The Leavenworth Case. John Curran
do it.’
‘Of course,’ I hastened to reply. ‘I am the last man to wish you to shirk your duty; but you cannot have the temerity to declare that this young and tender creature can by any possibility be considered as at all likely to be implicated in a crime so monstrous and unnatural. The mere assertion of another woman’s suspicions on the subject ought not—’
But here Mr Gryce interrupted me. ‘You talk when your attention should be directed to more important matters. That other woman, as you are pleased to designate the fairest ornament of New York society, sits over there in tears; go and comfort her.’
Looking at him in amazement, I hesitated to comply; but, seeing he was in earnest, crossed to Mary Leavenworth and sat down by her side. She was weeping, but in a slow, unconscious way, as if grief had been mastered by fear. The fear was too undisguised and the grief too natural for me to doubt the genuineness of either.
‘Miss Leavenworth,’ said I, ‘any attempt at consolation on the part of a stranger must seem at a time like this the most bitter of mockeries; but do try and consider that circumstantial evidence is not always absolute proof.’
Starting with surprise, she turned her eyes upon me with a slow, comprehensive gaze wonderful to see in orbs so tender and womanly.
‘No,’ she repeated; ‘circumstantial evidence is not absolute proof, but Eleanore does not know this. She is so intense; she cannot see but one thing at a time. She has been running her head into a noose, and oh—’ Pausing, she clutched my arm with a passionate grasp: ‘Do you think there is any danger? Will they—’ She could not go on.
‘Miss Leavenworth,’ I protested, with a warning look toward the detective, ‘what do you mean?’
Like a flash, her glance followed mine, an instant change taking place in her bearing.
‘Your cousin may be intense,’ I went on, as if nothing had occurred; ‘but I do not know to what you refer when you say she has been running her head into a noose.’
‘I mean this,’ she firmly returned: ‘that, wittingly or unwittingly, she has so parried and met the questions which have been put to her in this room that anyone listening to her would give her the credit of knowing more than she ought to of this horrible affair. She acts’—Mary whispered, but not so low but that every word could be distinctly heard in all quarters of the room—‘as if she were anxious to conceal something. But she is not; I am sure she is not. Eleanore and I are not good friends; but all the world can never make me believe she has any more knowledge of this murder than I have. Won’t somebody tell her, then—won’t you—that her manner is a mistake; that it is calculated to arouse suspicion; that it has already done so? And oh, don’t forget to add’—her voice sinking to a decided whisper now—‘what you have just repeated to me: that circumstantial evidence is not always absolute proof.’
I surveyed her with great astonishment. What an actress this woman was!
‘You request me to tell her this,’ said I. ‘Wouldn’t it be better for you to speak to her yourself?’
‘Eleanore and I hold little or no confidential communication,’ she replied.
I could easily believe this, and yet I was puzzled. Indeed, there was something incomprehensible in her whole manner. Not knowing what else to say, I remarked, ‘That is unfortunate. She ought to be told that the straightforward course is the best by all means.’
Mary Leavenworth only wept. ‘Oh, why has this awful trouble come to me, who have always been so happy before?’
‘Perhaps for the very reason that you have always been so happy.’
‘It was not enough for dear uncle to die in this horrible manner; but she, my own cousin, had to—’
I touched her arm, and the action seemed to recall her to herself. Stopping short, she bit her lip.
‘Miss Leavenworth,’ I whispered, ‘you should hope for the best. Besides, I honestly believe you to be disturbing yourself unnecessarily. If nothing fresh transpires, a mere prevarication or so of your cousin’s will not suffice to injure her.’
I said this to see if she had any reason to doubt the future. I was amply rewarded.
‘Anything fresh? How could there be anything fresh, when she is perfectly innocent?’
Suddenly, a thought seemed to strike her. Wheeling round in her seat till her lovely, perfumed wrapper brushed my knee, she asked: ‘Why didn’t they ask me more questions? I could have told them Eleanore never left her room last night.’
‘You could?’ What was I to think of this woman?
‘Yes; my room is nearer the head of the stairs than hers; if she had passed my door, I should have heard her, don’t you see?’
Ah, that was all.
‘That does not follow,’ I answered sadly. ‘Can you give no other reason?’
‘I would say whatever was necessary,’ she whispered.
I started back. Yes, this woman would lie now to save her cousin; had lied during the inquest. But then I felt grateful, and now I was simply horrified.
‘Miss Leavenworth,’ said I, ‘nothing can justify one in violating the dictates of his own conscience, not even the safety of one we do not altogether love.’
‘No?’ she returned; and her lip took a tremulous curve, the lovely bosom heaved, and she softly looked away.
If Eleanore’s beauty had made less of an impression on my fancy, or her frightful situation awakened less anxiety in my breast, I should have been a lost man from that moment.
‘I did not mean to do anything very wrong,’ Miss Leavenworth continued. ‘Do not think too badly of me.’
‘No, no,’ said I; and there is not a man living who would not have said the same in my place.
What more might have passed between us on this subject I cannot say, for just then the door opened and a man entered whom I recognised as the one who had followed Eleanore Leavenworth out a short time before.
‘Mr Gryce,’ said he, pausing just inside the door; ‘a word if you please.’
The detective nodded, but did not hasten towards him; instead of that, he walked deliberately away to the other end of the room, where he lifted the lid of an inkstand he saw there, muttered some unintelligible words into it, and speedily shut it again. Immediately the uncanny fancy seized me that if I should leap to that inkstand, open it and peer in, I should surprise and capture the bit of confidence he had intrusted to it. But I restrained my foolish impulse, and contented myself with noting the subdued look of respect with which the gaunt subordinate watched the approach of his superior.
‘Well?’ inquired the latter as he reached him: ‘what now?’
The man shrugged his shoulders, and drew his principal through the open door. Once in the hall their voices sank to a whisper, and as their backs only were visible, I turned to look at my companion. She was pale but composed.
‘Has he come from Eleanore?’
‘I do not know; I fear so. Miss Leavenworth,’ I proceeded, ‘can it be possible that your cousin has anything in her possession she desires to conceal?’
‘Then you think she is trying to conceal something?’
‘I do not say so. But there was considerable talk about a paper—’
‘They will never find any paper or anything else suspicious in Eleanore’s possession,’ Mary interrupted. ‘In the first place, there was no paper of importance enough’—I saw Mr Gryce’s form suddenly stiffen—‘for anyone to attempt its abstraction and concealment.’
‘Can you be sure of that? May not your cousin be acquainted with something—’
‘There was nothing to be