The Mark of Cain

Avice stood up straight and faced him. “Yes,” she cried, while her eyes shone. “Yes, that was the reason. I know he is innocent, both you and Mr. Duane declared he would not be thought so, unless there was another suspect. So I did resort to that ruse, and I’m glad of it. It does no wrong. The man it accuses is only imaginary, and if it saves the life of an innocent man it is a justifiable deception.”

“And do you suppose I will be a party to it? Do you suppose for a minute that I will stand up for a man, knowing that my attitude is based on a falsehood?”

“Not if it is a harmless, justifiable falsehood? Not if I ask you to do it?”

“Avice, don’t tempt me. What is this man to you? You have known me for years, and along comes this stranger, and you turn to him. I won’t have it!”

“Don’t talk like that, Leslie. He doesn’t really care for me. He is in love with Mrs. Black. But she can’t save him from an awful fate, and I can, yes, and I have, if you don’t interfere with my plans. And you won’t, will you?”

Avice looked very coaxing and sweet, as she urged her plea, and Leslie Hoyt caught her in his arms. “I’ll do it,” he said, in a whisper, “if you’ll marry me at once.”

“Oh, I can’t!” and Avice shrank away from him with a gesture of aversion. “Don’t ask me that now! Wait till this awful ordeal is over.”

“That’s just it, Avice. I’m in earnest. Promise to marry me and I’ll get Landon cleared of all suspicion whether he is guilty or not.”

“Is that your price?”

“Yes, and the only condition on which I will keep your secret! Do you know I shall have to perjure myself? Do you know that I will do that only to gain you? What is your answer? Tell me, Avice, my beautiful darling? Oh, I love you so!”

“Leslie, you frighten me. I don’t love you. I have told you I love Kane. But he must never know it. He is infatuated with Eleanor Black, and I shall in no way hamper his happiness. But, I don’t want to marry anybody.”

“You’ll marry me, or that precious adoration of yours will pay the full penalty of his crime. And, too, Avice, remember your uncle’s will. Do you want to throw away a million to escape a union with me? I’ll be very good to you, dear. You shall have your own way in everything.”

“Do you want me to marry for money’s sake?”

“Yes; if you won’t marry me for my own.”

“Are you sure you can save Kane?”

“My skill is small else. With that letter that you forged, to work on, I ought to be able to manage it.”

“And otherwise, – ”

“Otherwise, prepare yourself for the worst.” Hoyt spoke seriously, even solemnly, and Avice knew he meant every word he said. With a sob in her throat, she turned to him and held out her hand.

“So be it, then,” she said, and her voice was as sad as a funeral chime. “But always remember that I warned you I don’t love you.”

“I’ll make you love me!” and Hoyt’s voice rang out exultantly.

CHAPTER XV

THE TRAP THAT WAS SET

When, in his conversation with Judge Hoyt, Terence McGuire stated that his wardrobe purchases were made under the guidance and jurisdiction of his sister, he was creating a fabrication of purest ray serene. For, in this sorry scheme of things, no sister had been allotted to Fibsy, nor, until that moment, had he ever felt need of one. So, the need arising, a sister easily sprang, full fledged, from the red head of the well-named inventor.

Fibsy, likewise was unprovided with parents, and lived with a doting aunt. This relative, a knobby-coiffured spinster, was of the firmly grounded opinion that the orb of day has its rising and setting in her prodigy of a nephew. That he was not a bigoted stickler for the truth, bothered her not at all, for Fibsy never told his aunt lies, at least none that could possibly matter to her.

Now, being temporarily out of a business position, and not minded to go at once to Philadelphia, Fibsy was giving Aunt Becky the ecstatic bliss of having him at home for a time.

He was mostly absorbed in thoughts and plans of his own, but when she saw him, hands in pockets, sprawled bias on a chair, she forbore to bother him; and, like Charlotte, went on cutting bread and butter, to which she added various and savory dishes for her pet’s demolition.

Nor were her efforts unappreciated.

“Gee! Aunt Beck, but this is the scream of a strawberry shortcake!” would be her well-earned reward. “You sure do beat the hull woild fer cookin’!”

And Aunt Becky would beam and begin at once to plan for supper.

“There’s no use talkin’” said Fibsy, to himself, as he writhed and twisted around in the dilapidated rocker that graced his sleeping-room; “that milk bottle, with the old druggy stuff in it, means sumpum. Here I’ve mumbled over that fer weeks an’ ain’t got nowhere yet. But I got a norful hunch that it’s got a lot to do with our moider. An’ I’ve simply gotto dig out what!”

Scowling fearfully, he racked his brain, but got no answer to his own questions. Then he turned his thoughts again to Miss Wilkinson’s strange account of that queer telephone message. “That’s the penny in the slot!” he declared. “I jest know that rubbish she reels off so slick, is the key clue, as they call it. Me for Wilky, onct again.”

Grabbing his hat he went to interview the stenographer. She too, had not yet taken another place, though she had one in view.

Obligingly she parroted over to Fibsy the lingo of the message.

“Did the guy say he’d give the Stephanotis to Mr. Trowbridge, or they’d get it?” he demanded, his blue eyes staring with deep thought.

“W’y, lemmesee. I guess he said, – oh, yes, I remember, he said, I guess we’ll find some Stephanotis – ”

“Oh, did he? Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. What dif, anyhow?”

But Fibsy didn’t wait to answer. He ran off and went straight to the Trowbridge house.

“Miss Avice,” he said, when he saw her, “Please kin I look at Mr. Trowbridge’s c’lection, if I won’t touch nothin’? Oh, please do lemme, won’t you?”

“Yes, if you promise to touch nothing,” and Avice led the way to the room, with its glass cases and cabinets of shallow drawers that held the stuffed birds and mounted insects so carefully arranged by the naturalist.

Rapidly Fibsy scanned the various specimens. Eagerly he scrutinized the labels affixed to them. Oblivious to the amused girl who watched him, he darted from case to case, now and then nodding his shock of red hair, or blinking his round blue eyes.

After a time, he stood for a moment in deep thought, then with a little funny motion, meant for a bow, he said, abstractedly, “Goo’ by, Lady. Fergive me fer botherin – ” and rapidly descending the stairs he ran outdoors, and up the Avenue.

Half an hour later, he was at the door of a large college building, begging to be allowed to see Professor Meredith.

“Who are you?” asked the attendant.

“Nobody much,” returned Fibsy, honestly. “But me business is important. Wontcha tell Mr. – here, I’ll write it, it’s sorta secret – ” and taking a neat pad and pencil from his pocket, the boy wrote, “Concerning the Trowbridge murder,” and folded it small.

“Give him that,” he said, with a quiet dignity, “and don’t look inside.”

Then he waited, and after a moment was given audience with the Professor of Natural History.

“You wished to see me?” said the kindly voice of a kind-faced man, and Fibsy looked at him appraisingly.

“Yessir. Most important. And please, if you don’t want to tell me what I ask, don’t laugh at me, will you?”

“No, my lad, I rarely laugh at anything.”