In Jeopardy
"Better have them in and get their evidence on the record at first
hand," persisted Warriner.
There was incontrovertible reason in this, and Zack and Zeb were sent
for. John Thaneford still looked like a thunder cloud, and I found it
difficult to make up my mind. Was he annoyed at the masterful way in
which his official authority was being usurped, or was he inwardly
anxious to keep the inquiry within conventional bounds; was it even
possible that he was seeking to shield somebody? His personal skirts
must be clear, for it was positively established that he had been at
"Thane Court" the entire day of June the twenty-first. Being a relative,
the tidings of Mr. Graeme's death had been sent to him by telephone, and
he had replied that he would come immediately to the "Hundred." But he
had not put in an appearance until the next morning. The one suspicious
circumstance was his willingness, almost eagerness, to accept Doctor
Marcy's certificate without making any investigation on his own account,
coupled with his subsequent reluctance to reopen the inquiry. Finally,
his attitude throughout the inquest had been restless and perfunctory;
it could be easily seen that the exercise of his duty as coroner was
most distasteful to him. But I was keenly aware that I did not like John
Thaneford; all the more reason that I should not do him any injustice.
And so I kept my cogitations to myself.
Zack and Zeb proved to be model witnesses under Warriner's skilful
tutelage. It was positively determined that no stranger had been near
the library terrace between eleven and two o'clock on the day in
question.
"Or anybody else?" asked Warriner.
"Miss Eunice she done come by thar; walkin' up fum de gyarding,"
answered Zeb.
"What time was that?"
"Ah reckon 'bout one o'clock, sah."
"How do you know? Do you carry a watch?"
"Nossah, but de oberseer's bell for de fiel' hands just done rung,"
asserted the witness with conviction.
"Where did Miss Trevor go?"
"I doan know, sah. I speck she went plum into de manshun house--roun' de
cornah, sah."
Zack could add nothing more to this statement, and Zeb, when called in
his turn, merely produced corroborative testimony.
"I think we had better see Miss Trevor herself," said Warriner, after
Zeb had bowed and scraped his way out.
"All damned nonsense," objected Thaneford, looking uglier than ever.
"And I must say, Mr. Warriner, that you are taking a great deal too much
on yourself. I'm the coroner, and I know my duty."
Warriner stuck to his guns, and he was backed up by a juryman named
Orton, a well-to-do farmer and an unusually intelligent man, as it
seemed to me. Thaneford finally yielded ungracious assent and Miss
Trevor again entered the room. As she stood confronting us I was struck
by the intense pallor of her skin, when contrasted with the coal
blackness of her hair and her sombre apparel of mourning. Yet she
appeared perfectly collected and self-possessed; she admitted readily
that she had been on the library terrace at the approximate hour of one
o'clock; she explained that she had gone to the walled garden to cut
some flowers for the luncheon table; she had returned by the terrace as
that was the shortest way to the front door; she had entered the house,
and, after arranging the flowers, she had retired to her own room.
Warriner put a question or two relative to her taking Effingham's post
at the library door while Doctor Marcy was endeavoring to break the
news to Betty; her answers were definite and given without hesitation.
Yes, she had sent the servant upstairs to get the smelling salts and the
ammonia; she had thought the restoratives might be needed. Her account
of the finding of the body agreed perfectly with the story told by
Doctor Marcy.
"Thank you, Miss Trevor," said Warriner. "Just one more question. What
sort of flowers did you cut on your visit to the garden?"
"Yellow roses. I think the variety is called _Madame Colette
Marinette_."
Upon Miss Trevor's retirement the verdict was taken. It was unanimous
and to the effect that Francis Hildebrand Graeme had come to his death
through the visitation of God.
The jurymen climbed into their surreys and Fords and took their
departure. Warriner lingered behind, and a few minutes later he joined
me on the porch, where I was smoking a long longed-for cigarette. Miss
Trevor had gone upstairs, and John Thaneford had betaken himself to the
sick-room; we were entirely alone.
"I found this in the passage behind the secret door," he said, and
handed me the withered remains of what had been a magnificent yellow
rose.
"Interesting exhibit, isn't it," he went on dryly.
"You don't--you don't mean?" I stammered.
"I'm not very much up on floriculture, but this particular variety
happens to be one of my favorites. The florists call it----"
"Yes?"
"_Madame Colette Marinette._"
Chapter VII
_The Whispering Gallery_
The long afternoon went by, but we had accomplished nothing more than
the consumption of an unlimited amount of tobacco.
"Certainly not convincing evidence," said Warriner with a final shrug of
his shoulders. "Still my yellow rose is worth preserving along with the
moth cocoon," and he put the pathetic dead flower carefully away in his
empty cigarette case. For a minute or two the silence remained unbroken.
"I wonder if you would mind spending a few days here at the 'Hundred?'"
I blurted out; suddenly I was aware that I had taken a strong liking to
Chalmers Warriner.
"I've no end of things on hand," he answered, smiling cordially, "but
I'll see what I can do. Suppose I run into Calverton, look over my mail,
and return here around ten o'clock."
"It would be a great kindness," I said heartily. We shook hands, and he
jumped into his perfectly appointed cross-country car and drove away.
Yes, I did like Chalmers Warriner very much, and he seemed to have a
head on him.
Doctor Marcy also left us. His patient had continued to improve, and of
course he had his other practice to look after.
It was a pleasanter dinner than that of the night before inasmuch as
John Thaneford was at "Thane Court," while Miss Trevor pleaded a
headache and had tea and toast served in her room. But there was my
Cousin Betty Graeme to do the honors of my board--how strange it still
seemed to use the possessive pronoun!--with all possible grace and
dignity. Also I had the pleasure of welcoming a new addition to the
household, a Mrs. Anthony, an old family friend and Betty's godmother to
boot. Circumstances had prevented her attendance at the funeral, but she
had reached the "Hundred" at last, to Betty's infinite comfort and
satisfaction. Mrs. Anthony was a delightful old person, with the figure
of a young girl and the flashing eyes and snowy bob curls of a French
marquise. I did myself the honor of kissing the small hand extended to
me, and was taken into favor at once.
Yes, we were an entirely congenial dinner party. We spoke of Francis
Graeme several times, and without the least embarrassment or restraint;
quite as though he might return at any moment to resume his rightful
place in the circle. And more and more I came to realize that I had lost
a great deal in not knowing him sooner and better. A good and gallant
gentleman! who was I that I should presume to stand in his shoes. Even
now I am beginning to perceive that a great inheritance has its burdens
as well as its privileges; I see that it is no small thing to become
Hildebrand of the "Hundred."
The ladies retired early, and a few minutes after ten Warriner redeemed
his promise by making a welcome appearance. I told him that I had some
necessary letters to write, and that I should not make company of him;
he was to consider himself entirely at home. He nodded acquiescently and
spent some twenty minutes in wandering about the library; then he
settled down with a book.
It really was imperative that I should acquaint certain people--my
quasi-partner Anstruthers, the Mercers and others--with the great change
that had taken place in my life and fortunes; my affairs in town would
have to be wound up, and it might be a fortnight before I could get to
Philadelphia. My correspondence proved more lengthy than I had
anticipated, and it was long after midnight when I had sealed and
stamped the last enclosure. Warriner threw down his book, and I crossed
the room and joined him. "By way of resting our eyes," I said, and
thereupon I extinguished the only light in the room, an Argand-burner
oil lamp. We exchanged half a dozen desultory sentences, and then
relapsed into that intimate silence which is only possible between real
friends. For perhaps half an hour we sat quietly thinking and smoking;
then----
"There is nothing I can say or do; understand?"
I recognized the rough, forbidding quality of John Thaneford's voice,
and instantly I was all attention. Of course he must be speaking to
somebody; who could it be? Presently the answer came. But it was not in
words; all I could make out were sounds of weeping and smothered sobs,
unmistakably feminine in character.
Now I should have explained that Warriner and I had been sitting close
to one of the side walls of the library; indeed our heads were almost in
actual contact with the plaster. Thaneford and his companion were
undoubtedly in the great hall whose circular walls probably formed a
natural whispering gallery. How the sounds could be transmitted through
the straight connecting passage under the stairs, and then shunted upon
the rectangular walls of the library, was a problem in applied acoustics
that I did not attempt to solve. The conversation was being conducted
under the breath, as we say, but every word fell with perfect
distinctness upon my ears. Of course it was a private conversation, one
to which I had no right to listen. I did make a motion to pull away from
the wall, possibly with the vague idea of uttering a warning admonition
to these indiscreet chatterers, but Warriner's ready hand pushed me back
in my chair; he laid his finger upon my lips, and I had no option but to
yield to his stronger will. This was war, war in which all is fair.
"You've made a mess of it, my girl," went on Thaneford, "and I can't
stop to help clear it up. That's flat."
"You mean that you won't keep your promise?" The words were low and
thick with emotion; I could not seem to recognize the ownership of the
voice.
"No, I don't say that at all. But I'm up to my neck at 'Thane Court,'
and I was counting upon the 'Hundred' to pull me out. Give me half a
chance and I'll do the square thing--by you and everybody."
"What more do you want of me?"
"Just keep your eyes and ears open. I saw Grimes to-day, and he thinks
there is a fair possibility of breaking the will--_non compos_, you
know. Why think of it! Francis Graeme never saw this Yankee Hildebrand
but once in his life, and then for a couple of hours only. It stands to
reason that a man in his right senses doesn't hand over a fortune as
though it were nothing more than a Key West cigar. Grimes advises me to
fight, and I'd like nothing better than to do it. But fighting costs a
lot of money," he concluded gloomily.
"You know that if I had it----"
"All I know is that you haven't got it," he interrupted coldly. "For
heaven's sake! don't let us get sentimental again."
There was a brief silence, and then came a badly suppressed yawn,
coupled with a declaration that the speaker was dog-tired and ready to
fall asleep standing up. We could hear retreating footsteps, and the
occasional creaking of a loose board in the tread of the staircase; then
all was quiet again.
"Eunice Trevor, of course," announced Warriner meditatively.
"I should never have known her voice," I protested.