The Affair Next Door (8 page)

There was no more to be said; I uttered a calm good-night and hastened
away. By a judicious use of my opportunities I had become much less
ignorant on the all-important topic than when I entered the house.

It was half past eleven when I returned home, a late hour for me to
enter my respectable front door alone. But circumstances had warranted
my escapade, and it was with quite an easy conscience and a cheerful
sense of accomplishment that I went up to my room and prepared to sit
out the half hour before midnight.

I am a comfortable sort of person when alone, and found no difficulty in
passing this time profitably. Being very orderly, as you must have
remarked, I have everything at hand for making myself a cup of tea at
any time of day or night; so feeling some need of refreshment, I set out
the little table I reserve for such purposes and made the tea and sat
down to sip it.

While doing so, I turned over the subject occupying my mind, and
endeavored to reconcile the story told by the clock with my
preconceived theory of this murder; but no reconcilement was possible.
The woman had been killed at twelve, and the clock had fallen at five.
How could the two be made to agree, and which, since agreement was
impossible, should be made to give way, the theory or the testimony of
the clock? Both seemed incontrovertible, and yet one must be false.
Which?

I was inclined to think that the trouble lay with the clock; that I had
been deceived in my conclusions, and that it was not running at the time
of the crime. Mr. Gryce may have ordered it wound, and then have had it
laid on its back to prevent the hands from shifting past the point where
they had stood at the time of the crime's discovery. It was an
unexplainable act, but a possible one; while to suppose that it was
going when the shelves fell, stretched improbability to the utmost,
there having been, so far as we could learn, no one in the house for
months sufficiently dexterous to set so valuable a timepiece; for who
could imagine the scrub-woman engaging in a task requiring such delicate
manipulation.

No! some meddlesome official had amused himself by starting up the
works, and the clue I had thought so important would probably prove
valueless.

There was humiliation in the thought, and it was a relief to me to hear
an approaching carriage just as the clock on my mantel struck twelve.
Springing from my chair, I put out my light and flew to the window.

The coach drew up and stopped next door. I saw a gentleman descend and
step briskly across the pavement to the neighboring stoop. The figure he
presented was not that of the man I had seen enter the night before.

Late as it was when I retired, I was up betimes in the morning—as soon,
in fact, as the papers were distributed. The
Tribune
lay on the stoop.
Eagerly I seized it; eagerly I read it. From its headlines you may judge
what it had to say about this murder:

A STARTLING DISCOVERY IN THE VAN BURNAM MANSION IN GRAMERCY
PARK.

A YOUNG GIRL FOUND THERE, LYING DEAD UNDER AN OVERTURNED
CABINET.

EVIDENCES THAT SHE WAS MURDERED BEFORE IT WAS PULLED DOWN UPON
HER.

THOUGHT BY SOME TO BE MRS. HOWARD VAN BURNAM.

A FEARFUL CRIME INVOLVED IN AN IMPENETRABLE MYSTERY.

WHAT MR. VAN BURNAM SAYS ABOUT IT: HE DOES NOT RECOGNIZE THE
WOMAN AS HIS WIFE.

So, so, it was his wife they were talking about. I had not expected
that. Well! well! no wonder the girls looked startled and concerned. And
I paused to recall what I had heard about Howard Van Burnam's marriage.

It had not been a fortunate one. His chosen bride was pretty enough, but
she had not been bred in the ways of fashionable society, and the other
members of the family had never recognized her. The father, especially,
had cut his son dead since his marriage, and had even gone so far as to
threaten to dissolve the partnership in which they were all involved.
Worse than this, there had been rumors of a disagreement between Howard
and his wife. They were not always on good terms, and opinions differed
as to which was most in fault. So much for what I knew of these two
mentioned parties.

Reading the article at length, I learned that Mrs. Van Burnam was
missing; that she had left Haddam for New York the day before her
husband, and had not since been heard from. Howard was confident,
however, that the publicity given to her disappearance by the papers
would bring immediate news of her.

The effect of the whole article was to raise grave doubts as to the
candor of Mr. Van Burnam's assertions, and I am told that in some of the
less scrupulous papers these doubts were not only expressed, but actual
surmises ventured upon as to the identity between the person whom I had
seen enter the house with the young girl. As for my own name, it was
blazoned forth in anything but a gratifying manner. I was spoken of in
one paper—a kind friend told me this—as the prying Miss Amelia. As if
my prying had not given the police their only clue to the identification
of the criminal.

The New York
World
was the only paper that treated me with any
consideration. That young man with the small head and beady eyes was not
awed by me for nothing. He mentioned me as the clever Miss Butterworth
whose testimony is likely to be of so much value in this very
interesting case.

It was the
World
I handed the Misses Van Burnam when they came
down-stairs to breakfast. It did justice to me and not too much
injustice to him. They read it together, their two heads plunged deeply
into the paper so that I could not watch their faces. But I could see
the sheet shake, and I noticed that their social veneer was not as yet
laid on so thickly that they could hide their real terror and heart-ache
when they finally confronted me again.

"Did you read—have you seen this horrible account?" quavered Caroline,
as she met my eye.

"Yes, and I now understand why you felt such anxiety yesterday. Did you
know your sister-in-law, and do you think she could have been beguiled
into your father's house in that way?"

It was Isabella who answered.

"We never have seen her and know little of her, but there is no telling
what such an uncultivated person as she might do. But that our good
brother Howard ever went in there with her is a lie, isn't it,
Caroline?—a base and malicious lie?"

"Of course it is, of course, of course. You don't think the man you saw
was Howard, do you, dear Miss Butterworth?"

Dear?
O dear!

"I am not acquainted with your brother," I returned. "I have never seen
him but a few times in my life. You know he has not been a very frequent
visitor at your father's house lately."

They looked at me wistfully,
so
wistfully.

"Say it was not Howard," whispered Caroline, stealing up a little nearer
to my side.

"And we will never forget it," murmured Isabella, in what I am obliged
to say was not her society manner.

"I hope to be able to say it," was my short rejoinder, made difficult by
the prejudices I had formed. "When I see your brother, I may be able to
decide at a glance that the person I saw entering your house was not
he."

"Yes, oh, yes. Do you hear that, Isabella? Miss Butterworth will save
Howard yet. O you dear old soul. I could almost love you!"

This was not agreeable to me. I a dear old soul! A term to be applied to
a butter-woman not to a Butterworth. I drew back and their
sentimentalities came to an end. I hope their brother Howard is not the
guilty man the papers make him out to be, but if he is, the Misses Van
Burnam's fine phrase,
We could almost love you
, will not deter me from
being honest in the matter.

Mr. Gryce called early, and I was glad to be able to tell him that the
gentleman who visited him the night before did not recall the impression
made upon me by the other. He received the communication quietly, and
from his manner I judged that it was more or less expected. But who can
be a correct judge of a detective's manner, especially one so foxy and
imperturbable as this one? I longed to ask who his visitor was, but I
did not dare, or rather—to be candid in little things that you may
believe me in great—I was confident he would not tell me, so I would
not compromise my dignity by a useless question.

He went after a five minutes' stay, and I was about to turn my attention
to household affairs, when Franklin came in.

His sisters jumped like puppets to meet him.

"O," they cried, for once thinking and speaking alike, "have you found
her?"

His silence was so eloquent that he did not need to shake his head.

"But you will before the day is out?" protested Caroline.

"It is too early yet," added Isabella.

"I never thought I would be glad to see that woman under any
circumstances," continued the former, "but I believe now that if I saw
her coming up the street on Howard's arm, I should be happy enough to
rush out and—and—"

"Give her a hug," finished the more impetuous Isabella.

It was not what Caroline meant to say, but she accepted the emendation,
with just the slightest air of deprecation. They were both evidently
much attached to Howard, and ready in his trouble to forget and forgive
everything. I began to like them again.

"Have you read the horrid papers?" and "How is papa this morning?" and
"What shall we do to save Howard?" now flew in rapid questions from
their lips; and feeling that it was but natural they should have their
little say, I sat down in my most uncomfortable chair and waited for
these first ebullitions to exhaust themselves.

Instantly Mr. Van Burnam took them by the arm, and led them away to a
distant sofa.

"Are you happy here?" he asked, in what he meant for a very confidential
tone. But I can hear as readily as a deaf person anything which is not
meant for my ears.

"O she's kind enough," whispered Caroline, "but so stingy. Do take us
where we can get something to eat."

"She puts all her money into china! Such plates!—
and so little on
them!
"

At these expressions, uttered with all the emphasis a whisper will
allow, I just hugged myself in my quiet corner. The dear, giddy things!
But they should see, they should see.

"I fear"—it was Mr. Van Burnam who now spoke—"I shall have to take my
sisters from under your kind care to-day. Their father needs them, and
has, I believe, already engaged rooms for them at the Plaza."

"I am sorry," I replied, "but surely they will not leave till they have
had another meal with me. Postpone your departure, young ladies, till
after luncheon, and you will greatly oblige me. We may never meet so
agreeably again."

They fidgeted (which I had expected), and cast secret looks of almost
comic appeal at their brother, but he pretended not to see them, being
disposed for some reason to grant my request. Taking advantage of the
momentary hesitation that ensued, I made them all three my most
conciliatory bow, and said as I retreated behind the portière:

"I shall give my orders for luncheon now. Meanwhile, I hope the young
ladies will feel perfectly free in my house. All that I have is at their
command." And was gone before they could protest.

When I next saw them, they were upstairs in my front room. They were
seated together in the window and looked miserable enough to have a
little diversion. Going to my closet, I brought out a band-box. It
contained my best bonnet.

"Young ladies, what do you think of this?" I inquired, taking the bonnet
out and carefully placing it on my head.

I myself consider it a very becoming article of headgear, but their
eyebrows went up in a scarcely complimentary fashion.

"You don't like it?" I remarked. "Well, I think a great deal of young
girls' taste; I shall send it back to Madame More's to-morrow."

"I don't think much of Madame More," observed Isabella, "and after
Paris—"

"Do you like La Mole better?" I inquired, bobbing my head to and fro
before the mirror, the better to conceal my interest in the venture I
was making.

"I don't like any of them but D'Aubigny," returned Isabella. "She
charges twice what La Mole does—"

Twice! What are these girls' purses made of, or rather their father's!

"But she has the
chic
we are accustomed to see in French millinery. I
shall
never
go anywhere else."

"We were recommended to her in Paris," put in Caroline, more languidly.
Her interest was only half engaged by this frivolous topic.

"But did you never have one of La Mole's hats?" I pursued, taking down
a hand-mirror, ostensibly to get the effect of my bonnet in the back,
but really to hide my interest in their unconscious faces.

"Never!" retorted Isabella. "I would not patronize the thing."

"Nor you?" I urged, carelessly, turning towards Caroline.

"No; I have never been inside her shop."

"Then whose is—" I began and stopped. A detective doing the work I
was, would not give away the object of his questions so recklessly.

"Then who is," I corrected, "the best person after D'Aubigny? I never
can pay
her
prices. I should think it wicked."

"O don't ask us," protested Isabella. "We have never made a study of the
best bonnet-maker. At present we wear hats."

And having thus thrown their youth in my face, they turned away to the
window again, not realizing that the middle-aged lady they regarded with
such disdain had just succeeded in making them dance to her music most
successfully.

The luncheon I ordered was elaborate, for I was determined that the
Misses Van Burnam should see that I knew how to serve a fine meal, and
that my plates were not always better than my viands.

I had invited in a couple of other guests so that I should not seem to
have put myself out for two young girls, and as they were quiet people
like myself, the meal passed most decorously. When it was finished, the
Misses Caroline and Isabella had lost some of their consequential airs,
and I really think the deference they have since showed me is due more
to the surprise they felt at the perfection of this dainty luncheon,
than to any considerate appreciation of my character and abilities.