Chapter XIV

_Another Break in the Circle_

It was the first of June and the loveliest time of the year at the "Hundred." Why had I never realized before that, in spite of my urban upbringing, I was a born countryman? Can there be a greater pleasure in life than living on one's own land, and honestly plying the oldest and most important of human industries--the tilling of the soil! Provided, of course, that one possesses a reasonable amount of capital; the hand-to-mouth struggle of the poor farmer is deadening to both soul and body; as one of my less fortunate neighbors once put it: "It isn't living; it's just staying on."

Certainly I had no cause for complaint. The "Hundred" was easily the best farm anywhere about. I could command sufficient ready money to be independent of the banks, and I was beginning to learn my trade. What more could the heart of man desire? And finally, there was Betty--but how could one inventory that immeasurable asset! Enough that our happiness was as complete as anything mundane could be, and I had only to bear in mind the old Greek admonition: "Tread softly lest the high gods overhear and be moved to celestial ire against a mortal so felicitous!"

Eunice Trevor was still living at the "Hundred," and the question of that other arrangement had been suffered to remain in abeyance. I did not fancy the ungracious task of turning her out of the house, and by temperament I am something of an opportunist; time is the great resolver of our difficulties; moreover, to do the woman justice, she seemed desirous of effacing herself in every possible way; for days on end I would hardly see her except at dinner, our one formal function. And then one day something occurred to set me thinking, an incident small in itself and yet curiously disquieting.

Miss Trevor was in the habit of driving over alone to Calverton two or three times a week. Still she was never absent more than a couple of hours, and it was none of my business how she employed her leisure. Betty commented upon these journeys once or twice, but neither of us cared to press the direct inquiry; there were plenty of horses available, and the girl's time was her own; what did it matter.

On this particular morning I chanced to be in the house at the moment of her return from town. She passed me in the hall, nodded briefly, and went up to her room. As I walked through the front door I noticed a letter lying on the threshold. I picked it up and saw that it was addressed to Miss Eunice Trevor, Lockbox 31, Calverton, Maryland. The handwriting was that of John Thaneford, a square, bold script with which I was perfectly familiar. The post-mark was that of a small town in Florida.

So Eunice and Thaneford were engaged in correspondence, and a secret one at that. It didn't look well, and I felt the blood reddening my temples. After all she was my house guest and eating my bread and salt. Spy is an ugly word, but Thaneford was an enemy, a quiescent one for the time being, yet none the less to be guarded against. "Hildebrand Hundred" was a goodly heritage, and it would have been his had it not been for my fortuitous meeting with Francis Graeme. There were no immediate prospects that Betty would present me with an heir to the property, and I realized guiltily that I had put off the duty of making a will. Suppose that I died intestate and without issue. Betty would have her dower rights, but Thaneford could put in a plausible claim for recognition as next of kin. I made instant resolve that I would see Mr. Eldon on the morrow and erect every possible legal safeguard to conserve Betty's interests. I could rest assured that if Thaneford were able to get enough ready money he would fight for his alleged rights. In the meantime, I could do nothing but let the letter lie where it had fallen. I whistled to Gyp and strode off to the stables. At the corner of the hedge I ventured to look back, and caught just a glimpse of feminine drapery disappearing into the cavernous gloom of the great hall door. So my lady had discovered her loss, and had been prompt in retrieving her property. Very well, but I should certainly call on Mr. Eldon in the morning.

But, as it so often happens, my fine resolutions came to naught, and six hours later I was on my way North, summoned by wire to the bedside of my only living relative, my good Aunt Livy Marston, who had been more than a mother to me for the best part of my life. Dear old lady! She finally won her battle with death, but it was not until nearly three weeks later that the doctors pronounced her to be out of danger, and I was free to return home; to be precise, it was on Monday night, June the twenty-second, that I left for Maryland, arriving at our little station of Crown Ferry late in the afternoon of the following day.

To my surprise Doctor Marcy, with his gig, was waiting for me. One glance at his face was enough. I tried to speak, but a great fear clutched at my throat.

"Betty is perfectly well," said Marcy hastily. "She sends her love, and is expecting you at the 'Hundred.'"

I threw my traveling bag in behind, and climbed to my place at his side; the doctor's whiplash flickered along the blue-roan's broad back, and we were quickly out of earshot, so far as the station loungers were concerned.

"Who is it then?" I asked.

"Eunice Trevor."

"Yes."

"She died day before yesterday--suddenly."

"An accident?"

"She was found dead, sitting in the library at the big, flat-topped desk," and Doctor Marcy shot me a sharp glance from the remote corner of his eye.

"You mean that her death recalls the mystery of Francis Graeme's taking off?"

"Just that."

"Go on and tell me the whole story, doctor. There's no need for us to beat about the bush."

"But it's so little I have to tell," protested Marcy. "The bare facts are these:"

"I was coming back from Lynn Saturday, and, on passing your gate, I thought I would drive in and ask Betty for a cup of tea. Lucky I did so, for I found her in a great state of mind. It seems that early in the morning Eunice had shut herself up in the library on the plea of doing some writing. She did not appear in the dining room at one o'clock, the luncheon hour, and Effingham reported that the door was locked on the inside. He had knocked repeatedly without getting any reply.

"Well, you can understand how all this recalled to Betty the peculiar circumstances surrounding Graeme's death. And the servants were scared out of their very wits; you know by this time the psychological vagaries of the African mind.

"There was only one thing to do. I had Effingham produce his master-key, and the door was opened. The room seemed to be in perfect order--absolutely no signs of a struggle of any kind. When I passed the screen--that same leather screen--I saw the girl. She was sitting in the swivel-chair, but her head had fallen forward on the table. The body was still warm, but she was stone dead."

"Any marks of violence?" I asked, thinking of the wound on Francis Graeme's forehead.

"None whatever."

"When did all this happen?"

"To-day is Monday the twenty-second. As I told you, the day was Saturday the twentieth. By the way, you never received Betty's telegram?"

"No, it must have reached Bangor just after I left. Probably, it never occurred to Aunt Livy to have it relayed to me on the train."

"No great matter. There was nothing to be done but to put the poor girl decently away."

"You mean that you've had the funeral?"

"Yes, this morning. We could get no word of you, and I rather pushed it on Betty's account."

"Was there an autopsy?"

"I couldn't see any reason for it. The general indications were those of cerebral hemorrhage, and I had no hesitation in giving apoplexy as the cause of death. Yes, I know I changed my mind about Graeme, but in this case there could be no doubt about it."

"She seemed to be in excellent general health," I remarked. "Had you ever noticed any premonitory signs--you know what I am trying to say?"

"I never had Miss Trevor as a patient," said Marcy, "and so I can't give any definite opinion."

"But you wouldn't put her down--I mean on the strength of your general observation--as predisposed to that sort of thing?"

"No, I shouldn't."

"You said virtually the same thing about my Cousin Francis."

"I admit it. Still in that case the presence of an external wound gave ample justification for going further."

"Just one or two more questions. Was the postern-door closed?"

"Tight as a safety vault. You and Betty have the only keys in existence that unlock it."

"How about the pridellas in the windows--the little ventilating apertures?"

"They were all shut, too. Afterwards I spoke to Warriner about that very point, and he confirmed my impression."

"Warriner!"

"He arrived at the 'Hundred' very soon after I did. I believe they were going horseback riding."

An unworthy thought crossed my mind, but I did my best to stamp it out of existence. Perhaps Betty had been feeling lonely during my long absence from home--perhaps.

"There's one thing more," continued the doctor. "Eunice had been writing, and there were a number of sheets of MS. lying on the desk. Betty had them sealed up, pending your return."

"Nothing has been heard of John Thaneford, I suppose?"

"Not that I know of."

I relapsed into silence, and presently we were at the house. Betty was waiting for me on the portico, and behind her loomed up the tall figure of Chalmers Warriner. I took my dear girl in my arms, and the tears came speedily to her relief; after all, Eunice Trevor had been her cousin and childhood playmate.

Betty went to her room, and Doctor Marcy had to keep a professional engagement. Warriner and I had a whiskey-and-soda apiece, and over it discussed the meager details of the distressing occurrence.

"Darker than ever," I remarked, when he had finished with his version of the affair.

"It does look that way," he admitted. "Understand, there is no evidence of suicide."

"So Marcy said."

"Her written statement may shed some light."

"You had better stay to dinner," I suggested, "and go over it with us."

Warriner assented with such friendly frankness that I felt a little ashamed of my somewhat perfunctory invitation. But perhaps he had not noticed the lack of cordiality in my voice. At any rate, he stayed, and the dinner passed off tolerably enough. After dessert I proposed an adjournment to the library for coffee, but Betty objected. "I couldn't sit in that room," she protested earnestly. So we compromised on the big living room on the left of the hall as one enters. I took the packet Betty handed me, and broke the seal. A dozen or more sheets of note-paper, written in pencil, fell out.

"It's a rather difficult handwriting," said Betty, "and I suppose I'm more familiar with it than either of you men." So Warriner and I lit our cigars and prepared to listen.