The Filigree Ball by Anna Katharine Green (summer reading list TXT) 📕

general attention had been concentrated at my entrance and to him it now returned. He was an unpretentious person of kindly aspect. To any one accustomed to Washington residents, he bore the unmistakable signs of being one of the many departmental employees whose pay is inadequate to the necessities of his family. Of his personal peculiarities I noted two. He blinked when he talked, and stuttered painfully when excited. Notwithstanding these defects he made a good impression, and commanded confidence. This I soon saw was of importance, for the story he now entered upon was one calculated to make me forget my own errand and even to question my own convictions.

The first intimation I received of the curious nature of his communication was through the following questions, put to him by the major:

“You are sure this gentleman is identical with the one pointed out to you last night?”

“Very sure, sir. I can swear to it.”

I omit all evidence of the defect in his speech above mentioned.

“You recognize him positively?”

“Positively. I should have picked him out with the same assurance, if I had seen him in some other city and in a crowd of as fine-looking gentlemen as himself. His face made a great impression on me. You see I had ample time to study it in the few minutes we stood so close together.”

“So you have said. Will you be kind enough to repeat the circumstance? I should like the man who has just come in to hear your description of this scene. Give the action, please. It is all very interesting.”

The stranger glanced inquisitively in my direction, and turned to obey the superintendent.

“I was returning to my home in Georgetown, on the evening of May the eleventh, the day of the great tragedy. My wife was ill, and I had been into town to see a physician and should have gone directly home; but I was curious to see how high the flood was running - you remember it was over the banks that night. So I wandered out on the bridge, and came upon the gentleman about whom you have been questioning me. He was standing all alone leaning on the rail thus.” Here the speaker drew up a chair, and, crossing his arms over its back, bent his head down over them. “I did not know him, but the way he eyed the water leaping and boiling in a yellow flood beneath was not the way of a curious man like myself, but of one who was meditating some desperate deed. He was handsome and well dressed, but he looked a miserable wretch and was in a state of such complete self-absorption that he did not notice me, though I had stopped not five feet from his side. I expected to see him throw himself over, but instead of that, he suddenly raised his head and, gazing straight before him, not at the heavy current, but at some vision in his own mind, broke forth in these words, spoken as I had never heard words spoken before - “

Here the speaker’s stuttering got the better of him and the district attorney had time to say:

“What were these words? Speak them slowly; we have all the time there is.”

Instantly the man plucked up heart and, eying us all impressively, was able to say:

“They were these: ‘She must die! she must die!’ No name, but just the one phrase twice repeated, ‘She must die!’ This startled me, and hardly knowing whether to lay hands on him, or to turn about and run, I was moving slowly away, when he drew his arms from the rail, like this, and, still staring into space, added, in the same hard and determined voice, this one word more, ‘Tonight!’ ; and, wheeling about, passed me with one blank and wholly unconscious look and betook himself toward the city. As he went by, his lips opened for the third time. ‘Which means - ‘ he cried, between a groan and a shriek, ‘a bullet for her and - ‘ I wish I had heard the rest, but he was out of my hearing before his sentence was finished.”

“What time was this?”

“As near half-past five as possible. It was six when I reached home a few minutes later.”

“Ah, he must have gone to the cemetery after this.”

“I am quite sure of it.”

“Why didn’t you follow the man?” grumbled Durbin.

“It wasn’t my business. He was a stranger and possibly mad. I didn’t know what to do.”

“What did you do?”

“Went home and kept quiet; my wife was very ill that night and I had my own cause for anxiety.”

“You, however, read the papers next morning?”

“No, sir, nor for many days. My wife grew constantly worse and for a week I didn’t leave her, not knowing but that every breath would be her last. I was dead to everything outside the sick-room and when she grew better, which was very gradually, we had to take her away, so that I had no opportunity of speaking of this occurrence to any one till a week ago, when some remark, published in connection with Mrs. Jeffrey’s death, recalled that encounter on the bridge. I told a neighbor that I believed the man I had seen there was Mr. Jeffrey, and we looked up the papers and ran over them till we came upon his picture. That settled it, and I could no longer - being free from home anxieties now - hold my tongue and the police heard - “

“That will do, Mr. Gelston,” broke in the major. “When we want you again, we will let you know, Durbin, see Mr. Gelston out”

I was left alone with the major and the district attorney.

There was a moment’s silence, during which my own heart beat so loud that I was afraid they would hear it. Since taking up Miss Tuttle’s cause I had never really believed in Mr. Jeffrey’s innocence in spite of the alibi he had brought forward, and now I expected to hear these men utter the same conviction. The major was the first to speak. Addressing the district attorney, he remarked: “This will strengthen your case very materially. We have proof now that Mrs. Jeffrey’s death was actually determined upon. If Miss Tuttle had not shot her, he would. I wonder if it was a relief to him on reaching his door to find that the deed was done.”

I could not suppress my surprise.

“Miss Tuttle!” I repeated. “Is it so unmistakably evident that Mr. Jeffrey did not get to the Moore house in time to do the shooting himself?”

The major gave me a quick look.

“I thought you considered Miss Tuttle the guilty one.”

I felt that the time had come to show my colors.

“I have changed my mind,” said I. “I can give you no good reason for this; something in the woman herself, I suppose. She does not look nor act like a criminal. While not desirous of raising myself in opposition to the judgment of those so greatly my superior in all respects, I have had this feeling, and I am courageous enough to avow it. And yet, if Mr. Jeffrey could not have left the cemetery gates and reached the Moore house in time to fulfil all the conditions of this tragedy, the case does look black against the woman. She admits to having been there when the pistol was fired, unless - “

“Unless what? You have something new to tell us. That I have seen ever since you entered the room. What is it?”

I cast a glance at the door. Should I be able to finish my story before Durbin returned? I thought it possible, and, though still upset by this new evidence, which I could now see was not entirely in Miss Tuttle’s favor, I spoke up with what spirit I might.

“I have just come from spending another night in the Moore house. All the efforts heretofore made to exhaust its secrets have been founded upon a theory that has brought us nowhere. I had another in mind, and I was anxious to test it before resting from all further attempt to solve this riddle. And it has not failed me. By pursuing a clue apparently so trivial that I allowed it to go neglected for weeks, I have come upon the key to the many mysterious crimes which have defiled the library hearthstone. And where do you think it lies? Not in the hearthstone itself and not in the floor under the settle; not, in fact, in the library at all, but in the picture hanging upstairs in the southwest chamber.”

“The picture! that faded-out sketch, fit only for the garret?”

“Yes. To you and to most people surveying it, it is just what you say and nothing more. But to the initiated few - pray Heaven they may have been few - it is writing, conveying secret instructions. The whole combination of curves which go to make up this sketch is a curious arrangement of words inscribed with the utmost care, in the smallest of characters. Viewed with a magnifying glass, the uncertain outlines of a shadowy face surmounted by a mass of piled-up hair resolve themselves into lines of writing, the words of which are quite intelligible and full of grim and unmistakable purpose. I have read those lines; and what is more, I have transcribed them into plain copy. Will you read them? They contain a most extraordinary confession; a confession that was manifestly intended as a warning, but which unfortunately has had very different results. It may explain the death of the man from Denver, even if it cast no light upon the other inexplicable features of the remarkable case we are considering.”

As I spoke I laid open on the table before me the transcription of which I spoke. Instantly the two men bent over it. When they looked up again, their countenances showed not excitement only but appreciation; and in the one minute of triumph which I then enjoyed, all that had wounded or disturbed me in the past was forgotten.

“You are a man in a thousand,” was the major’s first enthusiastic comment; at which I was conscious of regretting, with very pardonable inconsistency, that Durbin had not returned in time to hear these words.

The major now proposed that we should go at once to the old house. “A family secret like this does not crop up every day even in a city so full of surprises as Washington. We will hunt for the spring under the closet drawers and see what happens, eh? And on our way there” - here he turned to me “I should like to hear the particulars concerning the little clue just mentioned. By the way, Mr. Jeffrey’s interest in this old drawing is now explained. He knew its diabolical secret.”

This was self-evident, and my heart was heavy for Miss Tuttle, who seemed to be so deep in her brother-in-law’s confidence.

It grew still heavier when Durbin, joining us, added his incredulity to the air of suspicion assumed by the others. Through all the explanations I now entered into, I found myself inwardly repeating with somewhat forced iteration, “I will not believe her guilty under any circumstances. She carries the look of innocence, and innocent she must be proved, whatever the result may be to Francis Jeffrey.”

To such an extent had I been influenced by the lofty expression which I had once surprised on her face.

Had Mr. David Moore been sitting open-eyed behind his vines that morning, he would have been much surprised to see so many of his natural enemies intrude on his property at so early an hour. But, happily, he had not yet risen, and we were able to enter