The Greatest Works of Anna Katharine Green. Анна Грин

I remarked.

      I did not know what she had to be grateful to me for, but she had so plainly intimated at our first interview that she regarded me as having done her some favor, that I was disposed to make what use of it I could, to gain her confidence.

      “I know, ma’am, but if you could see how I’ve been harried, ma’am. It’s the murder, and nothing but the murder all the time; and it was to get away from the talk about it that I came here, ma’am, and now it’s you I see, and you’ll be talking about it too, or why be in such a place as this, ma’am?”

      “And what if I do talk about it? You know I’m your friend, or I never would have done you that good turn the morning we came upon the poor girl’s body.”

      “I know, ma’am, and grateful I am for it, too; but I’ve never understood it, ma’am. Was it to save me from being blamed by the wicked police, or was it a dream you had, and the gentleman had, for I’ve heard what he said at the inquest, and it’s muddled my head till I don’t know where I’m standing.”

      What I had said and what the gentleman had said! What did the poor thing mean? As I did not dare to show my ignorance, I merely shook my head.

      “Never mind what caused us to speak as we did, as long as we helped you. And we did help you? The police never found out what you had to do with this woman’s death, did they?”

      “No, ma’am, O no, ma’am. When such a respectable lady as you said that you saw the young lady come into the house in the middle of the night, how was they to disbelieve it. They never asked me if I knew any different.”

      “No,” said I, almost struck dumb by my success, but letting no hint of my complacency escape me. “And I did not mean they should. You are a decent woman, Mrs. Boppert, and should not be troubled.”

      “Thank you, ma’am. But how did you know she had come to the house before I left. Did you see her?”

      I hate a lie as I do poison, but I had to exercise all my Christian principles not to tell one then.

      “No,” said I, “I didn’t see her, but I don’t always have to use my eyes to know what is going on in my neighbor’s houses.” Which is true enough, if it is somewhat humiliating to confess it.

      “O ma’am, how smart you are, ma’am! I wish I had some smartness in me. But my husband had all that. He was a man—O what’s that?”

      “Nothing but the tea-caddy; I knocked it over with my elbow.”

      “How I do jump at everything! I’m afraid of my own shadow ever since I saw that poor thing lying under that heap of crockery.”

      “I don’t wonder.”

      “She must have pulled those things over herself, don’t you think so, ma’am? No one went in there to murder her. But how came she to have those clothes on. She was dressed quite different when I let her in. I say it’s all a muddle, ma’am, and it will be a smart man as can explain it.”

      “Or a smart woman,” I thought.

      “Did I do wrong, ma’am? That’s what plagues me. She begged so hard to come in, I didn’t know how to shut the door on her. Besides her name was Van Burnam, or so she told me.”

      Here was a coil. Subduing my surprise, I remarked:

      “If she asked you to let her in, I do not see how you could refuse her. Was it in the morning or late in the afternoon she came?”

      “Don’t you know, ma’am? I thought you knew all about it from the way you talked.”

      Had I been indiscreet? Could she not bear questioning? Eying her with some severity, I declared in a less familiar tone than any I had yet used:

      “Nobody knows more about it than I do, but I do not know just the hour at which this lady came to the house. But I do not ask you to tell me if you do not want to.”

      “O ma’am,” she humbly remonstrated, “I am sure I am willing to tell you everything. It was in the afternoon while I was doing the front basement floor.”

      “And she came to the basement door?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “And asked to be let in?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “Young Mrs. Van Burnam?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “Dressed in a black and white plaid silk, and wearing a hat covered with flowers?”

      “Yes, ma’am, or something like that. I know it was very bright and becoming.”

      “And why did she come to the basement door—a lady dressed like that?”

      “Because she knew I couldn’t open the front door; that I hadn’t the key. O she talked beautiful, ma’am, and wasn’t proud with me a bit. She made me let her stay in the house, and when I said it would be dark after a while and that I hadn’t done nothing to the rooms upstairs, she laughed and said she didn’t care, that she wasn’t afraid of the dark and had just as lieve as not stay in the big house alone all night, for she had a book—Did you say anything, ma’am?”

      “No, no, go on, she had a book.”

      “Which she could read till she got sleepy. I never thought anything would happen to her.”

      “Of course not, why should you? And so you let her into the house and left her there when you went out of it? Well, I don’t wonder you were shocked to see her lying dead on the floor next morning.”

      “Awful, ma’am. I was afraid they would blame me for what had happened. But I didn’t do nothing to make her die. I only let her stay in the house. Do you think they will do anything to me if they know it?”

      “No,” said I, trying to understand this woman’s ignorant fears, “they don’t punish such things. More’s the pity!”—this in confidence to myself. “How could you know that a piece of furniture would fall on her before morning. Did you lock her in when you left the house?”

      “Yes, ma’am. She told me to.”

      Then she was a prisoner.

      Confounded by the mystery of the whole affair, I sat so still the woman looked up in wonder, and I saw I had better continue my questions.

      “What reason did she give for wanting to stay in the house all night?”

      “What reason, ma’am? I don’t know. Something about her having to be there when Mr. Van Burnam came home. I didn’t make it out, and I didn’t try to. I was too busy wondering what she would have to eat.”

      “And what did she have?”

      “I don’t know, ma’am. She said she had something, but I didn’t see it.”

      “Perhaps you were blinded by the money she gave you. She gave you some, of course?”

      “O, not much, ma’am, not much. And I wouldn’t have taken a cent if it had not seemed to make her so happy to give it. The pretty, pretty thing! A real lady, whatever they say about her!”

      “And happy? You said she was happy, cheerful-looking, and pretty.”

      “O yes, ma’am; she didn’t know what was going to happen. I even heard her sing after she went up-stairs.”

      I wished that my ears had been attending to their duty that day, and I might have heard her sing too. But the walls between my house and that of the Van Burnams are very thick, as I have had occasion to observe more than once.

      “Then she went up-stairs before you left?”

      “To be sure, ma’am; what would she do in the kitchen?”

      “And