Chapter XIV

_Another Break in the Circle_

It was the first of June and the loveliest time of the year at the

"Hundred." Why had I never realized before that, in spite of my urban

upbringing, I was a born countryman? Can there be a greater pleasure in

life than living on one's own land, and honestly plying the oldest and

most important of human industries--the tilling of the soil! Provided,

of course, that one possesses a reasonable amount of capital; the

hand-to-mouth struggle of the poor farmer is deadening to both soul and

body; as one of my less fortunate neighbors once put it: "It isn't

living; it's just staying on."

Certainly I had no cause for complaint. The "Hundred" was easily the

best farm anywhere about. I could command sufficient ready money to be

independent of the banks, and I was beginning to learn my trade. What

more could the heart of man desire? And finally, there was Betty--but

how could one inventory that immeasurable asset! Enough that our

happiness was as complete as anything mundane could be, and I had only

to bear in mind the old Greek admonition: "Tread softly lest the high

gods overhear and be moved to celestial ire against a mortal so

felicitous!"

Eunice Trevor was still living at the "Hundred," and the question of

that other arrangement had been suffered to remain in abeyance. I did

not fancy the ungracious task of turning her out of the house, and by

temperament I am something of an opportunist; time is the great resolver

of our difficulties; moreover, to do the woman justice, she seemed

desirous of effacing herself in every possible way; for days on end I

would hardly see her except at dinner, our one formal function. And then

one day something occurred to set me thinking, an incident small in

itself and yet curiously disquieting.

Miss Trevor was in the habit of driving over alone to Calverton two or

three times a week. Still she was never absent more than a couple of

hours, and it was none of my business how she employed her leisure.

Betty commented upon these journeys once or twice, but neither of us

cared to press the direct inquiry; there were plenty of horses

available, and the girl's time was her own; what did it matter.

On this particular morning I chanced to be in the house at the moment of

her return from town. She passed me in the hall, nodded briefly, and

went up to her room. As I walked through the front door I noticed a

letter lying on the threshold. I picked it up and saw that it was

addressed to Miss Eunice Trevor, Lockbox 31, Calverton, Maryland. The

handwriting was that of John Thaneford, a square, bold script with which

I was perfectly familiar. The post-mark was that of a small town in

Florida.

So Eunice and Thaneford were engaged in correspondence, and a secret one

at that. It didn't look well, and I felt the blood reddening my temples.

After all she was my house guest and eating my bread and salt. Spy is an

ugly word, but Thaneford was an enemy, a quiescent one for the time

being, yet none the less to be guarded against. "Hildebrand Hundred" was

a goodly heritage, and it would have been his had it not been for my

fortuitous meeting with Francis Graeme. There were no immediate

prospects that Betty would present me with an heir to the property, and

I realized guiltily that I had put off the duty of making a will.

Suppose that I died intestate and without issue. Betty would have her

dower rights, but Thaneford could put in a plausible claim for

recognition as next of kin. I made instant resolve that I would see Mr.

Eldon on the morrow and erect every possible legal safeguard to conserve

Betty's interests. I could rest assured that if Thaneford were able to

get enough ready money he would fight for his alleged rights. In the

meantime, I could do nothing but let the letter lie where it had fallen.

I whistled to Gyp and strode off to the stables. At the corner of the

hedge I ventured to look back, and caught just a glimpse of feminine

drapery disappearing into the cavernous gloom of the great hall door. So

my lady had discovered her loss, and had been prompt in retrieving her

property. Very well, but I should certainly call on Mr. Eldon in the

morning.

But, as it so often happens, my fine resolutions came to naught, and six

hours later I was on my way North, summoned by wire to the bedside of my

only living relative, my good Aunt Livy Marston, who had been more than

a mother to me for the best part of my life. Dear old lady! She finally

won her battle with death, but it was not until nearly three weeks later

that the doctors pronounced her to be out of danger, and I was free to

return home; to be precise, it was on Monday night, June the

twenty-second, that I left for Maryland, arriving at our little station

of Crown Ferry late in the afternoon of the following day.

To my surprise Doctor Marcy, with his gig, was waiting for me. One

glance at his face was enough. I tried to speak, but a great fear

clutched at my throat.

"Betty is perfectly well," said Marcy hastily. "She sends her love, and

is expecting you at the 'Hundred.'"

I threw my traveling bag in behind, and climbed to my place at his side;

the doctor's whiplash flickered along the blue-roan's broad back, and we

were quickly out of earshot, so far as the station loungers were

concerned.

"Who is it then?" I asked.

"Eunice Trevor."

"Yes."

"She died day before yesterday--suddenly."

"An accident?"

"She was found dead, sitting in the library at the big, flat-topped

desk," and Doctor Marcy shot me a sharp glance from the remote corner of

his eye.

"You mean that her death recalls the mystery of Francis Graeme's taking

off?"

"Just that."

"Go on and tell me the whole story, doctor. There's no need for us to

beat about the bush."

"But it's so little I have to tell," protested Marcy. "The bare facts

are these:"

"I was coming back from Lynn Saturday, and, on passing your gate, I

thought I would drive in and ask Betty for a cup of tea. Lucky I did so,

for I found her in a great state of mind. It seems that early in the

morning Eunice had shut herself up in the library on the plea of doing

some writing. She did not appear in the dining room at one o'clock, the

luncheon hour, and Effingham reported that the door was locked on the

inside. He had knocked repeatedly without getting any reply.

"Well, you can understand how all this recalled to Betty the peculiar

circumstances surrounding Graeme's death. And the servants were scared

out of their very wits; you know by this time the psychological vagaries

of the African mind.

"There was only one thing to do. I had Effingham produce his master-key,

and the door was opened. The room seemed to be in perfect

order--absolutely no signs of a struggle of any kind. When I passed the

screen--that same leather screen--I saw the girl. She was sitting in the

swivel-chair, but her head had fallen forward on the table. The body

was still warm, but she was stone dead."

"Any marks of violence?" I asked, thinking of the wound on Francis

Graeme's forehead.

"None whatever."

"When did all this happen?"

"To-day is Monday the twenty-second. As I told you, the day was Saturday

the twentieth. By the way, you never received Betty's telegram?"

"No, it must have reached Bangor just after I left. Probably, it never

occurred to Aunt Livy to have it relayed to me on the train."

"No great matter. There was nothing to be done but to put the poor girl

decently away."

"You mean that you've had the funeral?"

"Yes, this morning. We could get no word of you, and I rather pushed it

on Betty's account."

"Was there an autopsy?"

"I couldn't see any reason for it. The general indications were those of

cerebral hemorrhage, and I had no hesitation in giving apoplexy as the

cause of death. Yes, I know I changed my mind about Graeme, but in this

case there could be no doubt about it."

"She seemed to be in excellent general health," I remarked. "Had you

ever noticed any premonitory signs--you know what I am trying to say?"

"I never had Miss Trevor as a patient," said Marcy, "and so I can't give

any definite opinion."

"But you wouldn't put her down--I mean on the strength of your general

observation--as predisposed to that sort of thing?"

"No, I shouldn't."

"You said virtually the same thing about my Cousin Francis."

"I admit it. Still in that case the presence of an external wound gave

ample justification for going further."

"Just one or two more questions. Was the postern-door closed?"

"Tight as a safety vault. You and Betty have the only keys in existence

that unlock it."

"How about the pridellas in the windows--the little ventilating

apertures?"

"They were all shut, too. Afterwards I spoke to Warriner about that very

point, and he confirmed my impression."

"Warriner!"

"He arrived at the 'Hundred' very soon after I did. I believe they were

going horseback riding."

An unworthy thought crossed my mind, but I did my best to stamp it out

of existence. Perhaps Betty had been feeling lonely during my long

absence from home--perhaps.

"There's one thing more," continued the doctor. "Eunice had been

writing, and there were a number of sheets of MS. lying on the desk.

Betty had them sealed up, pending your return."

"Nothing has been heard of John Thaneford, I suppose?"

"Not that I know of."

I relapsed into silence, and presently we were at the house. Betty was

waiting for me on the portico, and behind her loomed up the tall figure

of Chalmers Warriner. I took my dear girl in my arms, and the tears came

speedily to her relief; after all, Eunice Trevor had been her cousin and

childhood playmate.

Betty went to her room, and Doctor Marcy had to keep a professional

engagement. Warriner and I had a whiskey-and-soda apiece, and over it

discussed the meager details of the distressing occurrence.

"Darker than ever," I remarked, when he had finished with his version of

the affair.

"It does look that way," he admitted. "Understand, there is no evidence

of suicide."

"So Marcy said."

"Her written statement may shed some light."

"You had better stay to dinner," I suggested, "and go over it with us."

Warriner assented with such friendly frankness that I felt a little

ashamed of my somewhat perfunctory invitation. But perhaps he had not

noticed the lack of cordiality in my voice. At any rate, he stayed, and

the dinner passed off tolerably enough. After dessert I proposed an

adjournment to the library for coffee, but Betty objected. "I couldn't

sit in that room," she protested earnestly. So we compromised on the big

living room on the left of the hall as one enters. I took the packet

Betty handed me, and broke the seal. A dozen or more sheets of

note-paper, written in pencil, fell out.

"It's a rather difficult handwriting," said Betty, "and I suppose I'm

more familiar with it than either of you men." So Warriner and I lit our

cigars and prepared to listen.