That Affair at Elizabeth, Burton Egbert Stevenson [chromebook ebook reader .txt] 📗

broke in testily. "It was Harriet Kingdon." CHAPTER XXII Light at Last!

I sank back into my chair, overcome by such a flood of relief and thankfulness that I could not speak. But Dr. Schuyler laboured under no such disability.

"I cannot understand," he said, and I saw by his flushed face that he was genuinely angry, "how you could have got the preposterous idea that Marcia Lawrence was connected in any way with this affair. Any sane man would have seen the utter absurdity of such a theory."

"I see it now," I assented hoarsely.

"Why, Marcia Lawrence could no more be concerned in a thing like that," he went on hotly, "than—than a babe unborn. She could not be concerned in anything wrong, or mean, or criminal. I want you to understand, Mr. Lester, that she's absolutely spotless. If you knew her, I shouldn't need to tell you."

"I've always believed it," I protested. "In my heart of hearts, I've always believed it. We've been fools—we've been trying to make two things fit which didn't fit. We imagined they must fit because they happened so close together. I see now that it was merely a coincidence, and I'm glad from the very bottom of my heart."

"You believed, then, that Miss Lawrence was really concerned in this murder?"

"We thought her the active party in it."

"The active party! But on what grounds?"

"We thought the dead man was her husband—an adventurer who'd lured her into a marriage while she was abroad. You'll remember I mentioned this theory to you the other night."

"Yes, and I told you at the time how ridiculous I thought it."

"I've never wholly believed it," I repeated. "It wasn't mine. But it seemed to fit the facts so perfectly, and when you intimated this afternoon, as I thought, that Miss Lawrence was subject to spells of insanity, I imagined that I understood the whole story."

He sat for a moment silent, regarding me from half-closed eyes; I saw that he was considering whether he should speak or remain silent.

"I hope this mistake has gone no farther," he said, at last.

"No," I answered, and genuinely thankful I was that I could say so. "I kept it absolutely to myself."

He breathed a sigh of relief.

"Then no harm has been done. I'm glad of that. I see that you're glad, too."

"Yes," I said; "I am—more glad than I can say."

"And now that you understand the matter," he continued, "I suppose you see it in a different light?"

"In a different light?"

"At least, you'll hardly advise now that I keep silent?"

"By no means," I asserted heartily. "I think it is clearly your duty to tell all you know. You will absolve Harriet Kingdon from responsibility for her act—as you said, change loathing to pity. Besides, if the dead man deserved death, let the world know it."

"I don't know that he did," corrected my companion; "I know nothing about him."

"But you suspect?" I prompted.

"Perhaps I do," he admitted, "but suspicion uttered is such a deadly thing! What I do know came to me in the way so many things come to a minister. I was asked for advice—I received a confidence——"

He stopped and pondered for a moment.

"I came very near telling you night before last," he continued, "when you were asking me about the Kingdons—telling you, at least, as much as I could without violating that confidence. But on second thought, I did not see that any good would come of it, and so kept silent. Now, circumstances absolve me from any obligation of secrecy and I can speak freely.

"I told you the other evening that John Kingdon had died in an asylum for the insane, and that his family had a hard struggle for existence. After the mother's death, they had no means to maintain a home, and Lucy, who was only a girl, went to the Lawrence house to help her cousin, Ruth Endicott, who was housekeeper there, as I have said. The elder daughter, Harriet, secured a position in New York—I think as governess in a private family. She was called home, some time later, by the illness of her cousin Ruth, whom she took to Florida, where Ruth died. Mr. Lawrence was married soon afterwards, and Lucy Kingdon remained in his house as maid, first to his wife and afterwards to his daughter.

"Harriet Kingdon returned to New York and took up again her work of teaching. About six months later, there was a quarrel of some sort between her and her sister Lucy—a violent quarrel—and they ceased to correspond or hold communication of any kind. Just how long a time elapsed I don't know, but I should judge it was at least three years, when a letter came to Lucy Kingdon from Bloomingdale hospital, stating that her sister had been brought there a year before, violently insane, that she was practically well again and wished to be taken away. Lucy went after her at once and brought her home."

"Home?" I repeated.

"Yes; it was at that time that Mrs. Lawrence gave them the cottage in which they still live. She virtually supported them for some time, until Harriet was able to attend to the household duties, and Lucy to resume her place as maid."

"Was Mr. Lawrence living at the time?"

"Yes; but it was generally understood that he had no part in these benefactions. He was not a charitable man."

"And no reason was ever given for this generosity on Mrs. Lawrence's part?"

"None but her interest in the family. This was only one of her many charities."

I paused for a moment's thought. After all, there was nothing peculiar about it. Mrs. Lawrence would naturally be interested in a family whom she had known so well, and who had suddenly been reduced to such desperate straits.

"Did you ever hear any explanation of Harriet Kingdon's madness?" I asked at last.

"None but that of heredity—and that is an explanation I made to myself. I'm pretty sure that no one here except her sister and Mrs. Lawrence knew that she had been at Bloomingdale."

"Mrs. Lawrence knew it, then?"

"Oh, yes; it was from her I learned the story. She came to me for advice a few months after Harriet Kingdon had been brought home. I don't think she was ever wholly cured. She had slight relapses from time to time, and it was during one of these, rather more violent than usual, that Mrs. Lawrence came to me. I made an excuse for going to see her. But I saw no reason for advising that she be sent to an asylum. I did advise, however, that a specialist be brought down from New York to look at her, and Mrs. Lawrence did this. He also advised against the asylum; he said that rest, and quiet, and freedom from worry would, in time, afford permanent relief. She certainly grew better as time went on, and, though she was always somewhat peculiar, I have regarded her as wholly out of danger of relapse, for several years past."

"And yet," I objected, harking back, "heredity of itself would hardly be sufficient explanation. There must have been something to induce insanity—some shock or grave trouble."

"Yes, I agree with you there. I have a theory, Mr. Lester, which some chance words of yours this afternoon served greatly to strengthen. You remember, you remarked that a recurrence of insanity would be very likely if the circumstances attending it were related in any way to the original cause. My theory is that this man whom Harriet Kingdon killed was the cause of her insanity—that he'd wronged her."

"Yes," I agreed; "yes—and yet, how explain his presence here? If he'd wronged her, he'd hardly seek her again."

"I don't know; there are queer depths in human nature. Unfortunately, I see no way of proving the theory either right or wrong—of putting it to the test; not, at least, until Lucy Kingdon recovers and chooses to speak."

"I think I can put it to the test," I said, "if you'll permit me to lay it before a friend. I must tell you, though, that he's a reporter, and if the theory proves to be the right one, he'll use it."

"I see no objection to that," said Dr. Schuyler, after a moment's thought; "provided, of course, that he doesn't use it unless it's fully proved."

"I can promise that," I said.

"And whether it proves right or wrong, I should like to know."

"You shall, at the first moment. And, by the way," I added, "you were speaking the other evening of Ruth Endicott. There is a rather remarkable portrait belonging to the Kingdons which has her name in the corner."

"Yes; I've seen it."

"Did she really paint it?"

"Oh, I think there's no doubt of that."

"Did she paint anything else?"

"She painted three or four crude portraits for people here in town, but they've long since been banished to the garret—where they belong. She had talent, but she lacked training."

"She interests me, somehow," I said. "I don't know why. Is the portrait a good one?"

"It isn't a portrait—it's rather an impression of her. As an impression, it's very good."

He opened his mouth as though to say something more, then thought better of it.

"You haven't told me yet," he added, as I rose to go, "whether you've heard anything more from Miss Lawrence. To-day's tragedy has so far outdone yesterday's that I nearly forgot to ask you."

"I believe she's out in mid-ocean now," I said, and related briefly the incident of the telegram and of Burr Curtiss's starting in pursuit. "He'll meet her at Liverpool," I concluded, "and they can fight out their battle there."

"Yes," he nodded. "God grant they find it not too bitter."

Godfrey was awaiting me at the hotel, and I told him in detail of Dr. Schuyler's revelation, pointing out at the same time—not without some obvious exultation—how, at a breath, it overthrew his elaborately developed theory.

"Well, we're all liable to make mistakes at times," he said good-humouredly. "Now that we're on the right track, I don't think there'll be much difficulty in working the whole thing out."

"Dr. Schuyler hopes you'll be able to, and so do I—though I don't see just how you're going to do it."

"Oh, I think I'll be able to do it—you see, we've got a starting-point now. But I'll have to go to New York. Won't you come along?"

I was tempted.

"How long will it take?" I asked.

"Not over three or four hours. You ought to get to bed by midnight, and you can come down in the morning for the inquest."

I saw that he wanted me; the temptation was too strong to be resisted.

An hour later we were in the office of the Bloomingsdale asylum.

"It was about twenty years ago that Miss Kingdon was admitted," said Godfrey to the chief physician, whose interest he had enlisted, and who had been busy getting out the records, "and she remained here about a year before she was discharged as cured."

"There oughtn't to be any trouble finding it," said the chief. "In fact, there ought to be a voluminous record of a case like that. Let me see—Kingdon—Kingdon," and he ran his finger down an index. "No, I don't see it—this covers five years."

"Perhaps she was registered under another name," I suggested.

"Yes, that's very likely," Godfrey admitted. "May I see the record, doctor? Perhaps I'll be able to pick her out. Cases that stay here that length of time aren't very common, are they?"

"No; they're rather exceptional; besides, twenty years ago, we hadn't so many as we have to-day."

Godfrey was examining the index.

"If there's no other way, we can sift out the cases which answer in a general way to the one we want, and investigate all of them. But I hope that won't be necessary. Let me see—F—G—H——"

"There was an inquiry the other day about a case which was a good deal like yours—only that was for an Italian woman—a Harriet Parello."

Godfrey's lips were twitching and his finger trembled a little as he ran it down the column of names, but when he spoke, his tone was the most casual.

"Yes," he said, "here she is—Harriet Parello. She was brought here from West Twenty-seventh Street," and he named the number. "Not a very savoury locality, is it, doctor?"

"No; though one can't tell what it was twenty years ago."

"That's true. I don't suppose you remember anything about her?"

"No; I wasn't here at that time."

Godfrey was still running down the column of names, and was seemingly little interested in the Parello case.

"The husband rather impressed me," went on the chief. "Rather a handsome fellow in his day, but now evidently a wreck—and a perfect brute morally—or so I judge."

"What did he want?" inquired Godfrey negligently.

"He wanted to know what had become of her. I thought it peculiar he should have waited so long