Mrs. Taylor suffered a relapse, and the inquest which had been held backin anticipation of her recovery was again delayed. This led to a likepostponement of an inquiry into the death of Madame Duclos; and aconsequent let-up in public interest which thus found itself, for thenonce, deprived of further food on which to batten.
Meanwhile, Mr. Gryce was not idle. Anxious to determine just how andwhere Madame Duclos' story fitted into the deeper and broader one of themuseum crime, he made use of his fast waning strength to probe itsmysteries and master such of its details as bore upon the seriousinvestigation to which he was so unhappily committed. When he had donethis,--when he had penetrated, as it were, into the very heart of thematter to the elimination of all doubt and the full establishment of hisown theory, it was felt that the time had come for some sort of positiveaction on the part of those interested in the cause of justice.
This they decided should take the form of a personal interview betweencertain officials and Mr. Roberts himself. A lesser man would have beenasked to meet the District Attorney in his office; but in a case of suchmoment where the honor of one so prominent in many ways was involved itwas thought best for them to visit him in his own home. To do thiswithout exciting his apprehension while still making sure of his presencerequired some management. Various plans were discussed with the resultthat a political exigency was brought into play. The District Attorneyasked Mr. Roberts for an interview for the purpose of introducing to hima man whose influence could not fail to play an important part in hisfuture candidacy.
He did not name this man; but we will name him. It was the ChiefInspector.
The appointment was made and the day set. It was the following Monday. OnTuesday, Coroner Price was to open his inquest.
Did Carleton Roberts see any connection between these two events?
Who can tell? The secrets of such a brain are not to be read lightly. Ifwe possessed Sweetwater's interest, and were to follow in secret fashionevery action of the director on the evening preceding this date, whatconclusion should we draw in this regard? How would we characterize hisanticipations, or measure in our own mind the possibilities of thefuture as felt by him?
He was very quiet. He ate his meal with seeming appetite. Then he took alook over his whole house. From the carefulness with which he notedeverything, the changes which he had caused to be made in it were notwithout their interest for him. Not a young man's interest, but yet aninterest as critical and acute as though he had expected it to be sharedby one whose comfort he sought and in whose happiness he would fain takepart.
This, to Sweetwater, had he our vision, would have been incomprehensiblefrom any point of view; especially, had he seen what followed when theowner of all this luxury returned to his library.
There was a picture there; a small framed photograph which occupied thepost of honor on his desk.
It showed a young and pretty face, untouched, as yet, by the cares ortroubles of this world. He spent a minute or so in looking at it; then heslowly lifted it, and taking the picture from the frame, gave it anotherlook, during which a smile almost derisive gathered slowly on his lips.Before this smile had altogether vanished, he had torn the picture in twoand thrown the fragments into the fire he had kindled early in theevening with his own hands.
If he stopped to watch these fragments burn, it was from abstractionrather than from interest; for his step grew lighter as he left thefireplace. Whatever this young girl's face had meant to him in daysgone by was now as completely dissipated as the little puff of smokewhich had marked the end of her picture.
If he read the papers afterward it was mechanically. Night, and the onegreat planet sinking in the West, appeared to appeal to him much morestrongly than his books or the more than usually stirring news of theday.
He must have stood an hour in his unlighted window, gazing out at thetumbling waves lapping the shore.
But of his thoughts, God wot, he gave no sign.
Later, he slept.
Slept! with his hand under his pillow! Slept, though there were others inthe house awake!--or why this creeping shadow of a man outlined upon thewall wherever the moon shone in, and disappearing from sight whenever theway led through darkness.
It came from above; no noise accompanied it. Where the great windowopened upon the sea, lighting up the main staircase, it halted,--haltedfor several minutes; then passed stealthily down, a shadowy silhouette,descending now quickly, now slowly, as tread after tread is left behindand the great hall is reached.
Here there is no darkness. Open doors admit the light from many windows.A semi-obscurity is all, and through this the figure passes, buthesitatingly still, and with pause after pause, till a certain dooris reached--a closed door--the only door which is closed in this partof the house.
Here it stands--stands with profile to the panels, one ear against thewood. One minute--two minutes--five minutes pass. Then a hand goes outand touches the knob. It yields; yields without a sound--and a small gapis seen between the door and its casing. This gap grows. Still no soundto disturb the tragic silence. Stop! What was that? A moan? Yes, fromwithin. Another? Yes. Then all is quiet again. The dream has passed.Sleep has resumed its sway. The gap can safely be made wider. This isdone, and the figure halting without, passes in.