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<div><h1>XXI</h1></div> A SUCCESSFUL PURSUIT Before he entered the station he looked through the doorway, and to his delight saw the girl for whom he was looking. He did not rush madly into the station, but paused a moment, and then walked in quietly, thinking that if his quest should be successful he must not frighten the excitable girl. Cicely sat on one of the benches in the waiting-room. In her dainty travelling costume of black, and her small hat with its black veil, she looked so fair and young that Rob felt sudden misgivings as to his errand. But it must be done, and, quietly advancing, he took a seat beside her. “Where are you going, Miss Dupuy?” he asked in a voice which was kinder and more gentle than he himself realized. She looked up with a start, and said in a low voice, “Why do you follow me? May I not be left alone to go where I choose?” “You may, Miss Dupuy, if you will tell me where you are going, and give me your word of honor that you will return if sent for.” “To be put through an examination! No, thank you. I’m going away where I hope I shall never see a detective or a coroner again!” “Are you afraid of them, Miss Dupuy?” The girl gave him a strange glance; but it showed anxiety rather than fear. However, her only reply was a low spoken “Yes.” “And why are you afraid?” “I am afraid I may tell things that I don’t want to tell.” The girl spoke abstractedly and seemed to be thinking aloud rather than addressing her questioner. It may be that Fessenden was influenced by her beauty or by the exquisite femininity of her dainty contour and apparel, but aside from all this he received a sudden impression that what this girl said did not betoken guilt. He could not have explained it to himself, but he was at the moment convinced that though she knew more than she had yet told, Cicely Dupuy was herself innocent. “Miss Dupuy,” he said very earnestly, “won’t you look upon me as a friend instead of a foe? I am quite sure you can tell me more than you have told about the Van Norman tragedy. Am I wrong in thinking you are keeping something back?” “I have nothing to tell,” said Cicely, and the stubborn expression returned to her eyes. It did not seem a very appropriate place in which to carry on such a personal conversation, but Fessenden thought perhaps the very publicity of the scene might tend to make Miss Dupuy preserve her equanimity better than in a private house. So he went on: “Yes, you have several things to tell me, and I want you to tell me now. The last time I talked to you about this matter I asked you why you gave false evidence as to the time that Mr. Carleton entered the Van Norman house that evening, and you responded by fainting away. Now you must tell me why that question affected you so seriously.” “It didn’t. I was nervous and overwrought, and I chanced to faint just then.” Fessenden saw that this explanation was untrue, but had been thought up and held ready for this occasion. He saw, too, that the girl held herself well in hand, so he dared to be more definite in his inquiries. “Do you know, Miss Dupuy, that you are seriously incriminating yourself when you give false evidence?” “I don’t care,” was the answer, not flippantly given, but with an earnestness of which the speaker herself seemed unaware. And Fessenden was a good enough reader of character to perceive that she spoke truthfully. The only construction he could put upon this was that, as he couldn’t help believing, the girl was innocent and therefore feared no incriminating evidence against her. But in that case what was she afraid of, and why was she running away? “Miss Dupuy,” he began, starting on a new tack, “please show more confidence in me. Will you answer me more straightforwardly if I assure you of my belief in your own innocence? I will not conceal from you the fact that not every one is so convinced of that as I am, and so I look to you for help to establish it.” “Establish what? My innocence?” said Cicely, and now she looked bewildered, rather than afraid. “Does anybody think that I killed Miss Van Norman?” “Without going so far as to say any one thinks so, I will tell you that they think there are indications that point to such a thing.” “How absurd!” said Cicely, and the honesty of her tone seemed to verify Fessenden’s conviction that whatever guilty knowledge this girl might possess, she herself was innocent of crime. “If it is an absurd idea, then why not return to Mapleton and answer any queries that may be put to you? You are innocent, therefore you have nothing to fear.” “I have a great deal to fear.” The girl spoke gently, even sadly, now. She seemed full of anxiety and sorrow, that yet showed no trace of apprehension for herself. All at once a light broke upon Fessenden. She was shielding somebody. Nor was it hard to guess who it might be! “Miss Dupuy,” began Rob again, eagerly this time, “I have succeeded in establishing, practically, Mr. Carleton’s innocence. May I not likewise establish your own?” “Mr. Carleton’s innocence!” repeated the girl, clasping her hands. “Oh, is that true? Then who did do it?” “We don’t know yet,” went on Rob, hastening to make the most of the advantage he had gained; “but having assured you that it was not Schuyler Carleton, will you not tell me what it is you have been keeping secret?” “How do you know Mr. Carleton is innocent? Have you proved it? Has some one else confessed?” “No, no one has confessed. And, indeed, I may as well own up that no one is quite so sure of Mr. Carleton’s innocence as I am myself. But I am sure of it, and I’m going to prove it. Now, will you not help me to do so?” “How can I help you?” “By explaining that discrepancy in time, so far as you can. You testified that Mr. Carleton entered the house at half-past eleven, and Mr. Hunt said he came in at quarter-past. What made you tell that falsehood, and stick to it?” “Why, nothing,” exclaimed Cicely, “except that I thought I saw Mr. Carleton come into the house some little time before he cried out for help. I was looking over the baluster when Mr. Hunt said he saw me, and I, too, thought it was Mr. Carleton who came in then.” “It was Mr. Carleton, but he has satisfactorily explained why he came in, and what he was doing until the time when he called out for help. Why did you not tell us about this at first?” “I was afraid—afraid they might connect Mr. Carleton with the murder, and I was afraid——” “You were afraid that he really had done the deed?” “Yes,” said Cicely in a very low voice, but with an intonation that left no doubt of her truthfulness. “Then,” said Rob in his kindest way, “you may set your mind at rest. Mr. Carleton is no longer under actual suspicion, and you may go away, as you intended, for a few days’ rest. I should be glad to have your address, though I trust it will not be necessary for me to send for you; and I know you will not be called to witness against Schuyler Carleton.” Cicely gave the required address, and though they continued the conversation for a short time, Rob concluded that the girl knew nothing that actually bore on the case. Her own false evidence and nervous apprehension had all been because of her anxiety about Mr. Carleton, and her fear that he had really been the murderer. Her written paper, and all the evidences of her jealousy of Miss Van Norman, were the result of her secret and unrequited love for the man, and her attempted flight was only because she feared that her uncontrollable emotion and impulsive utterances might help to incriminate him. Fessenden was truly sorry for her, and glad that she could go away from the trying scenes for a time. He felt sure that she would come, if summoned, for now, relieved of her doubt of Carleton, she had no reason for refusing any testimony she could give. It was in a kindly spirit that he bade her good-by, and promised to use every effort not only to establish Carleton’s innocence, but to discover the guilty one. When Fessenden returned to the Van Norman house, several people were awaiting him in the library. Miss Morton and Kitty French were there, also Coroner Benson and Detective Fairbanks. “Were you too late?” asked Kitty, as Rob entered the room. “No, not too late. I found Miss Dupuy in the Grand Central station, and I had a talk with her.” “Well?” said Kitty impatiently. “She is as innocent as you or I.” “How did you find it out so quickly?” inquired Mr. Fairbanks, who had a real liking for the enthusiastic young fellow. “Why, I found out that she was hanging over the baluster, as Hunt said; and she did see Carleton come in at quarter after eleven. She then went back to her room, and heard Carleton cry out at half-past eleven, and when she discovered what had happened she suspected Carleton of the deed; and, endeavoring to shield him, she refused to give evidence that might incriminate him.” “But,” cried Kitty, “of course Mr. Carleton didn’t do it if Cicely did.” “But don’t you see, Miss French,” said the older detective, as Fessenden sat staring in blank surprise at what he deemed Kitty’s stupidity—“don’t you see that if Miss Dupuy suspected Mr. Carleton she couldn’t by any possibility be guilty herself.” “Why, of course she couldn’t!” exclaimed Kitty. “And I’m truly glad, for I can’t help liking that girl, if she is queer. But, then, who did do it?” Suspicion was again at a standstill. There was no evidence to point anywhere; there were no clues to follow, and no one had any suggestion to offer. It was at this juncture that Tom Willard and Schuyler Carleton came in together. They were told of Fessenden’s interview with Miss Dupuy at the station, and Carleton expressed himself as thoroughly glad that the girl was exonerated. He said little, however, for it was a delicate subject, since it all hinged on Miss Dupuy’s affection for himself. Tom Willard listened to Fessenden’s recital, but he only said that nothing would ever have induced him to suspect Miss Dupuy, any way, for it could not have been the deed of a fragile young girl. “The blow that killed Maddy was powerfully dealt,” said Tom; “and I can’t help thinking it was some tramp or professional burglar who was clever enough to elude Harris’s fastenings. Or some window may have been overlooked that night. At any rate, we have no more plausible theory.” “We have not,” said Mr. Fairbanks; “but I for one am not content to let the matter rest here. I should like to suggest that we call in some celebrated detective, whose experience and skill would discover what is beyond the powers of Mr. Fessenden and myself.” Rob felt flattered that Mr. Fairbanks classed him with himself, and felt anxious too that the suggestion of employing a more skilful detective should be carried out. “But,” objected Coroner Benson, “to engage a detective of high standing would entail considerable expense, and I’m not sure that I’m authorized to sanction this.” There was a silence, but nearly every one in the room was thinking that surely this was the time for Tom Willard to make use of his lately inherited Van Norman money. Nor was Willard delinquent. Though showing no overwillingness in the matter, he said plainly that he would be glad if Coroner Benson or Mr. Fairbanks would engage the services of the best detective they could find, and allow him to defray all expenses attendant thereon. At this a murmur of approval went round the room. All his hearers were at their wits’ end what to do next, and the opportunity of putting a really great detective on the case was welcome indeed. “But I don’t believe,” said Willard, “that he will find out anything more than our own men have discovered.” The appreciative glance Tom gave Mr. Fairbanks and Rob quite soothed whatever touch of jealousy they may have felt of the new detective. It was Carleton who suggested Fleming Stone. He did not know the man personally, but he had read and heard of the wonderful work he had done in celebrated cases all over the country. Of course they had all heard of Fleming Stone, and each felt a thrill of gratitude to Willard, whose wealth made it possible to employ the great detective. Mr. Fairbanks wasted no time, but wrote at once to Fleming Stone, and received a reply stating that he would arrive in Mapleton in a few days. But in the meantime Rob Fessenden could not be idle. In truth, he had a secret ambition to solve the mystery himself, before the great detective came, and to this end he stayed on in Mapleton, and racked his brain for ideas on the subject. Mr. Fairbanks was more easily discouraged, and frankly confessed the case was beyond his powers. Privately, he still suspected Mr. Carleton, but in the face of Rob’s faith in his friend, and also because of the demeanor of Carleton himself, he couldn’t avow his suspicions. For since Fessenden’s assertions of confidence, Carleton had changed in his attitude toward the world at large. Still broken and saddened by the tragedy, he did not show that abject and self-condemnatory air which had hung round him during the inquest week. Kitty French had almost recovered faith in him, and had there been any one else at all to suspect, she would have asserted her belief in his innocence. Carleton himself seemed baffled. His suspicions had been directed toward Cicely, because he could see no other possibility; but the proof of her suspicions of himself, of course, showed he was wrong in the matter. He could suggest nothing; he could think of nobody who might have done the deed, and he was thoroughly content to place the whole affair unreservedly in the hands of Fleming Stone. Indeed, every one seemed to be glad of the expected help, if we except Fessenden. He was restlessly eager to do something himself, and saw no reason why he shouldn’t keep on trying until Stone came. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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