for me to take not only with your time, but with the affairs of my mistress.”

“I remember you very well,” said Nick, “although I never heard your name. You are a maid of Miss Mercedes Danton. Concerning your coming here, make your mind easy at once, for I already know why you are here, and I am glad you have come. I should have gone out to the Fells in the morning to talk with you.”

“Did I understand you to say that you know why I have come, sir?” she inquired, evidently greatly surprised.

“Yes. Mr. Reginald Danton has told me that his sister left home a week ago, rather mysteriously. Now, if you please, I will ask you some questions, and I would rather you would confine what you have to tell to me, to the replies to those questions. If, after we have finished, there should be other things which you would like to touch upon, do so. First, then, suppose you tell me your name.”

“Sarah Kearney, sir.”

“How long have you been in the employ of Miss Danton?”

“Ten years. I have served her since she was a little girl, nine years old.”

“Good. And you were quite deeply in her confidence, were you not?”

“She told me almost everything, sir—until quite lately.”

“Do you mean that she has partly withdrawn her confidence of late?”

“Yes, sir. Partly.”

“Since when?”

“Since just before the mur—the death of Mr. Orizaba.”

“You think her manner altered toward you, about that time, or just before his death?”

“No, sir, I cannot say that her manner altered; only I am certain that there was some sorrow or trouble on her mind which she did not tell to me.”

“I see. And before that, or rather up to that time, she had been in the habit of confiding her troubles to you?”

“Always, sir.”

“Now let us take a back step for a moment: Tell me just why you came to see me to-night.”

“Why, sir, you have already said that you know.”

“I know the reason for your wanting assistance, but I do not know why you selected me to render that assistance. For example, if this occasion had arisen a month ago, you would not have come here to me about it, would you?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because I did not know you then, sir.”

“Neither did you know me now. Had you never heard the name of Nick Carter before the time of the death of Orizaba?”

“Oh, yes, indeed!”

“Well, then there is some reason other than you have stated, why you have come here. Now see if you can tell me what it is.”

“Only what Miss Mercedes herself said to me.”

“Ah! Well, what was that?”

“Why, only a few days before she went away she told me——”

“Tell me her exact words if you can.”

“‘Sarah,’ she said, ‘if the time should ever come when anything should happen to me which you cannot explain, go to Mr. Carter and ask him to help you.’ That was all she said, sir. I asked her why she said such things, and she only smiled, and replied that she knew you would be her friend if she should need one.”

“Very good,” replied Nick. “Now come down for the present to the day she went away. How did it happen that you were not present at the time she packed her trunks?”

“She sent me away to the city, early in the day, sir, on an errand which took me all the day. I did not get back until just before dark. She had already entered her carriage to drive to the station.”

“And the trunks had already gone, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think that your return surprised her? That she expected to be gone before your return?”

“Yes, sir. I was impressed by that idea.”

“And that she sent you on that fruitless errand for the explicit purpose of getting you out of the house while she was making her preparations for leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Was the other maid in the carriage with her when you arrived at the house at the moment of her departure?”

“Yes.”

“What is her name?”

“Isabel Benton.”

“Rather a high-sounding name for a maid, eh? We will return to her presently. I shall want to know more about her.”

“Well, sir, it won’t be much. Nobody could tell anything about her. She was a puzzle.”

“Indeed? I like puzzles—of that sort. Now let us return to your mistress. How did she appear when you saw her in the carriage? Was she pale?”

“I could not say, sir. Her veil was drawn tightly over her face so that I could not see her features.”

“Yet you are certain that it was your mistress?”

“Why, of course, sir.”

“But why, of course?”

“Just that it was her. I saw the carriage—the door was already closed and the coachman was on the point of starting the horses when I came up the walk. There was a small trunk on the box with the coachman, and I suspected that Miss Mercedes was going away, so I called to him to wait and ran forward before they started.”

“Good. Did she seem annoyed because you delayed them?”

“She seemed in a hurry, sir. In fact, she said that she was in a hurry.”

“Tell me what she said to you.”

“‘Sarah,’ she said, ‘I am in great haste. Tell my brother that I will write to him. I will also write to you.’”

“‘Will you not send for me to come to you?’ I asked her. ‘It will be the first time you have been without me in ten years,’ I urged; and she replied: ‘Perhaps.’ That was all. She was gone before I had a chance to say anything more.”

“Did you recognize her voice.”

“Of course.”

“Was she not coughing or laughing, or did she not hold her handkerchief over her mouth and nostrils while she was speaking to you?”

“Goodness, sir, how could you know that? Yes, sir, just before she spoke to me she put her handkerchief under her veil and——”

“And talked through it when she spoke to you. Very good, Sarah, I am beginning to think that your mistress had already gone when—but we won’t anticipate.”

CHAPTER XIV.

LITTLE STRAWS SHOW THE DIRECTION OF THE WIND.

“I never saw them in such confusion, sir.”

“Showing that the packing had been done quite hastily; is that the idea?”

“It is, sir.”

“Who did the packing? Of course you inquired.”

“Naturally. Isabel Benton must have done it all, sir.”

“Unless her mistress helped her, you mean.”

“Nobody else helped her, sir. She ordered the trunks brought to the rooms, and they were packed there. Nobody helped her.”

“What was packed?”

“That is what surprises me, sir. I have never known Miss Danton to take so many things away with her before. Her own trunks were not sufficient. She took three trunks which belong to her mother.”

“What was put into the trunks?”

“Almost every bit of her wardrobe. She took a great many things which she has not used of late and which I know she had discarded for good, and she took one dress which I have heard her say she would never wear under any circumstances.”

“What else?”

“Why, books, trinkets, keepsakes—a mass of things, sir, which she never noticed or cared for at all—and she cleaned out her writing-desk, which hitherto she has only locked when we have been going away.”

“What else?”

“Well, sir—and this I cannot explain at all—she took every photograph of herself that the house contained.”

“What is that? Her own photographs?”

“Yes, sir. I noticed, first, that one that she had given to me was missing. Then I began to look for others. There is not a picture of her left in the house. She even went into her brother’s, her mother’s and her father’s rooms and took photographs from there.”

“Her own?”

“Her own and theirs as well.”

“That is rather remarkable. Was she fond of her own pictures, do you think?”

“Not at all. She paid almost no attention to them. She never kept a photograph of herself exposed to view in her own room.”

“Who took the trunks to the station?”

“The men at the stable, sir.”

“How many trunks were there?”

“Eleven.”

“Do you know to what place those trunks were checked?”

“Yes, sir. I asked. They were checked to New York.”

“Which tells us nothing, and which can never tell us anything, I expect since an entire week has elapsed since that time. Sarah, did the other servants in the house know that she was intending to go away that day?”

“Nobody knew it until she began sending for her trunks.”

“Now, let us return to the moment when she sent you on that errand to New York.”

“Very well, sir.”

“How did she appear when she gave you your orders about that?”

“I did not see her then, sir.”

“Not see her? How was that?”

“She sent the order to me by Isabel.”

“Ah! Did you see your mistress at all that day—Sunday?”

“No, sir, I did not. Isabel attended her.”

“When did you see her last?”

“Saturday night, sir.”

“At what time?”

“I assisted her when she retired.”

“Where was Isabel, the other maid, at that time?”

“Walking on the piazza, I think. She was not in the room.”

“Who usually attended your mistress when she retired?”

“I, sir, always.”

“And when she rose in the morning?”

“I did, when she required anybody. Often she was up, dressed and out of the house before I was awake. She loved to be in the garden in the early morning.”

“Did she go into the garden Sunday morning?”

“No, sir. She did not leave her rooms all day, while I was in the house.”

“How does it happen that you did not go to her in her rooms?”

“Isabel told me that she had directed that we were both to remain outside. She said that Miss Mercedes was not feeling well, and did not wish to be disturbed, and that she would ring if she wanted either of us. Two rings were for Isabel and one was for me. She rang for Isabel twice, I think—for me, not at all.”

“Was it her custom to exclude you from her rooms?”

“She never did such a thing before since I have been in her service.”

“How do you account for it this time?”

“I do not account for it at all, sir.”

“What time were you sent away on the errand?”

“About noon, sir.”

“What was the errand?”

“I was sent to see a woman who had been recommended to us—or, rather, to Miss Danton—as one who could do fine sewing beautifully. I was to talk with her, and, if she seemed satisfactory, to engage her services; but the address was evidently incorrect, for no such person lived there. It was in Brooklyn, so I had a long distance to travel, but I made good time and so caught a train back to the Fells half an hour quicker than I otherwise would have done.”

“I see. You were sent on a wild-goose chase after an imaginary person in order to get you out of the house while the packing was going on, and it was intended that you should not return until after it was all over, and she had gone, too.”

“It would seem so, sir.”

“The last time you saw your mistress was when you put her to bed Saturday night?”

“Yes.”

“How did she appear then?”

“As usual.”

“Not troubled by anything, so far as you could determine?”

“No more than had been the general rule of late.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, she had not been exactly the same since—well, sir, it seems an odd circumstance for a comparison of dates in regard to my mistress, but it occurs to me that she had not been exactly the same since about the time when Paul Rogers entered the service of Mr. Reginald as his valet.”

“It is an odd circumstance to use as a comparison, Sarah. I would like you to tell me exactly why you do so.”

“Because of a very trivial thing, sir. I happened to be standing in the hallway of the house when Mr. Reginald returned from Europe and brought his new valet with him. Miss Mercedes came out from the drawing room to welcome her brother, and after he had passed on up the stairs she remained there talking with me until the valet came in with some of the luggage. She turned to see who it was who had entered, and when her eyes lighted upon the face of the valet she uttered a sudden cry of alarm and staggered back into my arms; but she barely touched them before she had straightened up again. There was not the slightest outward sign of emotion on her face, either.”

“The valet stepped toward her, bowed, and said in those peculiar, soft tones of his, that he was sorry he had frightened her, and she replied by laughing and telling him it was nothing at all.”

“And she offered no explanation?”

“None at all.”

“Did any occur to you?”

“Only that I thought she had not heard him and was really startled.”

“You mean that you thought that at the time; but that afterward you changed your mind?”

“No, sir. I did not change my mind.”

“Do you think that she recognized in the valet a person whom she had seen and known before?”

“Yes; I think so now.”

“Why?”

“Because—well, I have no good reason, only that many times since then I have seen her look strangely at the valet when she did not know that she was observed.”

“How, strangely? What do you mean by that?”

“I scarcely know.”

“Did she seem to fear him?”

“No; rather to be studying him.”

“You are of the opinion that she had seen him somewhere before?”

“Either that, or he was strangely and unaccountably like some person she had known.”

“Now you have said that she had not been exactly the same since that time. In what way was she different?”

“That is a difficult question to answer, for the reason that there was no difference which I could explain. There would have been no difference at all to any one less intimately associated with her than I was. But there was a difference.”

“Can you not give me some idea about it?”

“Only that after encountering him anywhere in the house or in the garden, she would appear, for a short interval, to be in a mood of abstraction.”

“As if she were endeavoring to recall something that was half-forgotten?”

“No; not that. More as if she were trying to explain something to her own satisfaction?”

“Did he ever address her or she him, save on the mere formalities of the household?”

“Never that I know about.”

“Did his presence ever seem to frighten her?”

“Nothing ever frightened her, sir. She possessed the courage and the self-control of a man.”

“Do you think his presence annoyed her?”

“No; I think it only puzzled her.”

“Well, Sarah, we will leave Rogers for a moment and return to Isabel. I want a word or two about her.”

“Very good, sir.”

“I see that you did not like her, but it is possible that your dislike may have been the result of jealousy rather than have arisen from any really good reason, so I wish you to make an effort to disabuse your mind of anything but justice in replying to my questions about her.”

CHAPTER XV.

THE BEAUTIFUL FACE OF ISABEL.

“I did not talk with her at all, so you must tell me how she appeared. I got the impression that she looked rather above her station; did she appear that way at all?”

“Yes; I think she did.”

“How?”

“She is an educated young woman. I think, sir, that she had seen better days.”

“You think, then, that she had not always been a maid?”

“I think she had never been a maid to anybody until she came there to serve.”

“Ah! I see. Rather that she was one who had enjoyed being waited upon instead of performing the part of a servant herself.”

“Exactly that, sir. I would like to ask you, sir, if you looked at her very closely when you were at the Fells?”

“No; I barely noticed her at all.”

“Then, perhaps, you did not notice that there was really a striking resemblance between her and Miss Mercedes.”

“I certainly did not.”

“You saw enough of her to remark that she was beautiful.”

“Yes; but it was a fleeting glance in the half-light of the drawing-room when I happened to meet her in the doorway. I merely caught a glimpse of her face. It was her poise and figure that attracted my attention, as well as the delicate profile of her face.”

“Then you would not notice the resemblance, for it was not observable in her profile.”

“But you think there was a resemblance?”

“A decided one, sir, when you got the correct view, and that was straight in front. But I noticed it on one occasion particularly, and I gave her a severe scolding at the time, too.”

“When and how was that?”

“I found her dressed in one of Miss Mercedes’ party dresses once. Miss Mercedes had gone to a reception in the city, and the other members of the family were also away from home. By a strange chance very few of the servants were in the house, and I was, myself, supposed to be attending my mistress in New York. But it happened that I was taken with a headache at the last moment, and, instead of going to the city, was sent to my room to rest. At nine o’clock in the evening I awoke from a long sleep, and, feeling much better, went down the stairs to the library to find something to read. I had to pass through the drawing-room on my way to the library, and you may imagine my surprise when I entered to see—as I supposed—my mistress standing before one of the long mirrors in the room.

“The carpet is very thick and soft, and she did not hear me as I approached behind her, so that I had a good view of her face in the mirror, and, Mr. Carter, I actually believed it to be Miss Mercedes—until she spoke.

“I uttered an exclamation of surprise at finding her there, whereupon she wheeled like lightning and confronted me. Even then the resemblance was so startling that I was not sure that she was not my mistress; but she saw that she was fairly caught, and she burst into tears, which she probably knew would be the surest way of winning me over to promise that I would not betray her.”

“And she did win you over so that you never spoke of the circumstance, I suppose?” said the detective.

“I have never spoken of it till now, sir.”

“Tell me what she said at the time, in explanation of her conduct.”

“I don’t remember much that she said, sir. She talked a steady stream for half an hour, and it was chiefly about there having been a time when she had finery of her own, and was a welcome guest at receptions such as the one where our mistress had gone. The dress she had put on was one which I had brought out for Miss Mercedes to wear, but which she had laid aside for another that she preferred. It had not been laid away again—was, in fact, on the bed when Isabel found it, and determined to see how she would appear with it. I was sorry for her. She could wheedle anybody with her voice.”

“Ah! Her voice. Tell me about that.”

“Her voice is very soft and low. Not like any other voice I ever heard, and yet, strangely enough, always remindful of a voice you have heard somewhere. Don’t you know voices of that kind, sir?”

“Yes; I think I know what you mean. What was her manner, generally, in the house? Did she offend the other servants, or did they like her?”

“I think they all loved her, sir. I was the only one who distrusted her—and I could not tell you why I did so, either.”

“Because you were jealous of her, doubtless.”

“I think so. I think that was the only reason. I know, at least, that it is the only reason that I can give.”

“Did your mistress like her? Did she seem fond of her?”

“Yes—and no. Sometimes I thought she was fond of her, and there were times when I had an idea that she disliked her.”

“Describe one of the occasions when you had reason to think that your mistress disliked Isabel.”

“Miss Mercedes and I came in from the garden, together, through the side door, and we passed through the library into the drawing-room to leave some flowers in one of the vases there. Isabel was standing in the embrasure of one of the windows, in conversation with Mr. Orizaba. Miss Mercedes called to her, and ordered her to her room at once. Then she sent me out of the room, and I know that she said some sharp things to her cousin——”

“But Orizaba was not her cousin.”

“He was in a way, sir. A sixth or seventh cousin. She always spoke of him as her cousin. Later, she came to her room and rang for Isabel, and I heard her tell her that one more circumstance of that kind would incur instant dismissal from her service. That is all I heard her say about it, but the flash of Miss Mercedes’ eyes at the time made me think that underneath it all she heartily disliked Isabel. I may have been mistaken.”

“Did you often see Isabel and Orizaba together?”

“Quite often, sir. There was always a glance of mutual meaning between them when they believed themselves unobserved—and once, quite late at night, when I had stolen out of the house to the hammock when the others were in their beds, I saw them talking together on the piazza.”

“Now let us get back to the moment you returned to the Fells after your errand to the city. When you stepped forward to speak to your mistress, who was already in the carriage, was Isabel also there—in the carriage?”

“Why—yes, sir.”

“Are you sure? Did you see her?”

“Of course, I saw her.”

“I mean, did you see her face so that you recognized it, or did you only suppose it to be her, because of the circumstance? Think, now, and reply carefully.”

“Why, I have always been certain that it was Isabel, sir.”

“Did she not also wear a veil?”

“I really do not know, sir.”

“In other words, you did not really look at her at all. You had eyes only for your beloved mistress. Is that not true?”

“Perhaps it is.”

“What carriage was it—an open one?”

“No, sir. The big coupé.”

“Did you speak to Isabel, or did she address any word to you at that time?”

“No. I think not. I was so surprised, so disturbed, and I will confess, sir, so angry, that I do not remember much about the circumstance, only that Miss Mercedes was going away without me, and that she bade me good-by so coldly that it almost broke my heart.”

“So, as a matter of fact, you do not really know that Isabel was in the coupé at all?”

“Why, yes, I do.”

“Well, how do you know it? That is what I want to find out.”

“Why, who else would be there if she was not?”

“Exactly; who else, indeed?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that, sir?”

“No; I suppose you do not. Now what was the first thing you did after you entered the house, when they had driven away?”

“I went to my own room, threw myself on the bed, and cried.”

“To be sure. Sarah, do you happen to remember if, during the few days that immediately preceded her departure, there had been a strange woman in the house, in any capacity?”

“There was a woman who came to do some light sewing—some hemming of linen, I think; but she went away Saturday evening.”

“How do you know that she went away Saturday evening? Did you see her go?”

“No. I heard my mistress dismiss her.”

“Now, Sarah, just two or three more questions, and then you may return to the Fells.”