The Filigree Ball, Anna Katharine Green [best biographies to read TXT] 📗

did that night, but I was led into it by degrees, and I am sure I beg the lady’s pardon.” And then she went on to relate how, after she had seen Mrs. Jeffrey leave the house, she went into her room with the intention of putting it to rights. As this was no more than her duty, no fault could be found with her; but she owned that when she had finished this task and removed all evidence of Mrs. Jeffrey’s frenzied condition, she had no business to linger at the table turning over the letters she found lying there.

Here the coroner stopped her and made some inquiries in regard to these letters, but as they seemed to be ordinary epistles from friends and quite foreign to the investigation, he allowed her to proceed.

Her cheeks were burning now, for she had found herself obliged to admit that she had read enough of these letters to be sure that they had no reference to the quarrel then pending between her mistress and Mr. Jeffrey. Her eyes fell and she looked seriously distressed as she went on to say that she was as conscious then as now of having no business with these papers; so conscious, indeed, that when she heard Miss Tuttle’s step at the door, her one idea was to hide herself.

That she could stand and face that lady never so much as occurred to her. Her own guilty consciousness made her cheeks too hot for her to wish to meet an eye which had never rested on her any too kindly; so noticing how straight the curtains fell over one of the windows on the opposite side of the room, she dashed toward it and slipped in out of sight just as Miss Tuttle came in. This window was one seldom used, owing to the fact that it overlooked an adjoining wall, so she had no fear of Miss Tuttle’s approaching it. Consequently, she could stand there quite at her ease, and, as the curtains in falling behind her had not come quite together, she really could not help seeing just what that lady did.

Here the witness paused with every appearance of looking for some token of disapprobation from the crowd.

But she encountered nothing there but eager anxiety for her to proceed, so without waiting for the coroner’s question, she added in so many words:

“She went first to the book-shelves”

We had expected it; but yet a general movement took place, and a few suppressed exclamations could be heard.

“And what did she do there?”

“Took down a book, after looking carefully up and down the shelves.”

“What color of book?”

“A green one with red figures on it. I could see the cover plainly as she took it down.”

“Like this one?”

“Exactly like that one.”

“And what did she do with this book?”

“Opened it, but not to read it. She was too quick in closing it for that.”

“Did she take the book away?”

“No; she put it back on the shelf.”

“After opening and closing it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see whether she put anything into the book?”

“I can not swear that she did; but then her back was to me, and I could not have seen it if she had.”

The implied suggestion caused some excitement, but the coroner, frowning on this, pressed the girl to continue, asking if Miss Tuttle left the room immediately after turning from the book-shelves. Loretta replied no; that, on the contrary, she stood for some minutes near them, gazing, in what seemed like a great distress of mind, straight upon the floor; after which she moved in an agitated way and with more than one anxious look behind her into the adjoining room where she paused before a large bureau. As this bureau was devoted entirely to Mr. Jeffrey’s use, Loretta experienced some surprise at seeing his wife’s sister approach it in so stealthy a manner. Consequently she was watching with all her might, when this young lady opened the upper drawer and, with very evident emotion, thrust her hand into it.

What she took out, or whether she took out anything, this spy upon her movements could not say, for when Loretta heard the drawer being pushed back into place she drew the curtains close, perceiving that Miss Tuttle would have to face this window in coming back. However, she ventured upon one other peep through them just as that lady was leaving the room, and remembered as if it were yesterday how clay-white her face looked, and how she held her left hand pressed close against the folds of her dress. It was but a few minutes after this that Miss Tuttle left the house.

As we all knew what was kept in that drawer, the conclusion was obvious. Whatever excuse Miss Tuttle might give for going into her sister’s room at this time, but one thought, one fear, or possibly one hope, could have taken her to Mr. Jeffrey’s private drawer. She wished to see if his pistol was still there, or if it had been taken away by her sister, - a revelation of the extreme point to which her thoughts had flown at this crisis, and one which effectually contradicted her former statement that she had been conscious of no alarm in behalf of her sister and had seen her leave the house without dread or suspicion of evil.

The temerity which had made it possible to associate the name of such a man as Francis Jeffrey with an outrageous crime having been thus in a measure explained, the coroner recalled that gentleman and again thoroughly surprised the gaping public.

Had the witness accompanied his wife to the Moore house?

“No”

Had he met her there by any appointment he had made with her or which had been made for them both by some third person?

“No”

Had he been at the Moore house on the night of the eleventh at any time previous to the hour when he was brought there by the officials?

“No.”

Would he glance at this impression of certain fingertips which had been left in the dust of the southwest chamber mantel?

He had already noted them.

Now would he place his left hand on the paper and see -

“It is not necessary,” he burst forth, in great heat. “I own to those marks. That is, I have no doubt they were made by my hand” Here, unconsciously, his eyes flew to the member thus referred to, as if conscious that in some way it had proved a traitor to him; after which his gaze traveled slowly my way, with an indescribable question in it which roused my conscience and made the trick by which I had got the impression of his hand seem less of a triumph than I had heretofore considered it. The next minute he was answering the coroner under oath, very much as he had answered him in the unofficial interview at which I had been present.

“I acknowledge having been in the Moore house and even having been in its southwest chamber, but not at the time supposed. It was on the previous night.” He went on to relate how, being in a nervous condition and having the key to this old dwelling in his pocket, he had amused himself by going through its dilapidated interior. All of this made a doubtful impression which was greatly emphasized when, in reply to the inquiry as to where he got the light to see by, he admitted that he had come upon a candle in an upstairs room and made use of that; though he could not remember what he had done with this candle afterward, and looked dazed and quite at sea, till the coroner suggested that he might have carried it into the closet of the room where his fingers had left their impression in the dust of the mantel-shelf. Then he broke down like a man from whom some prop is suddenly snatched and looked around for a seat. This was given him, while a silence, the most dreadful I ever experienced, held every one there in check. But he speedily rallied and, with the remark that he was a little confused in regard to the incidents of that night, waited with a wild look in his averted eye for the coroner’s next question.

Unhappily for him it was in continuation of the same subject. Had he bought candles or not at the grocer’s around the corner? Yes, he had. Before visiting the house? Yes. Had he also bought matches? Yes. What kind? Common safety matches. Had he noticed when he got home that the box he had just bought was half empty? No. Nevertheless he had used many matches in going through this old house, had he not? Possibly. To light his way upstairs, perhaps? It might be. Had he not so used them? Yes. Why had he done so, if he had candles in his pocket, which were so much easier to hold and so much more lasting than a lighted match? Ah, he could not say; he did not know; his mind was confused. He was awake when he should have been asleep. It was all a dream to him.

The coroner became still more persistent.

“Did you enter the library on your solitary visit to this old house?”

“I believe so.”

“What did you do there?”

“Pottered around. I don’t remember.”

“What light did you use?”

“A candle, I think.”

“You must know.”

“Well, I had a candle; it was in a candelabrum.”

“What candle and what candelabrum?”

“The same I used upstairs, of course”

“And you can not remember where you left this candle and candelabrum when you finally quitted the house?”

“No. I wasn’t thinking about candles.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“The rupture with my wife and the bad name of the house I was in.”

“Oh! and this was on Tuesday night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How can you prove this to us?”

 

“I can not” “But you swear -”

“I swear that it was Tuesday night, the night immediately preceding the one when - when my wife’s death robbed me of all earthly happiness.”

It was feelingly uttered, and several faces lightened; but the coroner repeating: “Is there no way you can prove this to our satisfaction?” the shadow settled again, and on no head more perceptibly than on that of the unfortunate witness.

It was now late in the day and the atmosphere of the room had become stifling; but no one seemed to be conscious of any discomfort, and a general gasp of excitement passed through the room when the coroner, taking out a box from under a pile of papers, disclosed to the general gaze the famous white ribbon with its dainty bow, lying on top of the fatal pistol.

That this special feature, the most interesting one of all connected with this tragedy, should have been kept so long in reserve and brought out just at this time, struck many of Mr. Jeffrey’s closest friends as unnecessarily dramatic; but when the coroner, lifting out the ribbon, remarked tentatively, “You know this ribbon?” we were more struck by the involuntary cry of surprise which rose from some one in the crowd about the door, than by the look with which Mr. Jeffrey eyed it and made the necessary reply. That cry had something more than nervous excitement in it. Identifying the person who had uttered it as a certain busy little woman well known in town, I sent an officer to watch her; then recalled my attention to the point the coroner was attempting to make. He had forced Mr. Jeffrey to recognize the ribbon as the one which had fastened the pistol to his wife’s arm; now he asked whether, in his opinion, a woman could tie such a bow to