The Curved Blades

“When I heard her say, ‘To-morrow I will be forever freed from this homely face of mine,’ and ‘to-morrow all these jewels will be yours,’ I couldn’t help thinking, – after the discovery of her death, – that she must have anticipated it.”

“Did her voice sound like the despairing one of a person about to die?”

“On the contrary, it sounded full of life and animation.”

“Did she seem angry with the person to whom she was speaking?”

“At times, yes. And, again, no. Her voice showed varying emotions as she talked on.”

“Her speech was not continuous, then?”

“Not at all. It was broken, and in snatches. But, remember, I could not hear all of what she said, and the other person or persons not at all.”

“Did you not catch a word from the other voice?”

“I cannot say. Much, in a low tone, that I could not hear clearly, might have been Miss Carrington’s voice or another’s. The door was closed, and as soon as I realized there was some one there, not Estelle, I had no thought of knocking, and I soon went away. I ought to have gone away sooner, and would have done so, but I was so amazed and puzzled I stayed on involuntarily.”

“Your story, Miss Frayne, is very extraordinary. Can you suggest, from what you heard, who might have been in the room with Miss Carrington?”

“I can not, nor do I wish to. I have told you what I heard, it is for you to make deductions or discoveries.”

“I wish to say a word, Mr. Coroner,” and Pauline Stuart, with her dark eyes blazing, rose to her feet. “I am sorry to say this, but I must ask you to hesitate before you put too much faith in the amazing tale you have just listened to. I am sure Miss Frayne could not have heard all that nonsense! It is impossible, on the face of it, that my aunt should have received any one in her room after her maid left her. It is incredible that she should have made all those ridiculous and meaningless remarks! And it is despicable for any woman to imply or hint that Miss Carrington was receiving a gentleman caller! I am surprised that you even listened to what must be the ravings of a disordered mind!”

Pauline looked at Anita like an avenging goddess. But the darts of scorn from her dark eyes were met and returned in kind from the big blue ones of the secretary.

“I resent your tone and your words,” said Anita, deliberately; “but since you choose to adopt that attitude, I will go on to say what I had intended not to reveal, that I saw you coming from your aunt’s room, after the conversation I have told of took place.”

“Wait a minute,” said the Coroner; “you said that immediately after hearing the alleged conversation you went at once to your room, and did not leave it again.”

“Nor did I. But a few minutes later, unable to restrain my curiosity, I opened my door, and looked out. My position then commanded a full view of the hall, and I saw Miss Stuart go from her aunt’s room to her own.”

Pauline looked at the speaker. Coldly her glance swept back to the Coroner, and she said: “I deny that I was in my aunt’s room after leaving it at midnight in company with Miss Frayne. But she forces me to tell that I saw her going away from it at exactly quarter past one.”

“How do you fix the time so accurately?”

“I was sitting in the upper hall, – it is really a sitting-room, at the bay-windowed end, – looking at the moon. I, too, had been disturbed at my aunt’s attitude, and her threats to send me away to-day, and I had gone to the hall window-seat, a favorite haunt of mine, and had sat there for a half hour or more.”

“Could any one going through the hall see you?”

“Probably not, as the draperies are heavy, and I was in the deep window-seat. I was thinking I would go to my room, and then I saw Miss Frayne come from my aunt’s room and go to her own.”

“Are you sure she came from the room?”

“She was closing the door, her hand was on the knob. She did not see me, I am sure, for I drew back in the window and watched her. And just then I heard the hall clock chime the quarter after one.”

“You didn’t see Miss Frayne when she went to Miss Carrington’s room?”

“No; I suppose I was then looking out of the deep window.”

“Nor did you hear her?”

“No, the rugs are thick and a light foot-fall makes no sound.”

“What did you next do?”

“I went – I went straight to my own room.”

The slight hesitation told against Pauline. All through her testimony, all through her arraignment of Anita, – for it amounted to that, – she had been cool, calm and imperturbable. But now a momentary hesitation of speech, added perhaps, to the circumstantial story of Anita Frayne, caused a wave of doubt, – not enough to call suspicion, – but a questioning attitude to form in the minds of many of the audience.

To whom, if not Miss Stuart, could Miss Carrington’s remarks about beauty have been addressed? It was well known that Miss Lucy adored beauty and had all her life lamented her own lack of it. This was no secret woe of the poor lady’s. To any one who would listen, she would complain of her hard lot in having all the gifts of the gods except good looks. To whom else would she say ‘To-morrow all these jewels will be yours, – if you – ah, but will you?’

And yet, after all, it did not make sense. Was it not far more likely to be a figment of Miss Frayne’s clever mind, for what purpose who might say?

At any rate, their stories were contradictory and moreover were garbled.

The jurymen sighed. The case had been mysterious enough before, now it was becoming inexplicable.

IX

FURTHER TESTIMONY

Count Henri Charlier was being questioned, and he was distinctly ill at ease. His French savoir faire was not proof against definite inquiries as to his intentions regarding the late Miss Carrington, and indefinite allusions concerning his movements on the night of her death.

He had related, straightforwardly enough, his visit at Garden Steps that evening and his departure at or about midnight. He denied his engagement of marriage, but admitted that he had paid Miss Carrington such attentions as might lead her to suspect an attachment.

“You did not return to this house after leaving on Tuesday night?”

“Most assuredly not.”

“You were not in Miss Carrington’s boudoir at one o’clock or thereabouts?”

Count Charlier’s black eyes snapped. But by a successful effort he controlled his indignation, and said, simply, “I was not.”

“But she was heard to address you.”

“Impossible, as I was not there.”

“She distinctly declared that you were the mark she aimed at. What construction do you put upon those words?”

“It is not for me to boast of my attraction for a lady.”

Count Charlier simpered a little, and Gray Haviland looked at him with a frown of undisguised scorn. Haviland had never liked the Count, indeed, he even doubted his right to the title, and especially had he feared a marriage between him and Miss Lucy. And, granting that this feeling was partly due to a consideration of his own interests, Haviland also distrusted the Frenchman and doubted Miss Lucy’s happiness as his wife.

“Did Miss Carrington leave you a bequest of ten thousand dollars in United States bonds?” went on the Coroner.

“I – I don’t know,” and the Count stammered in an embarrassed way.

“You do know!” shouted Haviland; “the will has been read, and you know perfectly well that such a bequest was left to you.”