Raspberry Jam

“Because it is another’s! Eunice—tell me you do not care for Elliott—and I won’t say another word—now. I’ll wait patiently—for a year—two years—as long as you wish—only give me the assurance that you will not marry Mason Elliott.”

“You are impossible! How dare you speak to me of my marriage with anybody, when my husband is only just dead? One word more, Alvord, on the subject, and I shall forbid you my house!”

“All right, my lady! Put on your high and mighty air, if you choose—but before you marry that man—make sure that he did not himself prepare the way for the wedding!”

“What do you mean? Are you accusing Mason of—”

“I make no accusations. But—who did kill Sanford? I know you didn’t do it—and Elliott has engaged Stone to prove that you didn’t. It is absurd, we all know, to suspect Aunt Abby—I was out of town—who is left but Mason?”

“Hush! I won’t listen to, such a suggestion! Mason was at his home that night.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure! And I don’t have to have it proved by a detective either! And now, Alvord Hendricks, you may go! I don’t care to talk to anyone who can make such a contemptible accusation against a lifelong friend!”

But before Hendricks left, Elliott himself came in.

He was grave and preoccupied. He bowed a little curtly to Hendricks, and, as he took Eunice’s hand, he said, “May I see you alone? I want to talk over some business matters—and I’m pressed for time.”

“Oh, all right,” Hendricks said, “I can take a hint. I’m going. How’s your sleuth progressing, Elliott? Has Mr. Stone unearthed the murderer yet?”

“Not yet—but soon,” and Elliott essayed to pass the subject off lightly.

“Very soon?” Hendricks looked at him in a curious manner.

“Very soon, I think.”

“That’s interesting. Would it be indiscreet to ask in what direction one must look for the criminal?”

“It would very.” Elliott smiled a little. “Now run along, Hendricks, that’s a good chap. I’ve important business matters to talk over with Eunice.”

Hendricks went, and Elliott turned to Eunice, with a grave face,—

“I’ve been going over Sanford’s private papers,” he said, “and, Eunice, there’s a lot that we want to keep quiet.”

“Was Sanford a bad man?” she asked, her quiet, white face imploring a negative answer.

“Not so very, but, as you know, he had a love of money—a sort of acquisitiveness, that led him into questionable dealings. He loaned money to any one who would give him security—”

“That isn’t wrong!”

“Not in itself—but, oh, Eunice, I can’t explain it to you—or, at least, I don’t want to—but Sanford lent money to men—to his friends—who were in great exigency—who gave their choicest belongings, their treasures as security—and then—he had no leniency—no compassion for them—”

“Why should he have?”

“Because—well, there is a justice, that is almost criminal. Sanford was a—a Shylock! There, can you understand now?”

“Who were his debtors? Alvord?”

“Yes; Hendricks was one who owed him enormous sums—and he was going to make lots of trouble—I mean Sanford was—why, Eunice, in Sanford’s private safe are practically all of Hendricks’ stocks and bonds, put up as collateral. Sanford holds mortgages on all Hendricks’ belongings—real estate, furniture—everything. Now, just at the time Sanford died these notes were due—this indebtedness of Hendricks to Sanford had to be paid, and merely the fact of San’s death occurring just when it did saved Alvord from financial ruin.”

“Do you mean Sanford would have insisted on the payment?”

“Yes.”

“Then—oh, Mason I can’t say it—I wouldn’t breathe it to any one but you but could Alvord have killed Sanford?”

“Of course not, Eunice. He was in Boston, you know.”

“Yes, I know. But—Mason, he hinted to me just now, that that maybe you killed San.”

“Did he, dear? Then he was angry or—or crazy! He doesn’t think so. Perhaps he was—very jealous.”

“Yes, he was! How did you know?”

“I have eyes. You don’t care for him—particularly—do you—Eunice?”

Their eyes met and in one long look, the truth was told. A great love existed between these two, and both had been honest and honorable so long as Eunice was Sanford’s wife. And even now, though Embury was gone, Elliott made no protestation of love to his widow—said no word that might not have been heard by the whole world, but they both knew—no word was necessary.

A beautiful expression came over Eunice’s face—she smiled a little and the love-light in her eyes was unmistakable.

“I shall never lose my temper again,” she said, softly, and Mason Elliott believed her.

“Another big debtor to Sanford is Mr. Patterson,” he went on, forcing himself to calm his riotous pulses, and continue his business talk.

“How is that man mixed into our affars?”

“He’s very much mixed up in San’s affairs. But, Eunice, I don’t want to burden you with all these details. Only, you see, Alvord is your lawyer, and—it’s confoundedly awkward—”

“Look here, Mason, do this—can’t you? Forgive Alvord all Sanford’s claims on him. I mean, wipe the slate clean, as far as he is concerned. I don’t want his money—I mean I don’t want to keep his stocks and things. Give them all back to him, and hush the matter up. You know, we four, Sanford and Alvord and you and I, are the old quartet—the ‘three boys and a girl’ who used to play together. Now one of us is gone—don’t let’s make any trouble for another of the group. I’ve enough money without realizing on Alvord’s securities. Give them all back to him—and forget it. Can’t we?”

“Why, yes, I suppose so—if you so decree. What about Patterson?”

“Oh, those things you and Alvord must look after. I’ve no head for business. And anyway—must it be attended to at once?”

“Not immediately. Sanford’s estate is so large, and his debtors so numerous, it will take months to get it adjusted.”

“Very well, let anything unpleasant wait for a while, then.”

Now, on this very day, and at this very hour, Fibsy was in Philadelphia, watching the initial performance of a new “human fly.”

A crowd was gathered about the tall skyscraper, where the event was to take place, and when Hanlon appeared he was greeted by a roar, of cheering that warmed his applause-loving heart.

Bowing and smiling at his audience, he started on his perilous climb up the side of the building.

The sight was thrilling—nerve-racking. Breathlessly the people watched as he climbed up the straight, sheer facade, catching now at a window ledge—now at a bit of stone ornamentation—and again, seeming to hold on by nothing at all—almost as a real fly does.

When he negotiated a particularly difficult place, the crowd forebore to cheer, instinctively feeling it might disturb him.