The Fourth Ghost Story MEGAPACK ®. Sarah Orne Jewett
I replied, cautioned by the brutal menace in his tone. “I didn’t know positively!”
Robesart turned to Lunston, the butler. “When did you last see this statue in its accustomed place, Lunston?”
“Directly after tea, sir!” was the answer. “I was carrying the silver tray, sir, and I saw she had been moved to the conservatory.”
“Was there any one else in the house beside the servants?”
“No one, sir!”
“Certainly no enemy, no suspicious stranger?”
Lunston denied such a possibility.
“But there was a strange man!” I shouted, enraged. “I know there was, for I saw him. I met him face to face— I talked with him. If these hirelings here had tended their duties and taken charge of the house instead of crying ‘Thief!’ and racing away four strong, they might have caught him easily.”
“I assure you, Mr. Vaughan,” Robesart declared earnestly, “if any human being besides yourself was inside the house when these men left it, he has not yet escaped. Every door, every window from roof to cellar was locked, and locked on the inside—excepting the front door which has been constantly guarded; every door, every window is still locked on the inside according to last investigation. The chef, Pierre, had the presence of mind to order all this done before giving the alarm—
“Perhaps you’d care to hear their version of the affair, Mr. Vaughan,” he continued. “According to their joint testimony, the four servants were gathered in the kitchen at dusk previous to the serving of dinner. While there they were terrified by a series of crashes that came from the open conservatory where they had last seen you at work on a small clay model of the ‘Diana.’
“Pierre and Lunston ventured immediately into the reception-hall. The front door stood wide open, and as they passed they heard a heavy thud outside as of a mass of stone falling from a height. Together they examined the conservatory. There was no sign of human presence, though they had every reason to believe you were hiding there.”
“They lie!” I screamed, but the detective raised his hand imperatively and I held my breath.
“They found the conservatory much disturbed. Plants had been knocked down and trampled upon; jardinieres and flower-pots lay crushed among heaps of black earth. There had been a struggle, a fight to a finish, but the principals were missing. ‘Diana’ was gone from her pedestal; even the velvet draperies of her niche were gone. They searched every room and as they went along closed every door and window.
“Lunston hastened to the telephone and Dombey to the garage that he might run out the car and pick up the first policeman he met. The car, however, had gone wrong. It could not be started till a quarter-hour later when, with the greatest possible despatch, they brought me here. And,” he added, rising, “here I stay till I find my man.”
“He was in the house!” I exclaimed in shrill treble. “I saw him, studio-togs and all!” Robesart stared at my blanched face. “You’re not well, Mr. Vaughan!” he said with sudden concern.
Immediately the terrific pains in my forehead returned. They were carrying her in from the terrace—reverently as though she were human dead, and I shrieked like a maniac and tore the air with clawlike fingers.
However, they grappled with me and poured a stimulant down my throat, and in time the agony passed. I recognized Robesart beside me.
“The man in the mirror!” I cried.
“Have you found him?”
He shook his head thoughtfully.
“No person, strange or otherwise, has been in the house, save ourselves,” he replied. “The place has been thoroughly searched. However, I wish you to describe the fellow7 in detail. You say he wore studio-clothes?”
“Yes, yes.” I replied in eager haste, and then I frankly met his gaze and told him all I remembered. During the recital Robesart stood motionless, staring at me till I was fully conscious of the great, silent question in his piercing gaze.
“But there was no mysterious vandal!” he blurted out. “There was no strange man in the whole affair from start to finish! He is merely a creature of your imagination.”
“What?” I roared, leaping to my feet, snarling with anger. “Do you mean—”
“Candidly now, Mr. Vaughan, why did you steal and destroy the famous ‘Diana’?” Robesart asked forcefully.
“Destroy the ‘Diana’!” I howled. “How dare you—”
“Your forehead—the brand on your forehead!” he cried dramatically, “Your victim was marble, but she put the murderer’s mark upon you that all men may see and beware!”
I clapped my hand to my head, bewildered, fearful. A wound! A great wound where the flesh had been broken! I could actually feel it. The pain of it was almost intolerable—how odd that I had not noticed it before. Small wonder that Robesart suspected me—
Again I lost consciousness and for a long time lay like one dead. At last Robesart roused me.
“Mr. Vaughan,” he said with great solemnity, “while you were sleeping I phoned your brother and physician in New York. Dr. Rossmore has known your family for generations and your own personal history from the day of your birth, and I may add that neither are surprised at to-night’s affair!”
“You mean,” I raved, “that hey have been expecting this thing of me?”
“They have imagined such an outcome!”
“What would be my motive?”
“Jealousy.” His lips were rigid. “You have failed in your chosen art—failed miserably. What more natural than you should be jealous of your brother Harmon’s success, and resenting his most valuable work—”
“Just so!” I exclaimed, shifting easily into the thread of the argument. “Why shouldn’t Harmon divide with me? He has fame and money and I’m a—a nobody!”
“That’s exactly the motive!” was the quiet answer. “Are you ready to make your confession?”
“I have no confession!” I told him fiercely. “I deny the charge. I know you believe me insane—you believe my story of the real criminal in the mirror a fabrication. Of course the strange mark on my head is damning evidence, but—”
Robesart smiled whimsically. My teeth began chattering and my shoulders shook.
“Lunston,” he called to one of the men, “Go to the coat-closet and bring Mr. Vaughan’s wraps!”
I grasped his sleeve and he turned toward me expectantly.
“You must find that man in the mirror!” I chattered. “There is a man and you must be convinced of it! You must insist upon his being found!”
The detective nodded earnestly. As the servant stepped forward with my belongings, Robesart took the long, full, sculptor’s apron in his hand. “This is yours, Mr. Vaughan?”
“It is mine!” I answered, ramming my arms in the sleeves.
“And this?” He held a brown rembrandt in his hand which I recognized at once by the shabby black velvet stretched around its band.
“Yes, mine!” I exclaimed.
I put on the cap and apron, not that I felt the need of them, but because I firmly believed I could convince him of my innocence and make him my friend for life—if only we might find the man—
Suddenly a subtle change swept over his stern face and manner.
“I have news for you, Vaughan,” his great voice boomed. “Our investigation is now ended! We have found the criminal—the man of the mirror! Come inside! We need you for identification!” I tried to cry out my relief, my joy. But I couldn’t.