Part 12 (1/2)

She walked to the edge of the bridge, and permitted him to a.s.sist her down the steep bank. There was something of reserve about her manner, which prevented Westcott from feeling altogether at ease. In his own mind he began once more to question her purpose, to doubt the sincerity of her intentions. She appeared different from the frankly outspoken girl of the night before. Neither broke the silence between them until they reached the flat boulder and had found seats in the shelter of overhanging trees. She sat a moment, her eyes on the water, her cheeks shadowed by the wide brim of her hat, and Westcott noted the almost perfect contour of her face silhouetted against the green leaves. She turned toward him questioningly.

”I was very rude,” she said, ”but you will forgive me when I explain the cause. I had to act as I did or else lose my hold entirely on that man--you understand?”

”I do not need to understand,” he answered gallantly. ”It is enough that you say so.”

”No, it is not enough. I value your friends.h.i.+p, Mr. Westcott, and I need your advice. I find myself confronting a very complicated case under unfamiliar conditions. I hardly know what to do.”

”You may feel confidence in me.”

”Oh, I do; indeed, you cannot realise how thoroughly I trust you,” and impulsively she touched his hand with her own. ”That is why I wrote you to meet me here--so I could tell you the whole story.”

He waited, his eyes on her face.

”I received my letter this morning--the letter I told you I expected, containing my instructions. They--they relate to this man Ned Beaton and the woman he expects on this train.”

”Your instructions?” he echoed doubtfully. ”You mean you have been sent after these people on some criminal matter? You are a detective?”

There must have been a tone of distrust to his voice, for she turned and faced him defiantly.

”No; not that. Listen: I am a newspaperwoman, a special writer on the New York _Star_.” She paused, her cheeks flus.h.i.+ng with nervousness.

”It--it was very strange that I met you first of all, for--for it seems that the case is of personal interest to you.”

”To me! Why, that is hardly likely, if it originated in New York.”

”It did”--she drew in a sharp breath--”for it originated in the murder of Frederick Cavendish.”

”The murder of Cavendis.h.!.+ He has been killed?”

”Yes; at least that is what every one believes, except possibly one man--his former valet. His body was found lying dead on the floor of his private apartment, the door of his safe open, the money and papers missing. The coroner's jury brought in a verdict of murder on these facts.”

”And the murderer?”

”Left no clue; it was believed to be the work of a burglar.”

”But when was this?”

She gave the date, and he studied over it.

”The same day he should have received my telegram,” he said gravely.

”That's why the poor fellow never answered.” He turned to her suddenly. ”But what became of my others,” he asked, ”and of all the letters I wrote?”

”That is exactly what I want to learn. They must have been delivered to his cousin, John Cavendish. I'll tell you all I know, and then perhaps, between us, we may be able to figure it out.”

Briefly and clearly, she set before him the facts she and Willis had been able to gather: the will, the connection between Enright and John Cavendish, the quarrel between John and Frederick, the visit of John to Enright's office, the suspicion of Valois that the murdered man was not Cavendish, and, finally, the conversation overheard in Steinway's, the torn telegram, and the meeting between Celeste La Rue and Enright.

When she had finished, Westcott sat, chin in hand, turning the evidence over in his mind. ”Do you believe Frederick Cavendish is dead?” he asked suddenly.

”Yes.”