Part 17 (1/2)

Vaughan silently shook his head. He was indeed looking miserably, and when he took a chair, he sat bolt upright on its edge, leaning forward nervously when he spoke. ”No,” he said, ”it's worse than that, Mr.

Carleton; a whole lot worse. It's something that's been troubling me for a long time now, until finally I've made up my mind that the only thing for me to do is to come straight to you with it, and tell you the whole story. And that's why I'm here.”

At once Carleton shoved books and papers aside, as if the better to prepare himself for proper attention to Vaughan's words. He looked at his visitor with an air of friendly concern. ”Anything that I can do--”

he murmured. ”You know, of course, that you may count on me. Anything in my power--”

Vaughan nodded abruptly. ”Thank you,” he said hastily and a little grimly, ”it's not a favor that I've come for. I'm going to do you a bad turn, I'm afraid. Going to do everybody a bad turn, as far as that goes.

But it can't be helped. I've got to go ahead, and that's all there is to it.”

Henry Carleton eyed him narrowly, but without speaking, and Vaughan, looking up, as if eager to have his task over, with sudden resolve, began. ”It's about Satterlee,” he said, ”you remember how things happened out here that night, of course. I guess we all do. Jack went up-stairs to bed, you remember, and you and c.u.mmings went off to play billiards. I was on the piazza with Rose, and stayed there until you came down to tell her that it was getting late. Then, after she went up-stairs, you told me that you were going for a short walk, and I said I believed I'd go to my room. Well, I didn't. I don't know why. I started to go in, and then--the night was so fine; I had so much that was pleasant to think about--somehow I couldn't stand the idea of going into the house, and instead I took a stroll around the grounds.”

He stopped for a moment. Henry Carleton, gazing intently at him, gave no sign from his expression that he was experiencing any emotion beyond that of the keenest interest and attention. Only his eyes, in the shadow, had lost their customary benevolent expression, narrowing until their look was keen, alert; the look of a man put quickly on his guard.

And as Vaughan still kept silence, it chanced that Carleton was the first again to speak. ”Well,” he queried impatiently, ”and what then?”

Vaughan drew a quick breath. ”This,” he cried hastily, almost recklessly, ”this. I walked down toward Satterlee's cottage, and I saw what happened there. Satterlee didn't fall from any rock. He was murdered. And I saw it all.”

Henry Carleton did not start. There was no cry of surprise, no single word, even. Only, as Vaughan had finished, on a sudden his eyes dilated strangely; his lips parted a trifle; for a moment, without breathing, without animation, it seemed as if the man's whole being hung poised motionless, suspended. So great the surprise, so great the shock, that one, not knowing, might almost have believed himself to be looking upon the man who had done the deed. ”Murdered?” he at last repeated dully, ”You saw it? Murdered?”--there was a moment's silence, and then, all at once seeming to recover himself, he leaned forward in his chair. ”By whom?” he cried sharply, with just a note of menace in his tone, ”By whom?”

On Vaughan's part there was no further hesitation. He had gone too far for that. Yet his face was drawn and distorted with pain as in a tone so low that Carleton could scarcely hear, he uttered the single word, ”Jack.”

And this time the added shock was too great. Henry Carleton started visibly, the most intense emotion showing in every line of his face.

”Jack?” he gasped, ”Jack?”

In silence Vaughan bowed his head, hardly able to look on the anguish which his words had caused. ”Jack,” he muttered again, under his breath.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Henry Carleton started visibly.--Page 292]

There was a silence, tense, pregnant. Once Vaughan, slowly raising his head, had started to speak, and Henry Carleton had instantly lifted a hand to enjoin silence. ”Wait a minute!” he commanded. Evidently he was striving to recollect. Then presently he spoke again. ”Nonsense,” he cried, ”I remember perfectly now. That was the night that Jack said he felt tired; he went to his room early to smoke a pipe, and then turn in.

Jack murder Satterlee! Why, nonsense, man! You're dreaming. You're not in your right mind. Jack and Satterlee were always good friends, and Mrs. Satterlee, too. No, no. Jack to murder any one is nonsensical enough; but Jack to murder Satterlee--impossible--simply impossible!”

Stubbornly Vaughan shook his head. ”I wish to G.o.d it were,” he answered, with deep feeling. ”It sounds wild enough, I know, but it's true, for all that. Every word. And one thing you've just said--” he hesitated, and stopped, then unwillingly enough continued, ”one thing, I'm afraid, goes a long ways toward explaining, and that is that Jack was such good friends with Mrs. Satterlee. I'm afraid that was the beginning of everything.”

Carleton's face was pale, and his voice, when he spoke, was hoa.r.s.e with emotion. ”G.o.d, Vaughan,” he said, ”this is terrible,” and then, with a quick return to his former manner, ”no, no, I can't believe it yet. Tell me what you saw. Not what you imagined or conjectured. Just what you saw--actually saw with your own eyes.”

”There isn't very much to tell,” Vaughan answered. ”I just happened to walk that way, for no reason whatsoever. Just by chance; I might have gone any other way as well. And finally I came out on the top of a little hill--no, not a hill exactly; more like a cliff--and from there I could see across to Satterlee's house. And while I stood there, I saw a man--Satterlee--come across the drive, and up the back way, and go in.

Then, in a minute, I heard a noise up-stairs, and some one cry out; and then, a minute after that, Jack rushed out of the house, with Satterlee after him--and suddenly Satterlee took to running queer and wide and in a circle, with his head all held pitched to one side--ah, it was ghastly to see him--and then he came straight for the rock where I was standing, and all at once his legs seemed to go out from under him, and he sprawled right out on the gravel on his face, and lay there. I turned faint for a minute, I think, and the next thing I recall was looking down again, and there was Jack trying to lift Satterlee up, and when he scratched a match his hands were all over blood, and Satterlee's face--oh, I've dreamed it all fifty times since--he was dead then, I suppose. His head hung limp, I remember, and then--it was cowardly, of course, and all that, but the whole thing was so unexpected--so like a d.a.m.nable kind of a nightmare, somehow--and Jack, you know--why, it was too much for me. I just turned, and made off, and never stopped till I'd got back safe into my room again. And that's all.”

Henry Carleton sat silent, engrossed in thought. Almost he seemed to be oblivious of Vaughan's presence. ”It couldn't be,” he muttered, at last, as though incredulous still, ”it couldn't be. Jack!” he paused, only to repeat the name again. Then he shook his head. ”Never,” he said with decision, ”he would have told everything. You saw wrong, Arthur. You didn't see Jack.”

Something in the older man's att.i.tude of continued disbelief seemed to have the effect of nettling Vaughan. ”How many times,” he said, with a note of irritation in his tone, ”must I repeat it? I tell you I _know_.

Can't a man trust his own eyes? It _was_ Jack. There's no room for doubt at all. Don't you suppose--” his voice rose with the strain of all that he had been through--”don't you suppose that I'd have jumped at any chance to clear him? Don't you suppose that if there'd been the faintest shadow of a doubt in his favor, I'd have stretched it to the breaking point to see him go free. No, there's no question. It was Jack. Why he did it, or how he did it, you can conjecture, if you wish, but one thing is plain. Murder Tom Satterlee he did.”

His tone rang true. At last, in spite of himself, Carleton appeared unwillingly to be convinced. Again he pondered. ”Then he perjured himself at the inquest?” he said quickly at last.

Vaughan nodded. ”He perjured himself at the inquest,” he a.s.sented.

”And you?” asked Carleton, again, ”you perjured yourself too?”

”I perjured myself too,” Vaughan answered. ”There were plenty of other reasons, of course; reasons that you can imagine. It wasn't just a case of Jack alone. There was a lot else to think of besides. We talked it over as well as we could--Jack and I. We thought of you. We thought of Rose--and of me. We thought of the Carleton name. The disgrace of it all. We only had a quarter of an hour, at the most--and we lied, deliberately and consciously lied.”