The Greatest Works of Anna Katharine Green. Анна Грин

draw under her shawl the day before at the post-office, and read as follows:

      “DEAR, DEAR FRIEND:

       “I am in awful trouble. You who love me must know it. I cannot

       explain, I can only make one prayer. Destroy what you have,

       to-day, instantly, without question or hesitation. The consent

       of any one else has nothing to do with it. You must obey. I am

       lost if you refuse. Do then what I ask, and save

       “ONE WHO LOVES YOU.”

      It was addressed to Mrs. Belden; there was no signature or date, only the postmark New York; but I knew the handwriting. It was Mary Leavenworth’s.

      “A damning letter!” came in the dry tones which Q seemed to think fit to adopt on this occasion. “And a damning bit of evidence against the one who wrote it, and the woman who received it!”

      “A terrible piece of evidence, indeed,” said I, “if I did not happen to know that this letter refers to the destruction of something radically different from what you suspect. It alludes to some papers in Mrs. Belden’s charge; nothing else.”

      “Are you sure, sir?”

      “Quite; but we will talk of this hereafter. It is time you sent your telegram, and went for the coroner.”

      “Very well, sir.” And with this we parted; he to perform his role and I mine.

      I found Mrs. Belden walking the floor below, bewailing her situation, and uttering wild sentences as to what the neighbors would say of her; what the minister would think; what Clara, whoever that was, would do, and how she wished she had died before ever she had meddled with the affair.

      Succeeding in calming her after a while, I induced her to sit down and listen to what I had to say. “You will only injure yourself by this display of feeling,” I remarked, “besides unfitting yourself for what you will presently be called upon to go through.” And, laying myself out to comfort the unhappy woman, I first explained the necessities of the case, and next inquired if she had no friend upon whom she could call in this emergency.

      To my great surprise she replied no; that while she had kind neighbors and good friends, there was no one upon whom she could call in a case like this, either for assistance or sympathy, and that, unless I would take pity on her, she would have to meet it alone—“As I have met everything,” she said, “from Mr. Belden’s death to the loss of most of my little savings in a town fire last year.”

      I was touched by this,—that she who, in spite of her weakness and inconsistencies of character, possessed at least the one virtue of sympathy with her kind, should feel any lack of friends. Unhesitatingly, I offered to do what I could for her, providing she would treat me with the perfect frankness which the case demanded. To my great relief, she expressed not only her willingness, but her strong desire, to tell all she knew. “I have had enough secrecy for my whole life,” she said. And indeed I do believe she was so thoroughly frightened, that if a police-officer had come into the house and asked her to reveal secrets compromising the good name of her own son, she would have done so without cavil or question. “I feel as if I wanted to take my stand out on the common, and, in the face of the whole world, declare what I have done for Mary Leavenworth. But first,” she whispered, “tell me, for God’s sake, how those girls are situated. I have not dared to ask or write. The papers say a good deal about Eleanore, but nothing about Mary; and yet Mary writes of her own peril only, and of the danger she would be in if certain facts were known. What is the truth? I don’t want to injure them, only to take care of myself.”

      “Mrs. Belden,” I said, “Eleanore Leavenworth has got into her present difficulty by not telling all that was required of her. Mary Leavenworth—but I cannot speak of her till I know what you have to divulge. Her position, as well as that of her cousin, is too anomalous for either you or me to discuss. What we want to learn from you is, how you became connected with this affair, and what it was that Hannah knew which caused her to leave New York and take refuge here.”

      But Mrs. Belden, clasping and unclasping her hands, met my gaze with one full of the most apprehensive doubt. “You will never believe me,” she cried; “but I don’t know what Hannah knew. I am in utter ignorance of what she saw or heard on that fatal night; she never told, and I never asked. She merely said that Miss Leavenworth wished me to secrete her for a short time; and I, because I loved Mary Leavenworth and admired her beyond any one I ever saw, weakly consented, and——”

      “Do you mean to say,” I interrupted, “that after you knew of the murder, you, at the mere expression of Miss Leavenworth’s wishes, continued to keep this girl concealed without asking her any questions or demanding any explanations?”

      “Yes, sir; you will never believe me, but it is so. I thought that, since Mary had sent her here, she must have her reasons; and—and—I cannot explain it now; it all looks so differently; but I did do as I have said.”

      “But that was very strange conduct. You must have had strong reason for obeying Mary Leavenworth so blindly.”

      “Oh, sir,” she gasped, “I thought I understood it all; that Mary, the bright young creature, who had stooped from her lofty position to make use of me and to love me, was in some way linked to the criminal, and that it would be better for me to remain in ignorance, do as I was bid, and trust all would come right. I did not reason about it; I only followed my impulse. I couldn’t do otherwise; it isn’t my nature. When I am requested to do anything for a person I love, I cannot refuse.”

      “And you love Mary Leavenworth; a woman whom you yourself seem to consider capable of a great crime?”

      “Oh, I didn’t say that; I don’t know as I thought that. She might be in some way connected with it, without being the actual perpetrator. She could never be that; she is too dainty.”

      “Mrs. Belden,” I said, “what do you know of Mary Leavenworth which makes even that supposition possible?”

      The white face of the woman before me flushed. “I scarcely know what to reply,” she cried. “It is a long story, and——”

      “Never mind the long story,” I interrupted. “Let me hear the one vital reason.”

      “Well,” said she, “it is this; that Mary was in an emergency from which nothing but her uncle’s death could release her.”

      “Ah, how’s that?”

      But here we were interrupted by the sound of steps on the porch, and, looking out, I saw Q entering the house alone. Leaving Mrs. Belden where she was, I stepped into the hall.

      “Well,” said I, “what is the matter? Haven’t you found the coroner? Isn’t he at home?”

      “No, gone away; off in a buggy to look after a man that was found some ten miles from here, lying in a ditch beside a yoke of oxen.” Then, as he saw my look of relief, for I was glad of this temporary delay, said, with an expressive wink: “It would take a fellow a long time to go to him—if he wasn’t in a hurry—hours, I think.”

      “Indeed!” I returned, amused at his manner. “Rough road?”

      “Very; no horse I could get could travel it faster than a walk.”

      “Well,” said I, “so much the better for us. Mrs. Belden has a long story to tell, and——”

      “Doesn’t wish to be interrupted. I understand.”

      I nodded and he turned towards the door.

      “Have you telegraphed Mr. Gryce?” I asked.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Do you think he will come?”

      “Yes, sir; if he has to hobble on two sticks.”

      “At what time do you look for him?”

      “You