The Affair Next Door (34 page)

"No! no!" She started up, and her accents betrayed terror and anguish,
"I do not want them; I cannot bear to see them; they do not belong to
me
; they belong to
them
."

"To
them
? Whom do you mean by them?" queried Mr. Gryce, insinuatingly.

"The—the Van Burnams. Is not that the name? Oh, do not make me talk; I
am so weak! Only take the rings back."

"I will, child, I will." Mr. Gryce's voice was more than fatherly now,
it was tender, really and sincerely tender. "I will take them back; but
to which of the brothers shall I return them? To"—he hesitated
softly—"to Franklin or to Howard?"

I expected to hear her respond, his manner was so gentle and apparently
sincere. But though feverish and on the verge of wildness, she had still
some command over herself, and after giving him a look, the intensity
of which called out a corresponding expression on his face, she faltered
out:

"I—I don't care; I don't know either of the gentlemen; but to the one
you call Howard, I think."

The pause which followed was filled by the tap-tap of Mr. Gryce's
fingers on his knee.

"That is the one who is in custody," he observed at last. "The other,
that is Franklin, has gone scot-free thus far, I hear."

No answer from her close-shut lips.

He waited.

Still no answer.

"If you do not know either of these gentlemen," he insinuated at last,
"how did you come to leave the rings at their office?"

"I knew their names—I inquired my way—It is all a dream now. Please,
please do not ask me questions. O doctor! do you not see I cannot bear
it?"

He smiled—I never could smile like that under any circumstances—and
softly patted her hand.

"I see it makes you suffer," he acknowledged, "but I must make you
suffer in order to do you any good. If you would tell me all you know
about these rings—"

She passionately turned away her head.

"I might hope to restore you to health and happiness. You know with what
they are associated?"

She made a slight motion.

"And that they are an invaluable clue to the murderer of Mrs. Van
Burnam?"

Another motion.

"How then, my child, did
you
come to have them?"

Her head, which was rolling to and fro on the pillow, stopped and she
gasped, rather than uttered:

"I was
there
."

He knew this, yet it was terrible to hear it from her lips; she was so
young and had such an air of purity and innocence. But more heartrending
yet was the groan with which she burst forth in another moment, as if
impelled by conscience to unburden herself from some overwhelming load:

"I took them; I could not help it; but I did not keep them; you know
that I did not keep them. I am no thief, doctor; whatever I am, I am no
thief."

"Yes, yes, I see that. But why take them, child? What were you doing in
that house, and whom were you with?"

She threw up her arms, but made no reply.

"Will you not tell?" he urged.

A short silence, then a low "No," evidently wrung from her by the
deepest anguish.

Mr. Gryce heaved a sigh; the struggle was likely to be a more serious
one than he had anticipated.

"Miss Oliver," said he, "more facts are known in relation to this affair
than you imagine. Though unsuspected at first, it has secretly been
proven that the man who accompanied the woman into the house where the
crime took place, was
Franklin
Van Burnam."

A low gasp from the bed, and that was all.

"You know this to be correct, don't you, Miss Oliver?"

"O must you ask?" She was writhing now, and I thought he must desist out
of pure compassion. But detectives are made out of very stern stuff, and
though he looked sorry he went inexorably on.

"Justice and a sincere desire to help you, force me, my child. Were you
not the woman who entered Mr. Van Burnam's house at midnight with this
man?"

"I entered the house."

"At midnight?"

"Yes."

"And with this man?"

Silence.

"You do not speak, Miss Oliver."

Again silence.

"It was Franklin who was with you at the Hotel D—?"

She uttered a cry.

"And it was Franklin who connived at your change of clothing there, and
advised or allowed you to dress yourself in a new suit from Altman's?"

"Oh!" she cried again.

"Then why should it not have been he who accompanied you to the
Chinaman's, and afterwards took you in a second hack to the house in
Gramercy Park?"

"Known, known, all known!" was her moan.

"Sin and crime cannot long remain hidden in this world, Miss Oliver. The
police are acquainted with all your movements from the moment you left
the Hotel D—. That is why I have compassion on you. I wish to save
you from the consequences of a crime you saw committed, but in which you
took no hand."

"O," she exclaimed in one involuntary burst, as she half rose to her
knees, "if you could save me from appearing in the matter at all! If you
would let me run away—"

But Mr. Gryce was not the man to give her hope on any such score.

"Impossible, Miss Oliver. You are the only person who can witness for
the guilty. If
I
should let you go, the police would not. Then why not
tell at once whose hand drew the hat-pin from your hat and—"

"Stop!" she shrieked; "stop! you kill me! I cannot bear it! If you bring
that moment back to my mind I shall go mad! I feel the horror of it
rising in me now! Be still! I pray you, for God's sake, to be still!"

This was mortal anguish; there was no acting in this. Even he was
startled by the emotion he had raised, and sat for a moment without
speaking. Then the necessity of providing against all further mistakes
by fixing the guilt where it belonged, drove him on again, and he said:

"Like many another woman before you, you are trying to shield a guilty
man at your own expense. But it is useless, Miss Oliver; the truth
always comes to light. Be advised, then, and make a confidant of one who
understands you better than you think."

But she would not listen to this.

"No one understands me. I do not understand myself. I only know that I
shall make a confidant of no one; that I shall never speak." And turning
from him, she buried her head in the bedclothes.

To most men her tone and the action which accompanied it would have been
final. But Mr. Gryce possessed great patience. Waiting for just a moment
till she seemed more composed, he murmured gently:

"Not if you must suffer more from your silence than from speaking? Not
if men—I do not mean myself, child, for I am your friend—will think
that
you
are to blame for the death of the woman whom you saw fall
under a cruel stab, and whose rings you have?"

"
I!
" Her horror was unmistakable; so were her surprise, her terror,
and her shame, but she added nothing to the word she had uttered, and he
was forced to say again:

"The world, and by that I mean both good people and bad, will believe
all this.
He
will let them believe all this. Men have not the devotion
of women."

"Alas! alas!" It was a murmur rather than a cry, and she trembled so the
bed shook visibly under her. But she made no response to the entreaty in
his look and gesture, and he was compelled to draw back unsatisfied.

When a few heavy minutes had passed, he spoke again, this time in a tone
of sadness.

"Few men are worth such sacrifices, Miss Oliver, and a criminal never.
But a woman is not moved by that thought. She should be moved by this,
however. If either of these brothers is to blame in this matter,
consideration for the guiltless one should lead you to mention the name
of the guilty."

But even this did not visibly affect her.

"I shall mention no names," said she.

"A sign will answer."

"I shall make no sign."

"Then Howard must go to his trial?"

A gasp, but no words.

"And Franklin proceed on his way undisturbed?"

She tried not to answer, but the words would come. Pray God! I may never
see such a struggle again.

"That is as God wills. I can do nothing in the matter." And she sank
back crushed and wellnigh insensible.

Mr. Gryce made no further effort to influence her.

"She is more unfortunate than wicked," was Mr. Gryce's comment as we
stepped into the hall. "Nevertheless, watch her closely, for she is in
just the mood to do herself a mischief. In an hour, or at the most two,
I shall have a woman here to help you. You can stay till then?"

"All night, if you say so."

"That you must settle with Miss Althorpe. As soon as Miss Oliver is up I
shall have a little scheme to propose, by means of which I hope to
arrive at the truth of this affair. I must know which of these two men
she is shielding."

"Then you think she did not kill Mrs. Van Burnam herself?"

"I think the whole matter one of the most puzzling mysteries that has
ever come to the notice of the New York police. We are sure that the
murdered woman was Mrs. Van Burnam, that this girl was present at her
death, and that she availed herself of the opportunity afforded by that
death to make the exchange of clothing which has given such a
complicated twist to the whole affair. But beyond these facts, we know
little more than that it was Franklin Van Burnam who took her to the
Gramercy Park house, and Howard who was seen in that same vicinity some
two or four hours later. But on which of these two to fix the
responsibility of Mrs. Van Burnam's death, is the question."

"She had a hand in it herself," I persisted; "though it may have been
without evil intent. No man ever carried that thing through without
feminine help. To this opinion I shall stick, much as this girl draws
upon my sympathies."

"I shall not try to persuade you to the contrary. But the point is to
find out how much help, and to whom it was given."

"And your scheme for doing this?"

"Cannot be carried out till she is on her feet again. So cure her, Miss
Butterworth, cure her. When she can go down-stairs, Ebenezer Gryce will
be on the scene to test his little scheme."

I promised to do what I could, and when he was gone, I set diligently to
work to soothe the child, as he had called her, and get her in trim for
the delicate meal which had been sent up. And whether it was owing to a
change in my own feelings, or whether the talk with Mr. Gryce had so
unnerved her that any womanly ministration was welcome, she responded
much more readily to my efforts than ever before, and in a little while
lay in so calm and grateful a mood that I was actually sorry to see the
nurse when she came. Hoping that something might spring from an
interview with Miss Althorpe whereby my departure from the house might
be delayed, I descended to the library, and was fortunate enough to find
the mistress of the house there. She was sorting invitations, and looked
anxious and worried.

"You see me in a difficulty, Miss Butterworth. I had relied on Miss
Oliver to oversee this work, as well as to assist me in a great many
other details, and I don't know of any one whom I can get on short
notice to take her place. My own engagements are many and—"

"Let me help you," I put in, with that cheerfulness her presence
invariably inspires. "I have nothing pressing calling me home, and for
once in my life I should like to take an active part in wedding
festivities. It would make me feel quite young again."

"But—" she began.

"Oh," I hastened to say, "you think I would be more of a hindrance to
you than a help; that I would do the work, perhaps, but in my own way
rather than in yours. Well, that would doubtless have been true of me a
month since, but I have learned a great deal in the last few weeks,—you
will not ask me how,—and now I stand ready to do your work in your way,
and to take a great deal of pleasure in it too."

"Ah, Miss Butterworth," she exclaimed, with a burst of genuine feeling
which I would not have lost for the world, "I always knew that you had a
kind heart; and I am going to accept your offer in the same spirit in
which it is made."

So that was settled, and with it the possibility of my spending another
night in this house.

At ten o'clock I stole away from the library and the delightful company
of Mr. Stone, who had insisted upon sharing my labors, and went up to
Miss Oliver's room. I met the nurse at the door.

"You want to see her," said she. "She's asleep, but does not rest very
easily. I don't think I ever saw so pitiful a case. She moans
continually, but not with physical pain. Yet she seems to have courage
too; for now and then she starts up with a loud cry. Listen."

I did so, and this is what I heard:

"I do not want to live; doctor, I do not want to live; why do you try to
make me better?"

"That is what she is saying all the time. Sad, isn't it?"

I acknowledged it to be so, but at the same time wondered if the girl
were not right in wishing for death as a relief from her troubles.

Early the next morning I inquired at her door again. Miss Oliver was
better. Her fever had left her, and she wore a more natural look than at
any time since I had seen her. But it was not an untroubled one, and it
was with difficulty I met her eyes when she asked if they were coming
for her that day, and if she could see Miss Althorpe before she left. As
she was not yet able to leave her bed I could easily answer her first
question, but I knew too little of Mr. Gryce's intentions to be able to
reply to the second. But I was easy with this suffering woman, very
easy, more easy than I ever supposed I could be with any one so
intimately associated with crime.

She seemed to accept my explanations as readily as she already had my
presence, and I was struck again with surprise as I considered that my
name had never aroused in her the least emotion.