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<div><h1>XXII</h1></div> A TALK WITH MISS MORTON Of course Fessenden confided his wishes to Kitty French. Equally of course, that obliging young woman was desirous of helping him attain them. But neither of them could think of new lines of investigation to pursue. “We’ve no clue but that little cachou,” said Miss French, by way of summing up; “and as that’s no good at all, we have really nothing that can be called a clue.” “No,” agreed Rob, “and we have no suspect. Now that Carleton and Miss Dupuy are both out of it, I don’t see who could have done it.” “I never felt fully satisfied about Miss Morton and her burned paper,” said Kitty thoughtfully. They were walking along a village road while carrying on this conversation, so there was no danger of Miss Morton’s overhearing them. “I’ve never felt satisfied about that woman, any way,” said Rob. “The oftener I see her the less I like her. She’s too smug and complacent. And yet when she was questioned, she went all to pieces.” “Well, as she flatly contradicted what Marie had said, of course they couldn’t keep on questioning her. You can’t take a servant’s word against a lady’s.” “You ought to, in a serious case like this. I say, Kitty, let’s go there now and have a heart-to-heart talk with her.” Kitty laughed at the idea of a heart-to-heart talk between those two people, but said she was willing to go. “It mayn’t amount to anything,” went on Rob, “and yet, it may. I’ve asked Mr. Fairbanks to chase up that burned paper matter, but he said there was nothing in it. He didn’t hear Marie’s story, you see,—he only heard it retold, and he doesn’t know how sincere that girl seemed to be when she told about it.” “Yes, and I saw Miss Morton in Maddy’s room, too. I think she ought to tell what she was up to.” So to the Van Norman house went the two inquisitors, and had Miss Morton known of their fell designs she might not have greeted them as cordially as she did. Miss Morton had grown fond of Kitty French during the girl’s stay with her, and she looked with approval on the fast-growing friendship between her and young Fessenden. As the hostess at the Van Norman house, too, Miss Morton showed a kindly hospitality, and though she was without doubt eccentric, and sometimes curt of speech, she conducted the household and directed the servants with very little friction or awkwardness. She was most friendly toward Tom Willard and Schuyler Carleton, and the latter often dropped in at the tea hour. Fessenden dropped in at any hour of the day, and of course Mr. Fairbanks came and went as he chose. Fessenden and Kitty found Miss Morton in the library, and, as they had decided beforehand, went straight to the root of the matter. “Miss Morton,” Fessenden began, “I want to do a little more questioning on my own account, before Mr. Fleming Stone arrives. I’m sure you won’t object to helping me out a bit by answering a few queries.” “Go ahead,” said Miss Morton grimly, but not unkindly. “They are a bit personal,” went on Rob, who was at a loss how to begin, now that he was really told to do so. “Well?” This time, Miss Morton’s tone was more crisp, and Kitty began to see that Rob was on the wrong tack. So she took the helm herself, and said, with a winning smile: “We want you to tell us frankly what was the paper you burned.” Something in Miss Morton’s expression went to the girl’s heart, and she added impulsively: “I know it wasn’t anything that affects the case at all, and if you want to refuse us, you may.” “I’d rather not tell you,” said Miss Morton, and a far-away look came into her strange eyes; “but since you have shown confidence in me, I prefer to return it.” She took Kitty’s hand in hers, and from the gentle touch the girl was sure that whatever was the nature of the coming confidence, it was not that of a guilty conscience. “As you know, Kitty,” she began, addressing the girl, though she glanced at Rob occasionally, “many years ago I was betrothed to Richard Van Norman. We foolishly allowed a trifling quarrel to separate us for life. I will not tell you the story of that now,—though I will, some time, if you care to hear it. But we were both quick-tempered, and the letters that passed between us at that time were full of hot, angry, unconsidered words. They were letters such as no human beings ought to have written to each other. Perhaps it was because of their exceeding bitterness, which we read and reread, that we never made up that quarrel, though neither of us ever loved any one else, or ceased to love the other. At the death of Richard Van Norman, two years or more ago, I burned his letters which I had kept so long, and I wrote to Madeleine, asking her to return mine to me if they should be found among her uncle’s papers.” “Dear Miss Morton,” said Kitty, “don’t tell any more if it pains you. We withdraw our request, don’t we, Rob?” “Yes, indeed,” said Fessenden heartily; “forgive us, Miss Morton, for what is really an intrusion, and an unwarrantable one.” “I want to tell you a little more,” Miss Morton resumed, “and afterward I’ll tell you why I’ve told it. Madeleine replied with a most kind letter, saying she had not found the letters, but should she ever do so, she would send them to me. About a year ago, she wrote and asked me to come here to see her. I came, thinking she had found those letters. She had not, but she had found her uncle’s diary, which disclosed his feelings toward me, both before and after our quarrel, and she told me then she intended to leave this place to me in her will, because she thought it ought to be mine. Truth to tell, I didn’t take much interest in this bequest, for I supposed the girl would long outlive me. But I had really no desire for the house without its master, and though I didn’t tell her so, I would rather have had the letters which I hoped she had found, than the news of her bequest.” “Why did you want the letters so much, Miss Morton?” asked Kitty. “Because, my dear, they were a disgrace to me. They would be a disgrace to any woman alive. You, my child, with your gentle disposition, can’t understand what dreadful cruelty an angry woman can be guilty of on paper. Well, again Madeleine told me she would give me the letters if they ever appeared, and I went home. I didn’t hear from her again till shortly before her wedding, when she wrote me that the letters had been found in a secret drawer of Richard’s old desk. She invited me to come to her wedding, and said that she would then give me the letters. Of course I came, and that afternoon that I arrived she told me they were in her desk, and she would give them to me next morning. I was more than impatient for them,—I had waited forty years for them,—but I couldn’t trouble her on her wedding eve. And then—when—when she went away from us, without having given them into my possession, I was so afraid they would fall into other hands, that I went in search of them. I found them in her desk, I took them to my room and burned them without reading them. And that is the true story of the burned papers. I did look over a memorandum book, thinking it might tell where they were. But right after that I found the letters themselves in the next compartment, and I took them. They were mine.” The dignified complacency with which Miss Morton uttered that last short sentence commanded the respect of her hearers. “Indeed, they were yours, Miss Morton,” said Fessenden, “and I’m glad you secured them, before other eyes saw them.” Kitty said nothing, but held Miss Morton’s hand in a firm, gentle pressure that seemed to seal their friendship. “But,” said Fessenden, a little diffidently, “why didn’t you tell all this at the inquest as frankly as you have told us?” Miss Morton paled, and then grew red. “I am an idiot about such things,” she said. “When questioned publicly, like that, I am so embarrassed and also so fearful that I scarcely know what I say. I try to hide this by a curt manner and a bravado of speech, with the result that I get desperate and say anything that comes into my head, whether it’s the truth or not. I not only told untruths, but I contradicted myself, when witnessing, but I couldn’t seem to help it. I lost control of my reasoning powers, and finally I felt my only safety was in denying it all. For—and this was my greatest fear—I thought they might suspect that I killed Madeleine, if they knew I did burn the papers. Afterward, I would have confessed that I had testified wrongly, but I couldn’t see how it would do any good.” “No,” said Rob slowly, “except to exonerate Marie of falsehood.” Miss Morton set her lips together tightly, and seemed unwilling to pursue that subject. “And now,” she said, “the reason I’ve told you two young people this, is because I want to warn you not to let a quarrel or a foolish misunderstanding of any sort come between you to spoil the happiness that I see is in store for you.” “Good for you! Miss Morton!” cried Rob. “You’re a brick! You’ve precipitated matters a little; Kitty and I haven’t put it into words as yet, but—we accept these preliminary congratulations,—don’t we, dear?” And foolish little Kitty only smiled, and buried her face on Miss Morton’s shoulder instead of the young man’s! And so, Miss Morton’s name was erased from Rob’s list of people to be inquired of, and, as he acknowledged to himself, he was quite ready now to turn over his share in the case to Fleming Stone. And, too, since Miss Morton had given a gentle push to the rolling stone of his affair with Kitty, it rolled faster, and the two young people had their heart-to-heart talks with each other, instead of adding a third to the interview. But there was just one more unfinished duty that Fessenden determined to attend to. Carleton had assured him that he was at liberty to talk to Dorothy Burt, if he chose, and Rob couldn’t help thinking that he ought to get all possible light on the case before Mr. Stone came; for he proposed to assist that gentleman greatly by his carefully tabulated statements, and his cross-referenced columns of evidence. So, unaccompanied by Kitty, who was apt to prove a disturbing influence on his concentration of mind, he interviewed Miss Burt. It was not difficult to get an opportunity, as she rarely left the house, and Mrs. Carleton was not exigent in her demands on her companion’s time. So the two strolled in the rose-garden late one afternoon, and Rob asked Miss Burt to tell him why she hesitated so when on the witness stand, and why she looked at Carleton with such unmistakable glances of inquiry, which he as certainly answered. Dorothy Burt replied to the questions as frankly as they were put. “To explain it to you, Mr. Fessenden,” she said, “I must first tell you that I loved Mr. Carleton even while Miss Van Norman was his affianced bride. I tell you this simply, both because it is the simple truth and because Mr. Carleton advised me to tell you, if you should ask me. And, knowing this, you may be surprised to learn that when I heard of Miss Van Norman’s death, I——” she raised her wonderful eyes and looked straight at Rob—“I thought she died by Schuyler’s hand. Yes, you may well look at me in surprise,—I know it was dreadful of me to think he could have done it, but—I did think so. You see, I loved him,—and I knew he loved me. He had never told me so, had never breathed a word that was disloyal to Miss Van Norman,—and yet I knew. And that last evening in this very rose-garden, on the night before his wedding, we walked here together, and I knew from what he didn’t say, not from what he did say, that it was I whom he loved, and not she. He left me with a few cold, curt words that I knew only too well masked his real feelings, and I saw him no more that night. He had told me he was going over to Miss Van Norman’s, and so, when I heard of the—the tragedy—I couldn’t help thinking he had yielded to a sudden terrible impulse. Oh, I’m not defending myself for my wrong thought of him; I’m only confessing that I did think that.” “And how did you learn that you were mistaken,” said Rob gently, “and that Schuyler didn’t do it?” “Why, the very next night he told me he loved me,” said the girl, her face alight with a tender glory, “and then I knew!” “And your embarrassment at the questions on the witness stand?” “Was only because I knew suspicion was directed toward him, and I feared I might say something to strengthen it, even while trying to do the opposite.” “And you didn’t care whether you told the truth or not?” “If the truth would help to incriminate Schuyler, I would prefer not to tell it.” The gentle sadness in Dorothy’s tone robbed this speech of the jarring note it would otherwise have held. “You are right, Miss Burt,” said Rob, “and I thank you for the frank confidence you have shown in talking to me as freely as you have done.” “Schuyler told me to,” said the girl simply. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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