Chapter 17

PRISON DOORS

As I recall the scene that brilliant winter morning in the Page library, one detail stands out so much more prominently than all the rest, that the really important aspects are quite overshadowed in my memory, and notwithstanding the surprising nature of Alfred Fluette's deportment, I am obliged to pause and group them in my own mind in order to produce a reasonably correct portrayal of what actually transpired. But one's memory is apt to play strange and unaccountable tricks, and mine is no exception. The best mental image I can recall is distorted, all out of drawing, as the artists say; I can see only Belle Fluette.

After the accusation fell from the foreman's lips, I quite suddenly became aware of the fact that she was standing rigidly erect, one hand strained to her bosom, the other clenched tightly against her cheek. Every vestige of color had flown from her face, leaving it as white as marble.

But her eyes! It is her eyes that still haunt me. They burned with a light of despair so profound that no mere human note could even feebly yield a hint of it; and behind the despair, plucking and tearing at her heart-strings, lay a misery unutterable. She alone had remained serenely confident of the outcome, and now, being the least prepared for it, the shock to her high-strung susceptibilities was more keenly poignant than human flesh could endure. She presented the appearance of one stunned, of one beaten and buffeted to stupefaction, yet through it all still sensible of an anguish that wrenched her very soul.

There was no outcry, no spoken word; but in a moment a tremor ran over her slender form, her knees gave way, and with one last desperate effort she tried to reach Maillot. Even as she turned to him, before a move could be made to sustain her, she tottered and fell prone upon her face. One extended hand clutched once at the young man's foot, then relaxed and grew still. It was as if her last conscious thought had been governed by a flitting impulse to seek the support of even so mean an assurance of his presence.

In a flash the lover was kneeling at his sweetheart's side, pressing her white face to his bosom in a wild embrace. He called to her frantically, coaxed her with endearments, wholly oblivious of his shocked audience. He assured her in choked, incoherent phrases that all was well with him; but he spoke to deaf ears.

Dr. De Breen, direct and practical, brought him to his senses with a sharp command.

Maillot reluctantly yielded Belle to Genevieve and the doctor. Not for a moment did a thought of his own trouble enter his head, I am sure, and he did not remove his tense look of anxiety from her face until Dr. De Breen convincingly declared that she was only in a swoon.

"Best thing for her, just now," said he, crisply; "she can't think. Furthermore, she needs a sedative to keep her from thinking for a while." Then to her father:

"Here, you, you take her home on the double-quick. Have in your physician. Let her cousin get her in bed."

It is likely that Alfred Fluette had not been addressed for many a day with such cavalier brusqueness, and overpowering indeed must have been his emotions now that he did not notice the doctor's abrupt manner. Even his daughter's condition seemed to produce only a momentary impression upon him; for by the time Maillot and Dr. De Breen had conveyed the limp girl to a divan, where Genevieve continued to minister to her, he was excitedly striving to catch the doctor's attention.

"Listen to me, sir," he commanded, his voice trembling, "you are the one in authority here; this young man must _not_ be remanded to jail."

Dr. De Breen stopped short and fixed him with a look of surprise. And I was not a little surprised myself. Knowing how bitterly opposed he had been to Maillot's attentions to Miss Belle, what was I to think? Did the manner in which the shock had prostrated her--had literally felled her to the floor--open his eyes to the depth of their attachment, and at the same time touch his heart with pity? His concern could not have been more pronounced if the young fellow had been his own son placed in similar jeopardy. Or--and here was my predominating thought--did he have the best of reasons for _knowing_ that Maillot was innocent?

During the brief pause in which Dr. De Breen coolly surveyed him--for once the perverse glasses observing their proper function--he recovered something of his equipoise.

"See here, Doctor," he went on more calmly, "I am not familiar enough with the proper procedure in--er--in criminal cases to know just what I want to say. But is the next step imprisonment for Mr. Maillot?"

"It is," snapped the doctor.

"Then I will go his bond--in any amount; but he must not go to--"

"My dear sir," Dr. De Breen interrupted, with asperity, "a prisoner under charge of first degree murder cannot be admitted to bail; not even by the court having jurisdiction of his case, much less I. The police are now responsible for the young man's movements."

He deliberately turned his back upon the millionaire speculator, and strode away. Years after that scene, Dr. De Breen confided to me that Fluette had given him the impression that he was hinting at a bribe.

The words, however, seemed to strike Mr. Fluette like a physical blow. He winced perceptibly, and his face worked with agitation. But he rose splendidly to the occasion. In a second or so his customary commanding dignity returned, and his keen eyes flashed with resolution and defiance. He wheeled upon Maillot at the instant that much distressed young man was persuaded by Genevieve to leave Belle's side.

"Maillot," said he, in a firm voice, "I sincerely regret any hard feelings I may have entertained for you in the past. You are not only a courageous young man, but an innocent one, and one, therefore, that is being made to suffer a grievous wrong. I wish to say so here publicly; I wish, too, to say publicly that I mean to see that you have at your disposal the best legal talent procurable."

Maillot's reception of this proffer was peculiar. He looked the man of money squarely in the eyes for an instant; then his lips twisted into a mocking smile. He nodded his head ever so slightly, but the movement was unmistakably a curt rejection.

"Thank you," he said dryly, his voice low and even. "But I intend getting out of this scrape myself, Mr. Fluette; I don't wish to occasion you any future embarrassment. Please don't mistake my meaning."

Fluette made no further effort, and it was impossible to determine just how the rebuff--it was no less--affected him; he had himself too well in hand, now. He began preparations for conveying home his still unconscious daughter, and before they departed I contrived to have a private word with Genevieve. Her face was very tragic.

"I must see you alone--as soon as possible," I said hurriedly.

"I can't leave Belle," she whispered. "What is it?"

"My first request from my lieutenant," I chided, smiling down at her.

"Don't!" she pleaded. "I shall come. Where? When?"

"Dear me, no. I'll do the coming; it's only 'when'?"

"To-morrow?" she suggested doubtfully. "You know, we 're all so upset. And Belle--" The dear girl nearly broke down. "Yes, do come," she murmured tearfully, "as early as you can; everything depends upon you, now."

I caught her hand. "Please don't worry," I whispered; "everything will come out right. I can't bear to see you suffer. Will eight o'clock be too early?"

"No."

"I 'll not say 'Be brave,' for you 're the bravest girl in the world; but please, please don't fret and worry. Here 's your coachman. Good-bye."

She smiled wanly. "I sha'n't," she said. "Good-bye--till to-morrow morning."

She pressed my hand and ran lightly out.

Maillot now came over to where I was standing. He was very pale, his face was drawn with lines of suffering (more for Miss Belle than on his own account, beyond doubt), but his manner was quite composed. In fact, his demeanor was more subdued--chastened, as it were--than I had seen it at any time during our brief acquaintance.

"Well, it's over," he remarked bitterly.

"Don't be an ass," I returned. "If you are innocent, nothing worse can happen."

He smiled whimsically, quickly taking me up.

"And if guilty, the worst is yet to come, eh? Well, at any rate, I 'm your prisoner."

"Not necessarily mine," I said.

"By preference. I can't stand for those roughneck cops, and Stodger as a custodian is a joke. I 'd be too strongly tempted to dump him into the first handy snow-drift, and cut loose. I don't suppose you 'll insist on any rot about handcuffs and all that sort of thing?"

Notwithstanding his pretence of humorous indifference, there was a question in his tone, and he peered at me a bit anxiously. I grinned.

"I don't know," I said. "I won't take any chances on being dumped into a snow-drift."

"Rot! You know I could n't if I wanted to."

"Mr. Fluette could have helped you, Maillot."

I looked at him narrowly. He shrugged his shoulders, merely, and produced and lighted a cigarette.

"Let's go," he said, flipping the match away.

Stodger was left on guard at the Page place. My prisoner and I walked to a car and proceeded to police headquarters.

His attitude, naturally enough, was one of extreme dejection; nevertheless I tried to cheer him up--vainly--and when opportunity offered I also tried to get some light upon the ring episode.

"It does n't do for me to express an opinion one way or another as to your probable guilt or innocence, Maillot," I said at one time; "but I can tell you this much for your encouragement.

"Since the murder, several developments have turned up which convince me that there 's a deal more in the crime than either you or I can at present conceive. You can keep it in mind that I see more work ahead than I did immediately after quizzing you and Burke Wednesday morning. . . . By the way, that ring you slipped upon your finger this morning, whose is it?"

For a second he frowned with an air of trying to recall the incident. Suddenly his face cleared.

"Did you notice that?" he returned, with perfect composure. "It's mine--was my mother's wedding ring."

I was watching him intently. He met my regard with a level look.

"In the habit of wearing it?" I asked.

"Sometimes."

"See here," I came to the point with abrupt directness. "You appreciate quite as much as I do the significance of that broad band of gold on the middle finger of your right hand. Why did you put it there at such a time?"

He sat silent.

"You 've become mighty close-mouthed all at once," I sharply urged.

He gave me a little half-smile, and glanced away.

"By advice of counsel I refuse to talk," said he, quietly.

"If you are the counsel, you have a fool for a client--and _vice versa_," I retorted. "I suppose, too, that you refuse any assistance that I--"

Instantly his assumed indifference vanished.

"By no means," stopping me with considerable warmth. "If there 's any way out of this rotten mess it's you that must get me out. My hands are literally tied, now. And--Swift," he hesitated; his face clouded and his voice suddenly dropped, "I--I simply can't say anything more, old chap."

"So," I quietly observed, "you too are worried about Fluette."

He started as if stung.

"My God, Swift!" he began, and stopped. He sat staring at me a moment in utter dismay, then his disturbed look wandered to a window.

"You 're too devilish sharp," he muttered.

"Lucky for you that I am," retorted I, cheerfully. "This is a bad tangle that we 're caught in, Maillot."

He said nothing more. By the time we reached our destination he was prepared to enter philosophically upon his period of confinement, whether it should prove long or short. As I turned to depart I noticed that he was following me with a wistful look.

"I 'll see that you are kept posted about the young lady," I told him; which elicited a deep sigh of relief and a fervent word of thanks.

Again I was preparing to leave him, the turnkey standing by and impatiently jingling the ring of big brass keys which was suspended from his arm, when the prisoner called me back. He searched my eyes earnestly.

"Swift," he began, "as I said before, I 'm helpless now to fight for myself. But I want to warn you against that devil Burke. I know nothing further than that he has been in the habit of visiting Mr. Fluette and of being closeted with him for hours at a time. The subject of those long conferences Mr. Fluette has kept strictly to himself, evading all of Belle's inquiries and attempts to make him talk about the fellow. Burke is repulsive to her--for which you can't blame her--and her curiosity over a man like him and a man like her father having anything in common is quite natural. It is odd, you know.

"That's not what I intended saying, though." He paused and eyed me keenly an instant. "If anything turns up that drags Mr. Fluette into this business, you will find that Burke's the one who has tangled him. Watch Burke."

Then the heavy steel door clanged to between us.