The Greatest Works of Anna Katharine Green. Анна Грин

it’s been worn,” he smiled, “several times. And the hat-pin is in it, too.”

      “There is something else I wish to see.”

      He handed it over.

      “I think it belongs to one of them,” I declared. “It was made by La Mole of Fifth Avenue, whose prices are simply—wicked.”

      “But the young ladies have been gone—let me see—five months. Could this have been bought before then?”

      “Possibly, for this is an imported hat. But why should it have been left lying about in that careless way? It cost twenty dollars, if not thirty, and if for any reason its owner decided not to take it with her, why didn’t she pack it away properly? I have no patience with the modern girl; she is made up of recklessness and extravagance.”

      “I hear that the young ladies are staying with you,” was his suggestive remark.

      “They are.”

      “Then you can make some inquiries about this hat; also about the gloves, which are an ordinary street pair.”

      “Of what color?”

      “Grey; they are quite fresh, size six.”

      “Very well; I will ask the young ladies about them.”

      “This third room is used as a dining-room, and the closet where I found them is one in which glass is kept. The presence of this hat there is a mystery, but I presume the Misses Van Burnam can solve it. At all events, it is very improbable that it has anything to do with the crime which has been committed here.”

      “Very,” I coincided.

      “So improbable,” he went on, “that on second thoughts I advise you not to disturb the young ladies with questions concerning it unless further reasons for doing so become apparent.”

      “Very well,” I returned. But I was not deceived by his second thoughts.

      As he was holding open the parlor door before me in a very significant way, I tied my veil under my chin, and was about to leave when he stopped me.

      “I have another favor to ask,” said he, and this time with his most benignant smile. “Miss Butterworth, do you object to sitting up for a few nights till twelve o’clock?”

      “Not at all,” I returned, “if there is any good reason for it.”

      “At twelve o’clock to-night a gentleman will enter this house. If you will note him from your window I will be obliged.”

      “To see whether he is the same one I saw last night? Certainly I will take a look, but——”

      “To-morrow night,” he went on, imperturbably, “the test will be repeated, and I should like to have you take another look; without prejudice, madam; remember, without prejudice.”

      “I have no prejudices——” I began.

      “The test may not be concluded in two nights,” he proceeded, without any notice of my words. “So do not be in haste to spot your man, as the vulgar expression is. And now good-night—we shall meet again to-morrow.”

      “Wait!” I called peremptorily, for he was on the point of closing the door. “I saw the man but faintly; it is an impression only that I received. I would not wish a man to hang through any identification I could make.”

      “No man hangs on simple identification. We shall have to prove the crime, madam, but identification is important; even such as you can make.”

      There was no more to be said; I uttered a calm good-night and hastened away. By a judicious use of my opportunities I had become much less ignorant on the all-important topic than when I entered the house.

      It was half past eleven when I returned home, a late hour for me to enter my respectable front door alone. But circumstances had warranted my escapade, and it was with quite an easy conscience and a cheerful sense of accomplishment that I went up to my room and prepared to sit out the half hour before midnight.

      I am a comfortable sort of person when alone, and found no difficulty in passing this time profitably. Being very orderly, as you must have remarked, I have everything at hand for making myself a cup of tea at any time of day or night; so feeling some need of refreshment, I set out the little table I reserve for such purposes and made the tea and sat down to sip it.

      While doing so, I turned over the subject occupying my mind, and endeavored to reconcile the story told by the clock with my preconceived theory of this murder; but no reconcilement was possible. The woman had been killed at twelve, and the clock had fallen at five. How could the two be made to agree, and which, since agreement was impossible, should be made to give way, the theory or the testimony of the clock? Both seemed incontrovertible, and yet one must be false. Which?

      I was inclined to think that the trouble lay with the clock; that I had been deceived in my conclusions, and that it was not running at the time of the crime. Mr. Gryce may have ordered it wound, and then have had it laid on its back to prevent the hands from shifting past the point where they had stood at the time of the crime’s discovery. It was an unexplainable act, but a possible one; while to suppose that it was going when the shelves fell, stretched improbability to the utmost, there having been, so far as we could learn, no one in the house for months sufficiently dexterous to set so valuable a timepiece; for who could imagine the scrub-woman engaging in a task requiring such delicate manipulation.

      No! some meddlesome official had amused himself by starting up the works, and the clue I had thought so important would probably prove valueless.

      There was humiliation in the thought, and it was a relief to me to hear an approaching carriage just as the clock on my mantel struck twelve. Springing from my chair, I put out my light and flew to the window.

      The coach drew up and stopped next door. I saw a gentleman descend and step briskly across the pavement to the neighboring stoop. The figure he presented was not that of the man I had seen enter the night before.

Chapter VIII.

       The Misses Van Burnam

       Table of Contents

      Late as it was when I retired, I was up betimes in the morning—as soon, in fact, as the papers were distributed. The Tribune lay on the stoop. Eagerly I seized it; eagerly I read it. From its headlines you may judge what it had to say about this murder:

      A STARTLING DISCOVERY IN THE VAN BURNAM MANSION IN GRAMERCY PARK.

      A Young Girl Found there, Lying Dead under an Overturned Cabinet.

      Evidences that she was Murdered before it was Pulled down upon her.

      Thought by Some to be Mrs. Howard Van Burnam.

      A Fearful Crime Involved in an Impenetrable Mystery.

      What Mr. Van Burnam Says about it: He does not Recognize the Woman as his Wife.

      So, so, it was his wife they were talking about. I had not expected that. Well! well! no wonder the girls looked startled and concerned. And I paused to recall what I had heard about Howard Van Burnam’s marriage.

      It had not been a fortunate one. His chosen bride was pretty enough, but she had not been bred in the ways of fashionable society, and the other members of the family had never recognized her. The father, especially, had cut his son dead since his marriage, and had even gone so far as to threaten to dissolve the partnership in which they were all involved. Worse than this, there had been rumors of a disagreement between Howard and his wife. They were not always on good terms, and opinions differed as to which was most in fault. So much for what I knew of these two mentioned parties.

      Reading the article at length, I learned that Mrs. Van Burnam was missing; that she had left Haddam for