Part 26 (1/2)

”Please, Senorita,” pleaded and soothed Kennedy, ”try to be calm. What has happened? Tell me. What is it?”

The ammonia and the fresh air seemed to have done their work, for she managed to brace herself, gripping the arms of the chair tightly and looking up searchingly into Craig's face.

”It's about Chester,” she managed to gasp; then seemed unable to go on.

It was the first time I had ever heard her use Lockwood's first name, and I knew that something had stirred her emotions more deeply than at any time since the death of her father.

”Yes,” prompted Kennedy. ”Go on.”

”I have heard that you found foot-prints, shoe-prints, in the dust in the Museum after the dagger was stolen,” she said, speaking rapidly, suppressing her feelings heroically. ”Since then you have been collecting prints of shoes--and I've heard that the shoe-prints that were found are those of--of Mr. Lockwood. Oh, Professor Kennedy, it cannot be--there must be some mistake.”

For a moment Kennedy did not say anything. He was evidently seeking some way in which to lead up to the revelation of the truth without too much shock.

”You remember that time in the tea room when we were sitting with Senora de Moche?” he asked finally.

”Yes,” she said shortly, as though the very recollection were disagreeable to her.

Kennedy, however, had a disagreeable task, and he felt that it must be performed in the kindest manner.

”You remember then that she said she had one thing more to say, that it was about Mr. Whitney and Mr. Lockwood.”

She was about to interrupt, but he hurried on, giving her no chance to do so. ”She asked you to think it over. Suppose they did not have the dagger, she said. Then were their chances of finding the treasure any better than any one else had? And if they did have it, she asked what that meant. It is a dilemma, my dear Senorita, which you must meet some time. Why not meet it now?”

Her face was set. ”You will remember, also, Professor Kennedy,” she said, with a great effort controlling her voice, ”that I said that Mr.

Lockwood was not there to defend himself and I would not have him attacked by innuendo. I meant it to the Senora--I mean it to you!”

She had also meant it to defy him; but as she proceeded her voice broke, and before she knew it her nature had triumphed, and she was alternately sobbing and pleading.

For a minute or two Kennedy let her give vent to her emotions.

”It cannot be. It cannot be,” she sobbed over and over. ”He could not have been there. He could not have done it.”

It was a terrible thing to have to disillusion her, but it was something now that had to be done. Kennedy had not sought to do so. He had postponed it in the hope of finding some other way. But now the thing was forced upon him.

”Who told you?” he asked finally.

”I was trying to read, to keep my mind occupied, as you asked me, when Juanita told me that there was some one in the living room who wanted to see me--a man. I thought it was either you or Mr. Jameson. But it was--Professor Norton--”

Kennedy and I exchanged glances. That was the action in revenge to Lockwood and Whitney which he had contemplated over the telephone. It was so cruel and harsh that I could have hated him for it, the more so as I recollected that it was he himself who had cautioned us against doing the very thing which now he had done in the heat of pa.s.sion.

”Oh,” she wailed, ”he was very kind and considerate about it. He said he felt that it was his duty to tell me, that he would be anything, like an older brother, to me; that he could not see me blinded any longer to what was going on, and everybody knew, but had not love enough for me to tell. It was such a shock. I could not even speak. I simply ran from the room without another word to him, and Juanita found me lying on the bed. Then--I decided--I would come to you.”

She paused, and her great, deep eyes looked up pathetically. ”And you,”

she added bitterly, ”you are going to tell me that he was right, that it is true. You can't prove it. Show me what it is that you have. I defy you!”

Somehow, as she rested and relieved her feelings, a new strength seemed to come to her. It was what Kennedy had been waiting for, the reaction that would leave her able for him to go on and plan for the future.

He reached into a drawer of a cabinet and pulled out the various shoe-prints which he had already shown Norton, and which he had studied and restudied so carefully.

”That is the print of the shoe in the dust of the Egyptian sarcophagus of the Museum,” he said quietly. ”Some one got in during the daytime and hid there until the place was locked. That is the print of Alfonso de Moche's shoe, that of Mr. Whitney's, and that of Mr. Lockwood's.”