The success of this interview provoked other attempts on the part of thereporters who now flocked into the Southwest. Ere long particulars beganto pour in of Mr. Fairbrother's painful journey south, after his illnessset in. The clerk of the hotel in El Moro, where the great mine-owner'sname was found registered at the time of the murder, told a storywhich made very good reading for those who were more interested in thesufferings and experiences of the millionaire husband of the murderedlady than in those of the unhappy but comparatively insignificant manupon whom public opinion had cast the odium of her death.
It seems that when the first news came of the great crime which hadtaken place in New York, Mr. Fairbrother was absent from the hotel on aprospecting tour through the adjacent mountains. Couriers had been sentafter him, and it was one of these who finally brought him into town.He had been found wandering alone on horseback among the defiles of anuntraveled region, sick and almost incoherent from fever. Indeed, hiscondition was such that neither the courier nor such others as saw himhad the heart to tell him the dreadful news from New York, or even toshow him the papers. To their great relief, he betrayed no curiosity inthem. All he wanted was a berth in the first train going south, and thiswas an easy way for them out of a great responsibility. They listenedto his wishes and saw him safely aboard, with such alacrity and withso many precautions against his being disturbed that they have neverdoubted that he left El Moro in total ignorance, not only of thecircumstances of his great bereavement, but of the bereavement itself.
This ignorance, which he appeared to have carried with him to thePlacide, was regarded by those who knew him best as proving the truth ofthe affirmation elicited from him in the pauses of his delirium of thegenuineness of the stone which had passed from his hands to those of hiswife at the time of their separation; and, further despatches coming in,some private and some official, but all insisting upon the fact that itwould be weeks before he would be in a condition to submit to any sortof examination on a subject so painful, the authorities in New Yorkdecided to wait no longer for his testimony, but to proceed at once withthe inquest.
Great as is the temptation to give a detailed account of proceedingswhich were of such moment to myself, and to every word of which Ilistened with the eagerness of a novice and the anguish of a womanwho sees her lover's reputation at the mercy of a verdict which maystigmatize him as a possible criminal, I see no reason for encumberingmy narrative with what, for the most part, would be a mere repetition offacts already known to you.
Mr. Durand's intimate and suggestive connection with this crime, theexplanations he had to give of this connection, frequently bizarre and,I must acknowledge, not always convincing,--nothing could alter thesenor change the fact of the undoubted cowardice he displayed in hidingMrs. Fairbrother's gloves in my unfortunate little bag.
As for the mystery of the warning, it remained as much of a mystery asever. Nor did any better success follow an attempt to fix the ownershipof the stiletto, though a half-day was exhausted in an endeavor to showthat the latter might have come into Mr. Durand's possession in some ofthe many visits he was shown to have made of late to various curio-shopsin and out of New York City.*
I had expected all this, just as I had expected Mr. Grey to be absentfrom the proceedings and his testimony ignored. But this expectation didnot make the ordeal any easier, and when I noticed the effect of witnessafter witness leaving the stand without having improved Mr. Durand'sposition by a jot or offering any new clue capable of turning suspicioninto other directions, I felt my spirit harden and my purpose strengthentill I hardly knew myself. I must have frightened my uncle, for his handwas always on my arm and his chiding voice in my ear, bidding me beware,not only for my own sake and his, but for that of Mr. Durand, whose eyewas seldom away from my face.
The verdict, however, was not the one I had so deeply dreaded. While itdid not exonerate Mr. Durand, it did not openly accuse him, and I was onthe point of giving him a smile of congratulation and renewed hope whenI saw my little detective--the one who had spied the gloves in my bag atthe ball--advance and place his hand upon his arm.
The police had gone a step further than the coroner's jury, and Mr.Durand was arrested, before my eyes, on a charge of murder.
* Mr. Durand's visits to the curio-shops, as explained by him, were made with a view of finding a casket in which to place his diamond. This explanation was looked upon with as much doubt as the others he had offered where the situation seemed to be of a compromising character.