CHAPTER XIX
PROOFS AND MORE PROOFS
"You are absolutely crazy!" I said, laughing, though the laugh chokedin my throat, as I looked at Stone. "You see, Fibsy, you're gone dottyover this thing, and you're running round in circles. I know both Mrs.Schuyler and Miss Van Allen, and they've nothing in common. Therecouldn't be two people more dissimilar."
"That's just it--that's how I know," wailed the boy. "That's how Ifirst caught on. You see--oh, tell him, Mr. Stone."
"The boy is right," said Stone, slowly. "And the--"
"He can't be right! It's impossible!" I fairly shouted, as thoughtscame flashing into my mind--dreadful thoughts, appalling thoughts!
Ruth Schuyler and Vicky Van one person! Why, then, Ruth killed--No! athousand times NO! It couldn't be true! The boy was insane, and Stonewas, too. I'd show them their own foolishness.
"Stop a minute, Stone," I said, trying to speak calmly. "You and theboy never knew Vicky Van. You never saw her, except as she ran alongthe street for a few steps at midnight. And Terence didn't see herthen. It's too absurd, this theory of yours! But it startled me, whenyou sprung it. Now, Fibsy, stop your sobbing and tell me what makesyou think this foolish thing, and I'll relieve your mind of any suchideas."
"I don't blame you, Mr. Calhoun," and Fibsy mopped his eyes with hiswet handkerchief. He was a strange little figure, in his new clothes,but with his red hair tumbled and his eyes big and swollen withweeping. "I know you can't believe it, but you listen a bit, while Itell Mr. Stone some things. Then you'll see."
"Yes, Terence," said Stone; "go ahead. What about the prints?"
"They prove up," and Fibsy's woe increased afresh. "They ain't noshadder of doubt. The very reason I know they're the same is 'causethey're so unlike. Yes, I'll explain--wait a minute--"
Again a crying spell overwhelmed him, and we waited.
"Now," he said, regaining self-control, "now I've spilled all my tearsI'll out with it. The first thing that struck me was the abserluteunlikeness of those two ladies. I mean in their tastes an' ways. Why,fer instance, an' I guess it was jest about the very first thing Inoticed, was the magazines. In here, on Miss Van Allen's table, as youcan see yourself, is--jest look at 'em! Vogue, Vanity Fair, Life,Cosmopolitan, an' lots of light-weight story magazines. In atSchuylers' house is Atlantic Monthly, Harper's, Century, The Forum,The North American Review, and a lot of other highbrow reading. An'it ain't _only_ that the magazines in here are gayer an' lighter, an'in there heavier an' wiser; but there isn't a single duplicate! Now,Miss Vicky Van likes good readin', you can see from her books an' all,so why don't she take Harper's an' Century? 'Cause she has 'em in herother home--"
"But, wait, child," I cried, getting bewildered; "you don't mean VickyVan lives sometimes in this house and sometimes in the Schuyler houseas its mistress!"
"That's jest what I do mean. I know it sounds like I was batty, butlet me tell more. Well, it seemed queer that there shouldn't be anyone magazine took in both houses, but, of course, that wasn't no realproof. I only noticed it, an' it set me a thinkin'. Then I sized uptheir situations. Mrs. Schuyler's dignified an' quiet in her ways,simple in her dress, wears only poils, no other sparklers whatever.Vicky Van's gay of action, likes giddy rags, and adores gorgeousjewelry, even if it ain't the most realest kind. Now, wait--don'tinterrup' me, Lemme talk it out. 'Cause it's killin' me, an' I gotterget it over with. Well, all Mrs. Schuyler's things--furnicher, Imean--is big an' heavy an' massive, an' terrible expensive. Yes, Iknow her husband made her have it that way. But never mind that. VickyVan's furnicher is all gay an' light an' pretty an' dainty colorin'and so forth. And the day the old sister-in-laws was in here theysaid, 'How Ruth would admire to have things like these! 'Member howshe begged Randolph to do up her boodore in wicker an' pink silk?'That's what they said! Oh, well, I got a bug then that the two ladiesI'm talkin' about was just the very oppositest I ever did see! Then,another thing was the records. The phonygraft in here is full of lightopery and poplar music like that. Not a smell o' fugues and classicstuff. An' in at Schuyler's, as we seen to-night, there's no gaysongs, no comic operas, no ragtime."
"But, Terence," I broke in, "that all proves nothing! The Schuylersdon't care for ragtime and Vicky Van does. You mustn't distort thoseplain facts to fit your absurd theory!"
"Yes," he said, his eyes burning as they glared into mine. "An' Mr.Schuyler he wouldn't never let his wife go to the light operas orvodyville, an' she hadn't any records, so how--_how_, I ask you, comesit that she's so familiar with the song about 'My Pearlie Girlie' thatshe joined in the singin' of it with me at the dinner table to-night?That's what clinched it. Mrs. Schuyler, she knew that song's well as Idid, and she picked it up where I left off and hummed it straight tothe end--words _and_ music! How'd she know it, I say?"
"Why, she might have picked that up anywhere. She goes to seefriends, I've no doubt, who are not so straight-laced as theSchuylers, and they play light tunes for her."
"Not likely. I've run down her friends, and they're all old fogieslike the sister dames or like old man Schuyler himself. The old ladiesare nearly sixty and Mr. Schuyler was fifty odd, and all their friendsare along about those ages, and Mrs. Schuyler, she ain't got anyfriends of her own age at all. But, as Vicky Van, she has friends ofher own age, yes, an' her own tastes, an' her own ways of life an'livin.' An' she's got the record of 'My Pearlie Girlie.'"
"It's true, Calhoun," said Fleming Stone. "I know it's all incredible,but it's true. I couldn't believe it, myself, when Fibsy hinted it tome--for it's his find--to him belongs all the credit--"
"Credit!" I groaned. "Credit for fastening this lie, this baselie--oh, you are well named Fibsy!--on the best and loveliest womanthat ever lived! For it is a lie! Not a word of truth in it. Adistorted notion of a crazy brain! A--"
"Hold on, Calhoun," remonstrated Stone, and I dare say I was actinglike a madman. "Listen to the rest of this more quietly or take yourhat and go home."
Stone spoke firmly, but not angrily, and I sat still.
"Then, here's some more things," Fibsy continued. "I've gone over thishouse with a eye that sees more'n Mr. Stone's lens, an' it don'tmagnerfy, neither. I spotted a lot of stuff in the pantry andstoreroom. It's all stuff that keeps, you know; little jugs an' potsof fine eatin'--imported table delicacies--that's what they call 'em.Well, an' among 'em was lickures an' things like that. And boxes ofcandied rose leaves an' salted nuts--oh, all them things. An' that'swhy I wanted to go to dinner at Mrs. Schuyler's an' see if she likedto eat those things. An' she did! She had the rose leaves an' she hadthe kind o' lickure that's down in the pantry cupboard in this house.An' she said it was her fav'rite, an' the old girls said she neverused to have those things when her husband was runnin' the house--an'oh, dear, can't you see it all?"
"Yes, I see it," said Stone, but I still shook my head doggedly andangrily.
"I don't see it!" I declared. "There's nothing to all this but a pipedream! Why shouldn't two women like _Eau de vie de Dantzic_ as aliqueur? It's very fashionable--a sort of fad, just now."
"It ain't only this thing or that thing, Mr. Calhoun," said Fibsy,earnestly. "It's the pilin' up of all 'em. An' I ain't through yet.Here's another point. Miss Van Allen, she ain't got any pitchers ofnature views--no landscapes nor woodsy dells in this whole house. Shejest likes pitchers of people--pretty girls, an' old cavaliergentlemen, an nymps, an' kiddy babies--but all human, you know. Now,Mrs. Schuyler, _she_ don't care anythin' special for nature, neither.I piped up about the beauty scenery out Westchester way an' over inthe park, an' it left her cold an' onintrusted. But she has portfoliosof world masterpieces, or whatever you call 'em, over to that house,an' they're all figger pieces."
"And her writing desk," prompted Stone.
"Yessir, that checked up, too. You know, Mr. Calhoun, they ain'tnothin' more intim'tly pers'nal than a writin' desk. Well, Miss VanAllen's has a certain make of pen, an' a certain number and kind ofpencils. An' Mrs. Schuyler, she uses the same identical styles an'n
umbers."
"And notepaper, I suppose," I flung back, sarcastically.
"No, sir, but that helps prove. The note paper in the two houses isteetumteetotally different! That was planned to be different! Mrs.Schuyler's is a pale gray, plain paper. Miss Van Allen's is lightpink, to match her boodore, I s'pose. An' it has that sort of indentedframe round it, that's extry fashionable, an' a wiggly gold monogram,oh--quite a big one!"
I well remembered Vicky's stationery, and the boy described itexactly.
"Proves nothing!" I said, contemptuously, but I listened further.
"All right," Fibsy said, wearily pushing back his shock of red hair."Well, then, how's this? On Mrs. Schuyler's desk the pen wiper is afancy little contraption, but it's clean-I mean it's never had a penwiped on it. Miss Van Allen's desk hasn't got any pen wiper. On eachdesk is a pencil sharpener, of the same sort. On each desk is a littlepincushion, with the same size of tiny pins, like she was in the habitof pinnin' bills together or sumpum like that. On each desk theblotter is in the same place and is used the same way. There's a lotof pussonality 'bout the way folks use a blotter. Some uses bothsides, some only one side. Some has their blotters all torn an' sortanibbled round the edges, an' some has 'em neat and trim. Well, theblotters on these two desks is jest alike--"
"But, Fibsy," I cried in triumph, "I've seen the handwriting of thesetwo ladies, over and over again, and they're not a bit alike!"
"I know it," and Fibsy nodded. "But, Mr. Calhoun, did you know thatMiss Van Allen always writes with her left hand?"
"No, and I don't believe she does!"
"Yessir. I went to the bank an' they said so. An' I asked the sewin'woman, an' she said so. An' I asked the caterer people an' they saidso. And the inkstand is on the left-hand side of Miss Van Allen'sdesk."
"All right, then she is left-handed, but that proves nothing!"
"No, sir, Miss Van Allen ain't left-handed. You know she ain'tyourself. You'd 'a' noticed it if she had been. But she writesleft-handed, 'cause if she didn't she'd write like Mrs. Schuyler!"
"Oh, rubbish!" I began, but Fleming Stone interrupted.
"Wait, Calhoun, don't fly to pieces. All Terence is saying is quitetrue. I vouch for it. Listen further."
"They ain't no use goin' further," said Fibsy, despondently. "Mr.Calhoun knows I'm right, only he can't bring himself to believe it,an' I don't blame him. Why, even now, he's sizin' up the case an'everything he thinks of proves it an' nothin' disproves it. Butanyway, the prints prove it all."
"Prints?" I said, half dazedly.
"Yessir. I photographed a lot o' finger prints in both houses, an' theHeadquarters people fixed 'em up for me, magnerfied 'em, you know, an'printed 'em on little cards, an' as you can see, they're all thesame."
I glanced at the sheaf of cards the boy had and Fleming Stone tookthem to scrutinize.
"I got those prints from all sorts of places," Fibsy went on. "Off ofthe glass bottles and things in the bathrooms and off of the hairbrushes and such things, an' off of the envelopes of letters, an' offthe chairbacks an' any polished wood surfaces, an' I got lots of 'emin both houses, an' the police people picked out the best an' cleanestan' fixed 'em up, an' there you are!"
They seemed to think this settled the matter. But I would not beconvinced. Of course, I'd been told dozens of times that no two peoplein the world have finger prints alike, but that didn't mean a thing tome. It might be, I told them, that Vicky Van and Ruth Schuyler werefriends, that Ruth had withheld this fact, and that--
"No," said Stone, "not friends, but identical--the same woman. And,listen to this. Mrs. Schuyler heard us say this evening that Fibsycould photograph the brushes and such things over here to get Miss VanAllen's finger prints, and what does she do? She sends Tibbetts overto scrub and wipe off those same brushes, also the mirrors, chairbacksand all such possible evidence. A hopeless task--for the womancouldn't eradicate all the prints in the house. And, also, it was toolate, for Fibsy had already done his camera work."
"How do you know she did all that?" and I glowered at the detective.
"Because Fibsy just told me he found evidences of this cleaning up,and, too, because Mrs. Schuyler purposely kept us over there longerthan we intended to stay. You know how, when we proposed to saygood-night, she urged us to stay longer. That was to give her maidmore time for the work. Now, Mr. Calhoun, go on with your objectionsto our conclusions. It helps our theory to answer your refutations."
"Her letters," I mumbled, scarce able to formulate my teemingthoughts. "Vicky Van sent a letter to Ruth Schuyler--"
"Of course, she did. Wrote it herself, with her left hand, and mailedit to her other personality, in order to make the police give up thesearch. And, too, the letter from Miss Van Allen, found in RandolphSchuyler's desk after his death, was written and placed there by Mrs.Schuyler for us to find."
"Impossible!" I cried. "I won't allow these libels. You'll be sayingnext that Ruth Schuyler killed her husband!"
"She did," asserted Fleming Stone, gravely. "She did kill him, in hercharacter as Vicky Van. Don't you see it all? Schuyler came here asSomers, never dreaming that Vicky Van was his own wife in disguise.Or, he may have suspected it, and may have come to verify hissuspicion. Any way, when she saw and recognized him, whether he knewher or not, she lured him out to the dining room and stabbed him withthe caterer's knife."
"Never!" I said. I was not ranting now, I was stunned by therevelations that were coming so thick and fast. I couldn't believe andyet I couldn't doubt. Of one thing I was certain, I would defend RuthSchuyler to the end of time. I would defend her against VickyVan--why, if Ruth was Vicky Van--where was this moil to end! Icouldn't think coherently. But I suddenly realized that what they toldme was true. I realized that all along there were things about Ruththat had reminded me of Vicky. I had never put this into words, neverhad really sensed it, but I saw now, looking back, that they had muchin common.
Appearance! Ah, I hadn't yet thought of that.
"Why," I exclaimed, "the two are not in the least alike, physically!"
"Miss Van Allen wore a black wig," said Stone. "A most cleverlyconstructed one, and she rouged her cheeks, penciled her eyelashes andreddened her lips to produce the high coloring that marked her fromMrs. Schuyler."
I thought this over, dully. Yes, they were the same height and weight,they had the same slight figure, but it had never occurred to me tocompare their physical effects. I was a bit near-sighted and I hadnever taken enough real personal interest in Vicky to learn to loveher features as I had Ruth's.
"You see," Fleming Stone was saying, though I scarce listened, "youare the only person that I have been able to find who knows both MissVan Allen and Mrs. Schuyler. No one else has testified who knows themboth. So much depends on you."
"You'll get nothing from me!" I fairly shouted. "They're not the samewoman at all. You're all wrong, you and your lying boy there!"
"Your vehemence stultifies your own words," said Stone, quietly; "itproves your own realization of the truth and your anger and fury atthat realization. I don't blame you. I know your regard for Mrs.Schuyler, I know you have always been a friend of Miss Van Allen. Itis not strange that one woman attracts you, since the other did. Butyou've got to face this thing, so be a man and look at it squarely.I'll help you all I can, but I assure you there's nothing to be gainedby denial of the self-evident truth."
"But, man," I said, trying to be calm, "the whole thing is impossible!How could Mrs. Randolph Schuyler, a well-known society lady, live adouble life and enact Miss Van Allen, a gay butterfly girl? How couldshe get from one house to the other unobserved? Why wouldn't herservants know of it, even if her family didn't? How could she hoodwinkher husband, her sisters-in-law, and her friends? Why didn't peoplesee her leaving one house and entering the other? Why wasn't shemissed from one house when she was in the other?"
"All answerable questions," said Stone. "You know Miss Van Allen wentaway frequently on long trips, and was in and out of her home all thetime. Here to
-day and gone to-morrow, as every one testifies who knewher."
This was true enough. Vicky was never at home more than a few days ata time and then absent for a week or so. Where? In the Fifth Avenuehouse as Ruth Schuyler? Incredible! Preposterous! But as I began tobelieve at last, true.
"How?" I repeated; "how could she manage?"
"Walls have tongues," said Stone. "These walls and this house tell meall the story. That is, they tell me this wonderful woman didaccomplish this seemingly impossible thing. They tell me how sheaccomplished it. But they do not tell me why."
"There's no question about the why," I returned. "If Ruth Schuylerdid live two lives it's easily understood why. Because that brute of aman allowed her no gayety, no pleasure, no fun of any sort compatiblewith her youth and tastes. He let her do nothing, have nothing, savein the old, humdrum ways that appealed to his notion of propriety.But he himself was no Puritan! He ran his own gait, and, unknown tohis wife and sisters, he was a roue and a rounder! Whatever RuthSchuyler may have done, she was amply justified---"
"Even in killing him?"
"She didn't kill him! Look here, Mr. Stone, even if all you've said istrue, you haven't convicted her of murder yet. And you shan't! I'llprotect that woman from the breath of scandal or slander--and that'swhat it is when you accuse her of killing that man! She never did it!"
"That remains to be seen," and Fleming Stone's deep gray eyes showed asad apprehension. "But nothing can be done to-night. Can there,Terence?"
"No, Mr. Stone, not to-night. No, by no means, not to-night! Itwouldn't do!" The boy's earnestness seemed to me out of all proportionto his simple statement, but I could stand no more and I went home, tospend the night in a dazed wonder, a furious disbelief, and finally anenforced conviction that Vicky Van and Ruth Schuyler were one and thesame.
CHAPTER XX
THE TRUTH FROM RUTH
Next morning I was conscious of but one desire, to get to Ruth andtell her of my love and faith in her, and assure her of my protectionand assistance whatever happened.
Whatever happened! The thought struck me like a knell. What couldhappen but her arrest and trial?
But as I went out of my own door--I left the house early, for Icouldn't face Aunt Lucy and Winnie--I suddenly decided it would bebetter to see Stone first and learn if anything had transpired since Ileft him.
I rang the bell at Vicky Van's house with a terrible feeling ofimpending disaster, that might be worse than any yet known.
Fibsy let me in. I wanted to hate that boy and yet his very evidentadoration of Ruth Schuyler made me love him. I knew all that he haddiscovered had been as iron entering his soul, but his duty led him onand he dared not pause or falter.
"We may as well tell him," he said to Stone, and the detective nodded.
"But come downstairs with us and have a cup of coffee first," Stonesaid; "you'll need it, as you say you've had no breakfast. Fibsy makesfirst-rate coffee, and I can tell you, Calhoun, you've a hard daybefore you."
"Have you learned anything further?" I managed to stammer out as wewent down to the basement room that they used as a dining-room now.
"Yes; as I told you, walls have tongues, and the walls have given upthe secret of how Mrs. Schuyler managed her two-sided existence."
But he would not tell me the secret until I had been fortified withtwo cups of steaming Mocha, which fully justified his praise ofFibsy's culinary prowess.
Fibsy himself said nothing beyond a brief "good morning," and thelad's eyes were red and his voice shook as he spoke.
"I knew," Stone said, as we finished breakfast, "that there must besome means, some secret means of communication between the two houses,the Schuyler house and this. You see, the Schuyler house, fronting onFifth Avenue, three doors from the corner, runs back a hundred feet,and abuts on the rear rooms of this house, which runs back from theside street. In a word, the two houses form a right angle, and theback wall of the Schuyler house is directly against the side wall ofthe rear rooms of this house. Therefore, I felt sure there must be anentrance from one house to the other, not perceivable to an observer.And, of course, it must be in Mrs. Schuyler's own rooms; it couldn'tbe in their dining-room or halls. A few questions made me realize thatMiss Van Allen's boudoir was separated from Mrs. Schuyler's bath roomby only the partition wall of the houses. And I said that wall mustspeak to me. And it did."
We were now on our way upstairs, Stone ready at last to let me intothe secret he had discovered.
We went to Vicky's boudoir, and he continued: "You know you found thestrand of gilt beads caught in this mirror frame. We all assumed MissVan Allen had flirted it there as she dressed for her party, but Ireasoned that it might have caught there as she escaped to theSchuyler house the night of the murder. Yes, she did escape thisway--look."
Stone touched a hidden spring and the mirror in the Florentine frameslid silently aside into the wall, leaving an aperture that withoutdoubt led into the next house. The frame remained stationary, but themirror slid away as a sliding door works, and so smoothly that therewas absolutely no sound or jar.
I saw what was like a small closet, about two feet deep and perhapsthree feet wide. At the back of it, that is, against the walls of theadjoining room in the other house, we could see the shape of a similardoor, and the secret was out. There was no need to open that otherdoor to know that it led to Ruth Schuyler's rooms. There was yet moretelltale evidence. In the little cupboard between the houses was asmall safe. This Stone had opened and in it was the black wig of VickyVan and also a brown wig which I recognized at once as Julie'swell-remembered plainly parted front hair.
"You see, Tibbetts is Julie," said Fibsy, in such a heart-broken anddespairing voice that I felt the tears rush to my own eyes.
Vicky's wig! The loops of sleek black hair, the soft loose knotbehind, the delicate part, all just as it crowned her littlehead--Ruth's head! Oh, I couldn't stand it! It was too fearful!
"This other door," Stone said, "opens into Mrs. Schuyler's bathroom.That I know. You see, she had to have this entrance from some roomabsolutely her own. Her bathroom was safe from interruption, and whenshe chose she slipped through from one house to the other and back atwill."
"No, I can't understand it," I insisted, shaking my head. "If she camein here as Ruth Schuyler why wasn't she seen?"
"Because, before she was seen, she had made herself over into VictoriaVan Allen. She had donned wig and make-up, safe from interruption,here in her boudoir. This make-up she removed before returning to theSchuyler house in her role of Mrs. Schuyler."
"It is too unbelievable!"
"No; it is diabolically clever, but quite understandable. Julie andTibbetts are the same. This confidential woman looked after hermistress' safety on both sides. She remained when Vicky Vandisappeared. She looked after everything, took care of details,attended to tradesmen and all such matters, and when ready followedMrs. Schuyler into the other house, or went from here to her rooms afew blocks away and later came from them. When there were to beparties, Julie left the Schuyler house early, came here and madepreparations, and then as late as ten or eleven o'clock maybe, Mrs.Schuyler came in from her home, when her own household thought herabed and asleep. She could go back in the early morning hours, with noone the wiser. Or, if she chose and she did when her husband was outof town, she could pretend she had gone away for a visit and stay herefor days at a time."
I began to see. Truly the wall's tongue had spoken. If this awfultheory of Stone's were true, it could only be managed in this way. Iremembered how long and how often Vicky Van was absent from her home.I remembered that sometimes she was late in arriving at her ownparties, although she always came down from upstairs in her partyregalia.
"How did you come to suspect Tibbetts?" I asked, suddenly.
"Her teeth," said Fibsy. "I saw that Tibbetts had false teeth, anyway,an' I says, why can't Julie's gold teeth be false, too? And they are.They're in the safe!"
What marvelous precautions they had taken! To think of
having a setof teeth for the maid Julie that should appear so different from thoseof Tibbetts! Surely this thing was the result of long and carefulplanning.
"Her glasses, too," went on Fibsy. "You see, they made her differentfrom Tibbetts in appearance. That was all the disguise Tibbs had, thegold teeth, the big rimmed specs and the brown scratch--wig, you know.But it was enough. Nobody notices a servant closely, and these thingsaltered her looks sufficient. Miss Van Allen, now, she had a wig an' alot of colorin' matter an' her giddy clothes. Nothin' left toreckernize but her eyes, an' they were so darkened by the long darklashes and brows that she fixed up that it made her eyes seem darker.I got all this from the pitchers the artist lady made. You see, shecaught the color likeness but not the actual features. So I sized upthe resemblance of the real women. Oh, Mr. Stone, what are we going todo?"
"Our duty, Terence."
Then I put forth my plea, that I might be allowed to go and see Ruthfirst; that I might prepare her for the disclosures they would make,the discoveries they would announce.
But Stone denied me. He said they would do or say nothing that wouldunnecessarily hurt her feelings, but they must accompany me. Indeed,he implied, that it might be as well for me not to go.
But I insisted on going, and we three went on our terrible errand.
Ruth received us in the library. She saw at once that her secret wasknown, and she took it calmly.
"You know," she said, quietly, to Stone. "I am sorry. I hoped to hidemy secret and let Victoria Van Allen forever remain a mystery. But itcannot be. I admit all--"
"Wait, Ruth," I cried out. "Admit nothing until you are accused."
"I am accused," she responded, with a sad smile. "I heard you talkingin the passage between the rooms. In my bathroom I could hear youdistinctly. There is there a mirror door also. It looks like anordinary mirror and has a wide, flat nickel frame, matching the otherfittings. Yes, I had the sliding doors built for the purposes whichyou have surmised. Shall I tell you my story?"
"Yes, and let us hear it, too," came from the doorway, and the twosisters appeared, agog with excitement and curiosity.
"Come in," said Ruth, quietly. "Sit down, please, I want you to hearit. Most of it you know, Sarah and Rhoda, but I will tell it brieflyto Mr. Stone, for I want not leniency, but justice."
I seated myself at Ruth's side, and though I said no word I knew thatshe understood that my heart and life were at her disposal and thatwhatever she might be about to tell would not shake my love anddevotion. It is not necessary to use words when a life crisis occurs.
"I was an orphan," Ruth said, "brought up by a stern and Puritanicalold aunt in New England. I had no joy or pleasures in my childhood orgirlhood days. I ran away from home to become an actress. Tibbetts, myold nurse, who lived in the same village, followed me to keep an eyeon me and protect me in need. I was a chorus girl for just one weekwhen Randolph Schuyler discovered me and offered to marry me if Iwould renounce the stage and also gay life of any sort and become adignified old-fashioned matron. I willingly accepted. I was onlyseventeen and knew nothing of the world or its ways. As soon as wewere married he forbade me any sort of amusement or pleasure otherthan those practised by his elderly sisters. I submitted and lived alife of slavery to his whims and his cruelty for five years. He hadagreed to let me have Tibbetts for my maid, as he deemed her a staidold woman who would not encourage me in wayward desires. Nor did she.But she realized my thraldom, my lonely, unhappy life, and knew that Iwas pining away for want of the simple innocent pleasures that myyouth and light-hearted nature craved. I used to beg and plead forpermission to have a few young friends or to be allowed to go to a fewparties or plays. But Mr. Schuyler kept me as secluded as any womanin a harem. He gave me no liberty, no freedom in the slightest degree.
"I had been married about four years when I rebelled and began tothink up a scheme of a dual existence. I had ample time in the longlonely hours to perfect my plans, and I had them arranged to theminutest detail long before I put them in operation. Why, I practisedwriting with my left hand and acquired a different speaking voice fora year before I needed such subterfuges. Had I been able to persuademy husband to give me even a little pleasure or happiness I wouldwillingly have given up my wild scheme. But he wouldn't; so once whenhe was away on a long trip, I had the passage between the two housesmade.
"I had previously bought the other house, under the name of Van Allen,for I had money of my own, left me by an uncle that Mr. Schuyler knewnothing about. Of course, this money came to me after I was married orI never should have wed Randolph Schuyler.
"Tibbetts' cousin, an expert carpenter, did the work, and, as heafterward went to England to live, I had no fear of discovery thatway. Indeed, there was little fear of discovery in any way. I wasexpected to spend much of my time in my own rooms--and my bedroom,dressing room and bath form a little suite by themselves and can belocked off from the rest of the house. So, when I retired to my roomsfor the night I could go through into the other house and become VickyVan at my pleasure."
"I can't believe such baseness!" declared Rhoda Schuyler, "suchingratitude to a husband who was so good to you--"
"He wasn't good to me," said Ruth, quietly, "nor was I ungrateful.Randolph Schuyler spoiled my life; he denied me everything I askedfor, every innocent pleasure and amusement. So, I found them formyself. I did nothing wrong. As Victoria Van Allen I had friends andpleasures that suited my age and my love of life, but there never wasanything wrong or guilty in my house---"
"Until you killed your husband!" interrupted Sarah.
"Until the night of Randolph Schuyler's appearance at Vicky Van'shouse," Ruth went on. "I had been told of a Mr. Somers who wanted toknow me, but I had no idea it was my husband masquerading under afalse name. He came there with Mr. Steele. Of course, I recognizedhim, but he did not know me at once. I sat, playing bridge, andwondering how I could best make my escape. I saw that he didn't knowme and then, suddenly as I sat, holding my cards, and he stood besideme, he noticed a tiny scar on my shoulder. He made that scar himself,one night, when he hit me with a hot curling iron."
"What!" I cried, unable to repress an exclamation of horror.
"Yes, I was curling my hair with the tongs and he became angry at mefor some trivial reason, as he often did, and he snatched up the ironand hit my shoulder. It made a deep burn and he was very sorry.
"Whenever he saw it afterward he said, 'Never again!' meaning he wouldnever strike me again. Then, when he noticed the scar that night,although I had put on a light scarf to cover it, he said 'Neveragain!' in that peculiar intonation, and I knew then that he knewVictoria Van Allen was his own wife.
"I ran out to the dining-room and he followed me."
"And you stabbed him!" cried Rhoda; "stabbed your husband! Murderess!"
"I don't deny it," said Ruth, slowly. "The jury must decide that. Imust be tried, I suppose--"
"Don't, Ruth!" I cried, in agony. "Don't talk like that! You shall notbe tried! You didn't kill Schuyler! If you did it was in self-defence.Wasn't it? Didn't he try to kill you?"
"Yes, he did. He snatched the little carver from the sideboard andattacked me,--and I--and I--"
"Don't say it, Ruth--keep still!" I ordered, beside myself with mywhirling thoughts. The little carving-knife!
"And you defended yourself with the caterer's knife--" began Stone,but Fibsy wailed, "No! No! It wasn't Mrs. Schuyler! I've got theprints from the caterer's knife and they ain't Mrs. Schuyler's at all!She didn't kill him!"
"No, she didn't!" and Tibbetts appeared in the library doorway. "I didit myself."
"That's right!" and Fibsy's eyes gleamed satisfaction; "she did! It'sher fingermarks on the knife that stabbed old Schuyler. They're plainas print! Nobody thought of matching up those marks with Tibbetts'smitt! But I'll bet she did it to save Mrs. Schuyler's life!"
"I did," and Tibbetts came into the room and stood facing us.
"Tell your story," said Stone, abruptly, as he looked at thewhite-faced woman.
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"Here it is," and Tibbetts looked fondly at Ruth as the latter'spiteous glance met hers. "I've loved and watched over Mrs. Schuylerall her life. I've protected her from her husband's brutality andhelped her to bear his cruelty and unkindness. When she conceived theplan of the double life I helped her all I could, and I got my cousinto do the work on the houses that made it all possible. Then, I wasJulie, and I devoted my life and energies to keeping the secret andallowing my mistress to have some pleasure out of her life. And shedid." Tibbets looked affectionately, even proudly, at Ruth. "The hoursshe spent in that house as Victoria Van Allen were full of simple joysand happy occupation. She had the books and pictures and furniturethat she craved. She had things to eat and things to wear that shewanted. She went to parties and she had parties; she went to thetheatre and to the shops, and wherever she chose, without let orhindrance. It did my heart good to see her enjoy herself in thoseinnocent ways.
"Then Mr. Schuyler came. I knew the man. I knew that he came becausehe had heard of the charm and beauty of Vicky Van. He had no idea hewould find her his own wife! When he did discover it I knew he wouldkill her. Oh, I knew Randolph Schuyler! I knew nothing short of murderwould satisfy the rage that possessed him at the discovery. Iprepared for it. I got the little boning-knife from the pantry, and asMr. Schuyler lifted the carver and aimed it at Ruth's breast I drovethe little knife into his vile, wicked, murderer's heart. And I'mglad I did it! I glory in it! I saved Ruth's life and I rid the worldof a scoundrel and a villain who had no right to live and breathe onGod's earth! Now, you may take me and do with me as you will. I givemyself up."
It was the truth. On the carving-knife appeared, plain as print, thefinger marks of Randolph Schuyler, proved a hundred times by printsphotographed from his own letters, toilet articles, and personalbelongings in his own rooms. In his mad fury at the discovery of Ruthmasquerading as Vicky Van, and in his sudden realization of all thatit meant, he clutched the first weapon he saw, the little carver, toend her life and gratify his madness for revenge. Just in time, thewatching Tibbets had intervened, stabbed Schuyler, and then ranupstairs, to escape through the hidden doors to the other house.
Ruth, stunned at the sight of the blow driven by Tibbetts, and dazedby her own narrow escape from a fearful death, picked up the carverthat dropped from Schuyler's lifeless hand and ran upstairs, too.
She had, she explained afterward, a hazy idea that she was picking upthe knife that Tibbetts had used, so bewildered was she at the swiftturn of events. And as she stooped over Schuyler in her frenzy thewaiter had seen her and assumed she was the murderer. This, too,explained the blood on the flounces of her gown--it had brushed thefallen figure of her husband and became stained at the touch.
The two women had, of course, slipped through the connecting mirrordoors into the Schuyler house, and long before the alarm was broughtthere they were rehabilitated and ready to receive the news.
Then Ruth's quandary was a serious one. Innocent herself, she couldnot tell of her double life without making the whole affair public andincriminating Tibbetts, whom she loved almost as a mother and who hadsaved Ruth's life by a fraction of a second. An instant's delay andSchuyler's knife would have been driven into Ruth's heart.
So, for Tibbetts' sake, Ruth, perforce, kept the secret of Vicky Van.
"I was not ashamed of it," she told us, frankly. "There was nothingreally wrong in my living two lives. My husband denied me the pleasureand joy that life owed me, so I found it for myself. I never had afriend or committed a deed or said a word as Victoria Van Allen thatall the world mightn't hear or know of. And I should have owned up tothe whole scheme at once except that it would bring out the knowledgeof Tibbetts' act.
"I wished not to go back to the other house at all and should not havedone so for myself. But I had reasons--connected with other people. Afriend, whom I love, had asked the privilege of having certain letterssent her in my care, that is, in care of Miss Van Allen, and I had togo in once or twice to rescue those and so prevent a scandal thatwould ensue upon their discovery. For her sake I risked going backthere at night. Also, I wanted my address book, for it has in it manyaddresses of people who are my charity beneficiaries. Mr. Schuylernever allowed me to contribute to any charitable cause, and I haveenjoyed giving help to some who need and deserve it. These addresses Ihad to have, and I have them.
"Mr. Stone was right. The walls had tongues. He first noticed alittle defect in the green paint in the living room, which I hadretouched. Winnie told me of this, and I realized how clever Mr. Stoneis. So, I threw away the paint I had used, which was in here, and Icarefully thought out what else was incriminating and removed all Icould from the other house. Fibsy noticed when I took a book from atable, but that book I wanted, because--" she blushed--"because Mr.Calhoun had given it to me and I wasn't sure I could get it any otherway.
"But the walls told all, and at the last I knew it was only a questionof time when Mr. Stone or Terence would discover the doors. I supposethe strand of beads that caught as I escaped that night gave a hint,but they would have found them anyway. They are wonderful doors--intheir working, I mean. No complicated mechanism, but merely so wellmade and adjusted that a touch opens or closes them, and absolutelysilently. No one in this house ever dreamed the bathroom mirror wasanything but a mirror. And in the other house the elaborate Florentineframe precluded all idea of a secret contrivance. The two feet ofthickness of the house walls made a tiny cupboard, where I had thatsmall safe installed, that we might put our wigs and such definitelyincriminating bits of evidence in hiding, also Vicky's jewelry. But Ialways changed my costumes from one character to the other in VickyVan's dressing-room, and so ran little or no chance of discovery.
"In a futile endeavor to distract attention from Victoria Van Allen Iwrote a note to Ruth Schuyler and also wrote the one found in Mr.Schuyler's desk. I did these things in hopes that the detectiveswould cease to watch for the return of Miss Van Allen, but it turnedout differently. I assumed, of course, if search could be divertedfrom that house into other channels there would be a possibility ofTibbetts never being suspected. I am sorry she has confessed. I do notwant her to be tried. She saved my life, and I would do anything tokeep her from harm."
But Tibbetts was tried and was acquitted. A just jury, knowing all ofthe facts, declared it was a case of justifiable homicide, and theverdict was "Not guilty!"
The Schuyler sisters were finally convinced that Ruth's life had beenendangered by their brother's rage, and, though they condemnedTibbetts in their hearts, they said little in the face of publicopinion.
As for me, I couldn't wait until a conventional time had elapsedbefore telling my darling of my love for her own sweet self and, as Inow realized, for Vicky Van also. I spent hours listening to thedetails of her double life; of the narrow escapes from discovery, andthe frequent occasions of danger to her scheme. But Tibbetts' watchfuleyes and Ruth's own cleverness had made the plan feasible for twoyears, and it was only because Ruth had found her dear heart wasinclining too greatly toward me that she had begun to think it herduty to give up her double life. She had recently decided to do so,for she was not willing to let our mutual interest ripen into lovewhile she was the wife of another man.
And so, if it hadn't all happened just as it did, I should never havewon my darling, for she was about to give up the Van Allen house and Inever should have had occasion to meet Mrs. Randolph Schuyler.
It is all past history now, and Ruth and I are striving to forget eventhe memories of it. We live in another city, and Tibbetts is ourfaithful and beloved housekeeper.
And often Ruth says to me: "I know you love me, Chet, but sometimes Ican't help feeling a little jealous of the girl you cared for--that,what's her name? Oh, yes, Vicky Van!"
"Vicky Van was all right," I stoutly maintain. "I never knew a morecharming, sweeter, prettier, dearer little girl than Vicky!"
"But she was awfully made up!"
"Yes, that's where you score an advantage. The only thing about Vick
yI disapproved of was her paint and powder. Thank heaven, my wife has acomplexion that's all her own." And I kissed the soft, pale cheek ofmy own Ruth.
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