The Gloved Hand by Burton Egbert Stevenson (black books to read .TXT) 📕

you a lift?" Blake asked.

"No," I said, "thank you; but I'm staying out here for the present."

I watched them as they climbed into a car—Goldberger, Blake, Simmonds and Swain; I saw the latter take one last look at the house; then he waved to me, as the car turned into the highroad—at least, he was taking it bravely! The coroner's assistants climbed into a second car, and the four or five policemen into a third. Then the reporters and photographers piled into the others, the few stragglers who had straggled in straggled on again, and in five minutes the place was deserted. As I looked around, I was surprised to see that even Godfrey had departed. There was something depressing about the jumble of chairs and tables, the litter of paper on the grass—something sordid, as of a banquet-hall deserted by the diners.

I turned away and started for the gate; and then, suddenly, I wondered who was in charge of the house. Who would give orders to clear away this litter? Who would arrange for the funeral on the morrow? How could Miss Vaughan do it, ill as she was? With quick resolution, I turned back toward the house. As I did so, I was surprised to see a man appear at the edge of the lawn and run toward me. It was Hinman.

"I was afraid I'd missed you," he said. "Miss Vaughan wishes to see you. She's all alone here and needs some help."

"I'd thought of that," I said. "I was just coming to offer it. Is she better?"

"Yes, much better. I think she has realised the necessity of conquering her nerves. Of course, we must still be careful."

I nodded, and followed him into the house. Then I stopped in astonishment, for Miss Vaughan was sitting in a chair in the library. She rose as I entered, came a step toward me and held out her hand.

"You must not think too badly of me, Mr. Lester," she said. "I won't give way again, I promise you."

"You have had a great deal to bear," I protested, taking her hand in mine. "I think you have been very brave. I only hope that I can be of some service to you."

"Thank you. I am sure you can. Let us all sit down, for we must have quite a talk. Dr. Hinman tells me that I shall need a lawyer."

"Undoubtedly," I assented. "Your father's estate will have to be settled, and that can only be done in the courts. Besides, in the eyes of the law, you are still a minor."

"Will you be my lawyer, Mr. Lester?"

"It will be a great privilege," I answered.

"Then we will consider that settled?"

"Yes," I agreed, "we will consider that settled."

"But it is not business I wish to discuss to-day," she went on, quickly. "There are other things more urgent. First, I wish to get acquainted with you. Have you not wondered, Mr. Lester, why it was that I chose you to deliver my letter?"

"I suppose it was because there was no one else," I answered, looking at her in some astonishment for the way she was rattling on. The colour was coming and going in her cheeks and her eyes were very bright. I wondered if she had escaped brain fever, after all.

"No," she said, smiling audaciously, "it was because I liked your face—I knew you could be trusted. Of course, for a moment I was startled at seeing you looking down at me from a tree. I wondered afterwards how you came to be there."

"Just idle curiosity," I managed to stammer, my face very hot. "I am sorry if I annoyed you."

"Oh, but it was most fortunate," she protested; "and a great coincidence, too, that you should be Mr. Swain's employer, and able to get hold of him at once."

"It didn't do much good," I said, gloomily; "and it has ended in putting Swain in jail."

I happened to glance at her hands, folded in her lap, and saw that they were fairly biting into each other.

"In jail!" she whispered, and now there was no colour in her face.

"Forgive me, Miss Vaughan," I said, hastily. "That was brutal. I forgot you didn't know."

"Tell me!" she panted. "Tell me! I can stand it! Oh, you foolish man, didn't you see—I was trying to nerve myself—I was trying to find out...."

I caught the hands that were bruising themselves against each other and held them fast.

"Miss Vaughan," I said, "listen to me and believe that I am telling you the whole truth. The coroner's jury returned a verdict that Swain was guilty of your father's death. As the result of that verdict, he has been taken to the Tombs. But the last words he said to me before the officers took him away were that he was innocent, and that he had no fear."

"Surely," she assented, eagerly, "he should have no fear. But to think of him in prison—it tears my heart!"

"Don't think of it that way!" I protested. "He is bearing it bravely—when I saw him last, he was smiling."

"But the stain—the disgrace."

"There will be none; he shall be freed without stain—I will see to that."

"But I cannot understand," she said, "how the officers of the law could blunder so."

"All of the evidence against him," I said, "was purely circumstantial, except in one particular. He was in the grounds at the time the murder was committed; your father had quarrelled with him, and it was possible that he had followed you and your father to the house, perhaps not knowing clearly what he was doing, and that another quarrel had occurred. But that amounted to nothing. Young men like Swain, even when half-unconscious, don't murder old men by strangling them with a piece of curtain-cord. To suppose that Swain did so would be absurd, but for one thing—no, for two things."

"What are they?" she demanded.

"One is that the handkerchief which you had tied about his wrist was found beside your father's chair—but it was not upon that the jury made its finding."

"What was it, then?"

"It was this: Swain swore positively that at no time during the evening had he touched your father."

"Yes, yes; and that was true. He could not have touched him."

"And yet," I went on slowly, "prints of Swain's blood-stained fingers were found on your father's robe."

"But," she gasped, pulling her hands away from me and wringing them together, "how could that be? That is impossible!"

"I should think so, too," I agreed, "if I had not seen the prints with my own eyes."

"You are sure they were his—you are sure?"

"I am afraid there can be no doubt of it," and I told her how Sylvester had proved it.

She listened motionless, mute, scarce-breathing, searching my face with distended eyes. Then, suddenly, her face changed, she rose from her chair, flew across the room, opened a book-case and pulled out a bulky volume bound in vellum. She turned the pages rapidly, giving each of them only a glance. Suddenly she stopped, and stared at a page, her face livid.

"What is it?" I asked, and hastened to her.

"It is the book of finger-prints," she gasped. "A great many—oh, a great many—my father collected and studied them for years. He believed—I do not know what he believed."

She paused, struggling for breath.

"Well," I said; "what then?"

"Mr. Swain's was among them," she went on, in the merest whisper. "They were here—page two hundred and thirty—see, there is an index—'Swain, F., page two hundred and thirty.'"

She pointed at the entry with a shaking finger.

"Well," I said again, striving to understand, "what of it?"

"Look!" she whispered, holding the book toward me, "that page is no longer there! It has been torn out!"

Then, with a convulsive shudder, she closed the book, thrust it back into its place, and ran noiselessly to the door leading to the hall. She swept back the curtain and looked out.

"Oh, is it you, Annie?" she said, and I saw the Irish maid standing just outside. "I was about to call you. Please tell Henry to bring those tables and chairs in from the lawn."

"Yes, ma'am," said the girl, and turned away.

Miss Vaughan stood looking after her for a moment, then dropped the curtain and turned back again into the room. I saw that she had mastered her emotion, but her face was still dead white.

As for me, my brain was whirling. What if Swain's finger-prints were missing from the book? What connection could that have with the blood-stains on the robe? What was the meaning of Miss Vaughan's emotion? Who was it she had expected to find listening at the door? I could only stare at her, and she smiled slightly as she saw my look.

"But what is it you suspect?" I stammered. "I don't see...."

"Neither do I," she broke in. "But I am trying to see—I am trying to see!" and she wrung her hands together.

"The disappearance of the prints seems plain enough to me," said Hinman, coming forward. "Mr. Vaughan no doubt tore them out himself, when he took his violent dislike to Swain. The act would be characteristic of a certain form of mania. Nobody else would have any motive for destroying them; in fact, no one else would dare mutilate a book he prized so highly."

Miss Vaughan seemed to breathe more freely, but her intent inward look did not relax.

"At least that is an explanation," I agreed.

"It is the true explanation," said Hinman, confidently. "Can you suggest any other, Miss Vaughan?"

"No," she said, slowly; "no," and walked once or twice up and down the room. Then she seemed to put the subject away from her. "At any rate, it is of no importance. I wish to speak to you about my father's funeral, Dr. Hinman," she went on, in another tone. "It is to be to-morrow?"

"Yes—at eleven o'clock. I have made such arrangements as I could without consulting you. But there are some things you will have to tell me."

"What are they?"

"Do you desire a minister?"

"No. He would not have wished it. If there is any priest, it will be his own."

"You mean the yogi?"

"Yes."

"Are there any relatives to inform?"

"No."

"Where shall the body be buried?"

"It must not be buried. It must be given to the flames. That was his wish."

"Very well. I will arrange for cremation. Will you wish to accompany it?"

"No, no!" she cried, with a gesture of repugnance.

"That is all, then, I believe," said Hinman slowly. "And now I must be going. I beg you not to overtax yourself."

"I shall not," she promised, and he bowed and left us.

The afternoon was fading into evening, and the shadows were deepening in the room. I glanced about me with a little feeling of apprehension.

"The nurses are still here, are they not?" I asked.

"Yes; but I shall dismiss them to-morrow."

I hesitated a moment. I did not wish to alarm her, and yet....

"After they are gone, it will be rather lonesome for you here," I ventured.

"I am used to being lonesome."

"My partner's wife, Mrs. Royce, would be very glad if you would come to her," I said. "I have a letter from her," and I gave it to her.

She stood considering it with a little pucker of perplexity between her brows. She did not attempt to open it.

"She is very kind," she murmured, and her tone surprised and disappointed me.

"May I see you to-morrow?"

"If you wish."

"I shall come some time during the afternoon," I said, and took up my hat. "There is nothing else I can do for you?"

"No, I believe not."

She was plainly preoccupied and answered almost at random, with a coldness in sharp contrast to the warmth of her previous manner.

"Then I will say good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mr. Lester; and thank you."

She went with me to the door, and stood for a moment looking after me; then she turned back into the house. And I went on down the avenue with a chill at my heart.

CHAPTER XVIII BUILDING A THEORY

I was surprised, when I came down for dinner an hour later, to find Godfrey awaiting me.

"I always try to make it, Saturday night," he explained. "The chief throws the work on the other fellows, if he can. That's the reason I hustled away after the inquest. The story's all in, and now we'll have a good dinner—if I do say it myself—and then a good talk. I feel the need of a talk, Lester."

"So do I," I said; "though I'm afraid talking won't help us much."

"The funny thing about this case is," mused Godfrey, "that the farther we get into it the thicker it grows."

"Yes," I agreed, "and the more one thinks about it, the less one understands."

"Well, suppose we get away from