The Mark of Cain. Wells Carolyn
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Not a tear did she shed, nor did she look bowed with sorrow; indeed, her fine, well-poised head held itself a little higher than usual as she gave low-voiced orders to the butler now and then.
She returned to the drawing-room and the weary hours dragged by. Occasionally the two women spoke to each other, but only of trivialities, or necessary details of arrangement. No word of sympathy or common grief passed between them.
At last they heard steps outside, and they knew Rowland Trowbridge was being brought into his house for the last time.
Judge Hoyt came in first and kept the two women in the drawing-room while the bearers took their tragic burden up to Mr. Trowbridge’s own room. Shortly afterward Doctor Fulton came down.
“Mr. Trowbridge was murdered,” he said briefly. “Stabbed with a dagger. He has been dead five or six hours now. Perhaps more.”
“Who did it?” cried Avice, looking more like an avenging angel than a grief-stricken girl.
“They have no idea. The coroner must try to determine that.”
“The coroner!” exclaimed Mrs. Black in horror.
Avice turned on her. “Yes, coroner,” she said; “how else can we find out who killed Uncle Rowly, and punish him, – and kill him!”
Every one stared at Avice. The policeman in the hall looked in at the doorway, as her ringing tones reached him. The girl was greatly excited and her eyes blazed like stars. But she stood quietly, and spoke with repressed force.
“What is the first thing to do?” she said, turning to Doctor Fulton, and then glancing past him to the policeman in the doorway.
“Wait, Avice, wait,” put in Leslie Hoyt; “let us consider a moment.”
“There is nothing to be considered, Leslie. Uncle is dead. We must discover who killed him. We must get the best detectives, and we must never rest until we have brought the villain to justice.”
“Of course, of course, Avice,” said Mrs. Black, soothingly, “but we can’t hurry so, child.”
“We must hurry! It is only by beginning at once that we can find clues and things. Delay means opportunity for the criminal to escape!”
Hoyt and Doctor Fulton looked at the girl in amazement. Where had she learned these terms that fell so readily from her tongue?
“She is right,” said Judge Hoyt, sadly. “There must be no unnecessary delay in these matters. But the law moves slowly, at best. Everything possible will be done, Avice; you may rest assured of that. The coroner is upstairs now, and when he comes down he will want to talk with you. You won’t object?”
“Indeed, no. I want to see him. Why, only think, I know nothing, —nothing, as yet, as to how Uncle Rowly met his death!”
CHAPTER II
WHO COULD HAVE DONE IT?
Coroner Berg came down stairs and joined the group in the drawing-room. He was a bristling, fussy little man, with a decided sense of his own importance and evidently inclined to make much of his office. His sparse, sandy hair stood out straight from his head, and his light blue eyes darted from one to another of the impatient people awaiting his report.
“Sad case,” he said, wringing his hands; “very sad case. Fine man like that, struck down in the prime of life. Awful!”
“We know that,” and Avice looked annoyed at what she thought intrusive sympathy. “But who did it? What have you found out?”
“Very little, Miss,” answered Berg. “Your uncle was killed by a dagger thrust, while up in Van Cortlandt Park woods. His body was found in a lonely spot up there, and there is no trace of the murderer. The police were informed of the murder by telephone, which is a mighty queer performance if you ask me! They say a Dago woman called up headquarters and told the story.”
“Extraordinary!” said Hoyt; “an Italian?”
“Yes, sir; they say she sounded like one, anyhow.”
“And a dagger or stiletto was used,” said Doctor Fulton, thoughtfully; “that looks like Italian work. Had your uncle any Italian enemies, Miss Trowbridge?”
“Not that I know of,” and Avice spoke a little impatiently; “but uncle had no enemies that I know of. At least, none who would kill him.”
“He had enemies, then?” spoke up the coroner, alertly.
“Uncle Rowly was not an easy-going man. He had many acquaintances with whom he was not on terms of friendship. But I’m sure none of his quarrels were grave enough to lead to this.”
“But somebody committed the crime, Miss Trowbridge, and who so likely as a known enemy? Tell me any of your uncle’s unfriendly acquaintances.”
“Positively no one, Mr. Berg, who could be in the least suspected. I’m thinking of such men as Judge Greer, who holds political views opposed to those of my uncle. And Professor Meredith, who is an enthusiastic naturalist, but who disagrees with my uncle in some of their classifications. As you see, these are not sufficient grounds for killing a man.”
“Of course, not,” said Hoyt. “I know those men, and their relations with Mr. Trowbridge were really friendly, though differing opinions frequently led to quarrels. Mr. Trowbridge was quick-tempered and often said sharp things, which he forgot as quickly as he uttered them.”
“Yes, he did,” corroborated Avice. “Why, he sometimes scolded me, and soon after was sunny and sweet again. No, I’m sure Uncle Rowland had no real enemies, surely none that would seek his death. And the fact that an Italian woman gave the message proves to my mind that he was struck down by some horrid Italian society, – Black Hand, or whatever they call it.”
“That remains to be seen,” said Berg, with an air of importance. “I shall conduct an inquest tomorrow morning. It is too late to get at it tonight, and too, I want to collect a little more evidence.”
“Where do you get evidence, Mr. Berg?” asked Avice, eager interest and curiosity shining in her brown eyes.
“Wherever I may pick it up. I must question the police further and I must endeavor to trace that telephone call, though that is a hard matter usually. Then, also, I must question all members of this household. As to his habits, I mean, and his whereabouts today. He left home this morning, as usual?”
“Quite as usual,” broke in Mrs. Black, before Avice could reply. “I was probably the one who saw him last as he departed. I went to the door with him, and he, – he kissed me good-by.” Mrs. Black’s handkerchief was pressed into service, but she went on, clearly; “we were to have been married next month. Our engagement had been announced.”
“And you heard nothing from Mr. Trowbridge during the day?”
“No,” said Avice, taking up the tale again; “uncle told me before he left he would be home by five, as I was to help him with his work. He is a naturalist, out of office hours, and I assist with his cataloguing. Then, when he didn’t come at five, I was worried, and I kept on being worried until – until – ” and here the girl broke down and buried her face again in the sofa pillows.
“And you weren’t worried?” asked Coroner Berg, turning his pale blue eyes on the housekeeper.
“No,” and Mrs. Black’s voice was cool and composed; “I supposed he was merely detained by some business matter. I had no reason to fear any harm had come to him.”
“When did you last see him?” went on the coroner, turning to Judge Hoyt.
“Let me see; it was – yes, it was last Friday. I was at his office consulting with him about some business, and promised to report today. But as I was called to Philadelphia today on an important matter, I wrote him that I would come here to this house to see him this evening, and give him the report he wanted.”
“And you went to Philadelphia today?”
“Yes, I left there at three and reached New York at five. I intended coming