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<div><h1>XX</h1></div> CICELY’S FLIGHT Mr. Benson was astounded at the turn affairs had taken; but though it had seemed to him that all the evidence had pointed toward Carleton’s guilt, he was really relieved to find another outlet for his suspicions. He listened attentively to what Fessenden said, and Rob was careful to express no opinion, but merely to state such facts as he knew in support of this new theory. Detective Fairbanks was sent for, and he, too, listened eagerly to the latest developments. It seemed to Rob that Mr. Fairbanks was rather pleased than otherwise to turn the trend of suspicion in another direction. And this was true, for though the detective felt a natural reluctance to suspect a woman, he had dreaded all along lest Carleton should be looked upon as a criminal merely because there was no one else to be considered. And Mr. Fairbanks’s quick mind realized that if there were two suspects, there yet might be three, or more, and Schuyler Carleton would at least have a fair chance. All things concerned seemed to have taken on a new interest, and Mr. Fairbanks proposed to begin investigations at once. “But I don’t see,” he complained, “why Mr. Carleton so foolishly concealed that reliquary business. Why didn’t he explain that at once?” “Carleton is a peculiar nature,” said Rob. “He is shrinkingly sensitive about his private affairs, and, being innocent, he had no fear at first that even suspicion would rest upon him, so he saw no reason to tell about what would have been looked upon as a silly superstition. Had he been brought to trial, he would doubtless have made a clean breast of the matter. He is a strange man, any way; very self-contained, abnormally sensitive, and not naturally frank. But if freed from suspicion he will be more approachable, and may yet be of help to us in our search.” “Of course, though,” said Mr. Fairbanks thoughtfully, “you must realize that to a disinterested observer this affair of Mr. Carleton and Miss Burt does not help to turn suspicion away from him.” “I do realize that,” said Rob; “but to an interested observer it looks different. Why, if Mr. Carleton were the guilty man, he surely would not tell me so frankly the story of his interest in Miss Burt.” This was certainly true, and Mr. Fairbanks agreed to it. Rob had been obliged to tell the detective the facts of the case, though dilating as little as possible on Carleton’s private affairs. “At any rate,” said Mr. Fairbanks, “we will not consider Mr. Carleton for the present, but turn toward the new trail, and it may lead us, at least, in the right direction. If Miss Dupuy is innocent, our investigations can do her no harm, and if she knows more than she has told, we may be able to learn something of importance. But she is of such a hysterical nature, it is difficult to hold a satisfactory conversation with her.” “Perhaps it would be advisable for me to talk to her first,” said Rob. “I might put her more at her ease than a formidable detective could, and then I could report to you what I learn.” “Yes,” agreed the other; “you could choose an expedient time, and, being in the same house, Miss French might help you.” “She could secure an interview for me quite casually, I am sure. And then, if I don’t succeed, you can insist upon an official session, and question her definitely.” “There are indications,” mused Mr. Fairbanks, “that accidental leaving of such a paper on the table is a little unlikely. If it were done purposely, it would be far easier to understand.” “Yes, and, granting there is any ground for suspicion, all Miss Dupuy’s hysterics and disinclination to answer questions would be explained.” “Well, I hate to suspect a woman,—but we won’t call it suspicion; we’ll call it simply inquiry. You do what you can to get a friendly interview, and, if necessary, I’ll insist on an official one later.” Rob Fessenden went straight over to the Van Norman house, eager to tell Kitty French the developments of the afternoon. She was more than willing to revise her opinions, and was honestly glad that Mr. Carleton was practically exonerated. “Of course there’s nothing official,” said Rob, after he had told his whole story, “but the burden of suspicion has been lifted from Carleton, wherever it may next be placed.” At first Kitty was disinclined to think Cicely could be implicated. “She’s such a slip of a girl!” she said. “I don’t believe that little blue-eyed, yellow-haired thing could stab anybody.” “But you mustn’t reason that way,” argued Rob. “Opinions don’t count at all. We must try to get at the facts. Now let us go at once and interview Miss Dupuy. Can’t we see her in that sitting-room, as we did before? And she mustn’t be allowed to faint this time.” “We can’t help her fainting,” declared Kitty, a little indignantly. “You’re just as selfish as all other men. Everything must bow to your will.” “I never pretended to any unmanly degree of unselfishness,” said Rob blandly. “But we must have this interview at once. Will you go ahead and prepare the way?” For answer Kitty ran upstairs and knocked at the door of what had been Madeleine’s sitting-room, where Miss Dupuy was usually to be found at this hour of the day. The door was opened by Marie, who replied to Kitty’s question with a frightened air. “Miss Dupuy? She is gone away. On the train, with luggage.” “Gone! Why, when did she go?” “But a half-hour since. She went most suddenly.” “She did indeed! Does Miss Morton know of this?” “That I do not know, but I think so.” Kitty turned to find Fessenden behind her, and as he had overheard the latter part of the conversation he came into the room and closed the door. “Marie,” he said to the maid, “tell us your idea of why Miss Dupuy went away.” “She was in fear,” said Marie deliberately. “In fear of what?” “In fear of the detectives, and the questions they ask, and the dreadful coroner man. Miss Dupuy is not herself any more; she is so in fear she cannot sleep at night. Always she cries out in her dream.” Fessenden glanced at Kitty. “What does she say, Marie?” he asked. “Nothing that I can understand, m’sieu; but always low cries of fear, and sometimes she murmurs, ‘I must go away! I cannot again answer those dreadful questions. I shall betray my secret.’ Over and over she mutters that.” Fessenden began to grow excited. Surely this was evidence, and Cicely’s departure seemed to emphasize it. Without another word he went in search of Miss Morton. “Did you know Miss Dupuy was going away?” he said abruptly to her. “Yes,” she replied. “The poor girl is completely worn out. For the last few days she has been looking over Madeleine’s letters and papers and accounts, and she is really overworked, besides the fearful nervous strain we are all under.” “Where has she gone?” “I don’t know. I meant to ask her to leave an address, but she said she would write to me as soon as she reached her destination, and I thought no more about it.” “Miss Morton, she has run away. Some evidence has come to light that makes it seem possible she may be implicated in Madeleine’s death, and her sudden departure points toward her guilt.” “Guilt! Miss Dupuy? Oh, impossible! She is a strange and emotional little creature, but she couldn’t kill anybody. She isn’t that sort.” “I’m getting a little tired of hearing that this one or that one ‘isn’t that sort.’ Do you suppose anybody in decent society would ever be designated as one who is that sort? Unless the murderer was some outside tramp or burglar, it must have been some one probably not ‘of that sort.’ But, Miss Morton, we must find Miss Dupuy, and quickly. When did she go?” “I don’t know; some time ago, I think. I ordered the carriage to take her to the station. Perhaps she hasn’t gone yet—from the station, I mean.” Rob looked at his watch. “Do you know anything about train times?” he asked. “No except that there are not very many trains in the afternoon. I don’t even know which way she is going.” Rob thought quickly. It seemed foolish to try to overtake the girl at the railway station, but it was the only chance. He dashed downstairs, and, catching up a cap as he rushed through the hall, he was out on the road in a few seconds, and running at a steady, practised gait toward the railroad. After he had gone a few blocks he saw a motor-car standing in front of a house. He jumped in and said to the astonished chauffeur, “Whiz me down to the railroad station, and I’ll make it all right with your master, and with you, too.” The machine was a doctor’s runabout, and the chauffeur knew that the doctor was making a long call, so he was not at all unwilling to obey this impetuous and masterful young man. Away they went, doubtless exceeding the speed limit, and in a short time brought up suddenly at the railroad station. Rob jumped out, flung a bill to the chauffeur, gave him a card to give to his master, and waved a good-by as the motor-car vanished. He strode into the station, only to be informed by the ticket-agent that a train had left for New York about a quarter of an hour since, and another would come along in about five minutes, which, though it made no regular stop at Mapleton, could be flagged if desired. A few further questions brought out the information that a young woman corresponding to the description of Miss Dupuy had gone on that train. Fessenden thought quickly. The second train, a fast one, he knew would pass the other at a siding, and if he took it, he would reach New York before Cicely did, and could meet her there when she arrived at the station. Had he had longer to consider, he might have acted differently, but on the impulse of the moment, he bought a ticket, said, “Flag her, please,” and soon he was on the train actually in pursuit of the escaping girl. As he settled himself in his seat, he rather enjoyed the fact that he was doing real detective work now. Surely Mr. Fairbanks would be pleased at his endeavors to secure the interview with Miss Dupuy under such difficulties. But his plan to meet her at the Grand Central Station was frustrated by an unforeseen occurrence. His own train was delayed by a hot box, and he learned that he would not reach New York until after Miss Dupuy had arrived there. Return from a way station was possible, but Rob didn’t want to go back to Mapleton with his errand unaccomplished. He thought it over, and decided on a radical course of action. Instead of alighting there himself, he wrote a telegram which he had despatched from the way station to Miss Kitty French, and which ran: <div class='blockquote0r9'> Gone to New York. Make M. tell C.’s address and wire me at the Waldorf. </div> It was a chance, but he took it and, any way, it meant only spending the night in New York, and returning to Mapleton next day, if his plan failed. He had a strong conviction that Marie knew Cicely’s address, although she had denied it. If this were true, Kitty could possibly learn it from her, and let him know in time to hunt up Cicely in New York. And if Marie really did not know the address, there was no harm done, after all. The excitement of the chase stimulated Rob’s mental activity, and he gave rein to his imagination. If Cicely Dupuy were guilty, she would act exactly as she had done, he thought. A calmer, better-balanced woman would have stayed at Mapleton and braved it out, but Miss Dupuy’s excitable temperament would not let her sleep or rest, and made it impossible for her to face inquiry discreetly. Rob purposed, if he received the address he hoped for, to go to see the girl in New York, and by judicious kindliness of demeanor to learn more from her about the case than she would tell under legal pressure. As it turned out, whatever might be his powers of detective acumen, his intuition regarding Marie’s information was correct. Kitty French, quickly catching the tenor of the telegram, took Marie aside, and commanded her to give up the address. Marie volubly protested and denied her knowledge, but Kitty was firm, and the stronger will conquered. Luckily, Marie at last told, and Kitty went herself to send the telegram. Marie accompanied her, as it was then well after dusk, but Kitty did not permit the girl to enter the telegraph office with her. And so, by ten o’clock that evening, Rob Fessenden received from the hotel clerk a telegram bearing an address in West Sixty-sixth Street, which not only satisfied his wish, but caused him to feel greatly pleased at his own sagacity. It was too late to go up there that evening, and so the amateur detective was forced to curb his impatience until the next morning. He was afraid the bird might have flown by that time, but there was no help for it. He thought of telephoning, but he didn’t know the name of the people Cicely had gone to, and too, even if he could succeed in getting the call, such a proceeding would only startle her. So he devoted the rest of the evening to writing a letter to Kitty French, ostensibly to thank her for her assistance, but really for the pleasure of writing her. This he posted at midnight, thinking that if he should be detained longer than he anticipated, she would then understand why. Next morning the eager young man ate his breakfast, and read his paper, a bit impatiently, while he waited for it to be late enough to start. Soon after nine, he called a taxicab and went to the address Kitty had sent him. Only the house number had been told in the message, so when Fessenden found himself in the vestibule of an apartment house, with sixteen names above corresponding bells, he was a bit taken aback. “I wish I’d started earlier,” he thought, “for it’s a matter of trying them all until I strike the right one.” But he fancied he could deduce something from the names themselves, at least, for a start. Eliminating one or two Irish sounding names, also a Smith and a Miller, he concluded to try first two names which were doubtless French. The first gave him no success at all, but, undiscouraged, he tried the other. “I wish to see Miss Dupuy,” he said, to the woman who opened the door. “She is not here,” was the curt answer. But the intelligence in the woman’s eye at the mention of the name proved to Fessenden that at least this was the place. “Don’t misunderstand,” he said gently. “I want to see Miss Dupuy merely for a few moments’ friendly conversation. It will be for her advantage to see me, rather than to refuse.” “But she is not here,” repeated the woman. “There is no person of that name in my house.” “When did she go?” asked Rob quietly—so quietly that the woman was taken off her guard. “About half an hour ago,” she said, and then, with a horror-stricken look at her own thoughtlessness, she added hastily, “I mean my friend went. Your Miss Dupuy I do not know.” “Yes, you do,” said Rob decidedly, “and as she has gone, you must tell me at once where she went.” The woman refused, and not until after a somewhat stormy scene, and some rather severe threats on Fessenden’s part did she consent to tell that Cicely had gone to the Grand Central Station. More than this she would not say, and thinking he was wasting valuable time on her, Rob turned and, racing down the stairs, for there was no elevator, he jumped in his cab and whizzed away to the station. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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