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Lost Man's Lane

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<h1>LOST MAN'S LANE</h1> <h3>A SECOND EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF AMELIA BUTTERWORTH</h3> <h2>BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN</h2> <h4>(MRS. CHARLES ROHLFS)</h4> <h4>Author of "That Affair Next Door," "The Leavenworth Case," "The Forsaken Inn," etc.</h4> <h4>G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS NEW YORK & LONDON The Knickerbocker Press 1899</h4> <h4>Copyright, 1898 BY ANNA KATHARINE ROHLFS</h4> <h4>Entered at Stationers' Hall, London</h4> <h4>Set up and electrotyped March, 1898. Reprinted March, 1898; April, 1898; July, 1898; Aug., 1898; Oct., 1898; Aug., 1899</h4> <h4>The Knickerbocker Press, New York</h4> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h4>To ELIZABETH D. SHEPARD COUSIN AND FRIEND THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED</h4> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>PREFACE</h2> A word to my readers before they begin these pages. As a woman of inborn principle and strict Presbyterian training, I hate deception and cannot abide subterfuge. This is why, after a year or more of hesitation, I have felt myself constrained to put into words the true history of the events surrounding the solution of that great mystery which made Lost Man's Lane the dread of the neighboring country. Feminine delicacy, and a natural shrinking from revealing to the world certain weaknesses on my part, inseparable from a true relation of this tale, led me to consent to the publication of that meagre and decidedly falsified account of the matter which has appeared in some of our leading papers. But conscience has regained its sway in my breast, and with all due confidence in your forbearance, I herein take my rightful place in these annals, of whose interest and importance I now leave you to judge. Amelia Butterworth. Gramercy Park, New York. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>CONTENTS</h2>  BOOK I THE KNOLLYS FAMILY I.—A VISIT FROM MR. GRYCE II.—I AM TEMPTED III.—I SUCCUMB IV.—A GHOSTLY INTERIOR V.—A STRANGE HOUSEHOLD VI.—A SOMBRE EVENING VII.—THE FIRST NIGHT VIII.—ON THE STAIRS IX.—A NEW ACQUAINTANCE X.—SECRET INSTRUCTIONS XI.—MEN, WOMEN, AND GHOSTS XII.—THE PHANTOM COACH XIII.—GOSSIP XIV.—I FORGET MY AGE, OR, RATHER, REMEMBER IT BOOK II THE FLOWER PARLOR XV.—LUCETTA FULFILS MY EXPECTATION OF HER XVI.—LOREEN XVII.—THE FLOWER PARLOR XVIII.—THE SECOND NIGHT XIX.—A KNOT OF CRAPE XX.—QUESTIONS XXI.—MOTHER JANE XXII.—THE THIRD NIGHT BOOK III FORWARD AND BACK XXIII.—ROOM 3, HOTEL CARTER XXIV.—THE ENIGMA OF NUMBERS XXV.—TRIFLES, BUT NOT TRIFLING XXVI.—A POINT GAINED XXVII.—THE TEXT WITNESSETH XXVIII.—AN INTRUSION XXIX.—IN THE CELLAR XXX.—INVESTIGATION XXXI.—STRATEGY XXXII.—RELIEF BOOK IV THE BIRDS OF THE AIR XXXIII.—LUCETTA XXXIV.—CONDITIONS XXXV—THE DOVE XXXVI.—AN HOUR OF STARTLING EXPERIENCES XXXVII.—I ASTONISH MR. GRYCE AND HE ASTONISHES ME XXXVIII.—A FEW WORDS XXXIX.—UNDER A CRIMSON SKY XL.—EXPLANATIONS EPILOGUE WORKS BY Anna Katharine Green  <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>LOST MAN'S LANE</h2> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>BOOK I</h2> <h3>THE KNOLLYS FAMILY</h3> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>I</h2> <h3>A VISIT FROM MR. GRYCE</h3> Ever since my fortunate—or shall I say unfortunate?—connection with that famous case of murder in Gramercy Park, I have had it intimated to me by many of my friends—and by some who were not my friends—that no woman who had met with such success as myself in detective work would ever be satisfied with a single display of her powers, and that sooner or later I would find myself again at work upon some other case of striking peculiarities. As vanity has never been my foible, and as, moreover, I never have forsaken and never am likely to forsake the plain path marked out for my sex, at any other call than that of duty, I invariably responded to these insinuations by an affable but incredulous smile, striving to excuse the presumption of my friends by remembering their ignorance of my nature and the very excellent reasons I had for my one notable interference in the police affairs of New York City. Besides, though I appeared to be resting quietly, if not in entire contentment, on my laurels, I was not so utterly removed from the old atmosphere of crime and its detection as the world in general considered me to be. Mr. Gryce still visited me; not on business, of course, but as a friend, for whom I had some regard; and naturally our conversation was not always confined to the weather or even to city politics, provocative as the latter subject is of wholesome controversy. Not that he ever betrayed any of the secrets of his office—oh no; that would have been too much to expect—but he did sometimes mention the outward aspects of some celebrated case, and though I never ventured upon advice—I know too much for that, I hope—I found my wits more or less exercised by a conversation in which he gained much without acknowledging it, and I gave much without appearing conscious of the fact. I was therefore finding life pleasant and full of interest, when suddenly (I had no right to expect it, and I do not blame myself for not expecting it or for holding my head so high at the prognostications of my friends) an opportunity came for a direct exercise of my detective powers in a line seemingly so laid out for me by Providence that I felt I would be slighting the Powers above if I refused to enter upon it, though now I see that the line was laid out for me by Mr. Gryce, and that I was obeying anything but the call of duty in following it. But this is not explicit. One night Mr. Gryce came to my house looking older and more feeble than usual. He was engaged in a perplexing case, he said, and missed his early vigor and persistency. Would I like to hear about it? It was not in the line of his usual work, yet it had points—and well!—it would do him good to talk about it to a non-professional who was capable of sympathizing with its baffling and worrisome features and yet would never have to be told to hold her peace. I ought to have been on my guard. I ought to have known the old fox well enough to feel certain that when he went so manifestly out of his way to take me into his confidence he did it for a purpose. But Jove nods now and then—or so I have been assured on unimpeachable authority,—and if Jove has ever been caught napping, surely Amelia Butterworth may be pardoned a like inconsistency. "It is not a city crime," Mr. Gryce went on to explain, and here he was base enough to sigh. "At my time of life this is an important consideration. It is no longer a simple matter for me to pack up a valise and go off to some distant village, way up in the mountains perhaps, where comforts are few and secrecy an impossibility. Comforts have become indispensable to my threescore years and ten, and secrecy—well, if ever there was an affair where one needs to go softly, it is this one; as you will see if you will allow me to give you the facts of the case as known at Headquarters to-day." I bowed, trying not to show my surprise or my extreme satisfaction. Mr. Gryce assumed his most benignant aspect (always a dangerous one with him), and began his story. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>II</h2> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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