The bed had been made, and the room was apparently in perfect order. There was a bureau in the room, through which Mr. Delamere proceeded to look thoroughly. Finding one of the drawers locked, he tried it with a key of his own, and being unable to unlock it, took a poker from beside the stove and broke it ruthlessly open.
The contents served to confirm what he had heard concerning his grandson’s character. Thrown together in disorderly confusion were bottles of wine and whiskey; soiled packs of cards; a dice-box with dice; a box of poker chips, several revolvers, and a number of photographs and paper-covered books at which the old gentleman merely glanced to ascertain their nature.
So far, while his suspicion had been strengthened, he had found nothing to confirm it. He searched the room more carefully, and found, in the wood-box by the small heating-stove which stood in the room, a torn and crumpled bit of paper. Stooping to pick this up, his eye caught a gleam of something yellow beneath the bureau, which lay directly in his line of vision.
First he smoothed out the paper. It was apparently the lower half of a label, or part of the cover of a small box, torn diagonally from corner to corner. From the business card at the bottom, which gave the name of a firm of manufacturers of theatrical supplies in a Northern city, and from the letters remaining upon the upper and narrower half, the bit of paper had plainly formed part of the wrapper of a package of burnt cork.
Closing his fingers spasmodically over this damning piece of evidence, Mr. Delamere knelt painfully, and with the aid of his cane drew out from under the bureau the yellow object which had attracted his attention. It was a five-dollar gold piece of a date back toward the beginning of the century.
To make assurance doubly sure, Mr. Delamere summoned the cook from the kitchen in the back yard. In answer to her master’s questions, Sally averred that Mr. Tom had got up very early, had knocked at her window—she slept in a room off the kitchen in the yard—and had told her that she need not bother about breakfast for him, as he had had a cold bite from the pantry; that he was going hunting and fishing, and would be gone all day. According to Sally, Mr. Tom had come in about ten o’clock the night before. He had forgotten his night-key, Sandy was out, and she had admitted him with her own key. He had said that he was very tired and was going, immediately to bed.
Mr. Delamere seemed perplexed; the crime had been committed later in the evening than ten o’clock. The cook cleared up the mystery.
“I reckon he must ’a’ be’n dead ti’ed, suh, fer I went back ter his room fifteen er twenty minutes after he come in fer ter fin’ out w’at he wanted fer breakfus’; an’ I knock’ two or three times, rale ha’d, an’ Mistuh Tom didn’ wake up no mo’ d’n de dead. He sho’ly had a good sleep, er he’d never ’a’ got up so ea’ly.”
“Thank you, Sally,” said Mr. Delamere, when the woman had finished, “that will do.”
“Will you be home ter suppah, suh?” asked the cook.
“Yes.”
It was a matter of the supremest indifference to Mr. Delamere whether he should ever eat again, but he would not betray his feelings to a servant. In a few minutes he was driving rapidly with Ellis toward the office of the Morning Chronicle. Ellis could see that Mr. Delamere had discovered something of tragic import. Neither spoke. Ellis gave all his attention to the horses, and Mr. Delamere remained wrapped in his own sombre reflections.
When they reached the office, they were informed by Jerry that Major Carteret was engaged with General Belmont and Captain McBane. Mr. Delamere knocked peremptorily at the door of the inner office, which was opened by Carteret in person.
“Oh, it is you, Mr. Delamere.”
“Carteret,” exclaimed Mr. Delamere, “I must speak to you immediately, and alone.”
“Excuse me a moment, gentlemen,” said Carteret, turning to those within the room. “I’ll be back in a moment—don’t go away.”
Ellis had left the room, closing the door behind him. Mr. Delamere and Carteret were quite alone.
“Carteret,” declared the old gentleman, “this murder must not take place.”
“ ‘Murder’ is a hard word,” replied the editor, frowning slightly.
“It is the right word,” rejoined Mr. Delamere, decidedly. “It would be a foul and most unnatural murder, for Sandy did not kill Mrs. Ochiltree.”
Carteret with difficulty restrained a smile of pity. His old friend was very much excited, as the tremor in his voice gave proof. The criminal was his trusted servant, who had proved unworthy of confidence. No one could question Mr. Delamere’s motives; but he was old, his judgment was no longer to be relied upon. It was a great pity that he should so excite and overstrain himself about a worthless negro, who had forfeited his life for a dastardly crime. Mr. Delamere had had two paralytic strokes, and a third might prove fatal. He must be dealt with gently.
“Mr. Delamere,” he said, with patient tolerance, “I think you are deceived. There is but one sure way to stop this execution. If your servant is innocent, you must produce the real criminal. If the negro, with such overwhelming proofs against him, is not guilty, who is?”
“I will tell you who is,” replied Mr. Delamere. “The murderer is,”—the words came with a note of anguish, as though torn from his very heart—“the murderer is Tom Delamere, my own grandson!”
“Impossible, sir!” exclaimed Carteret, starting back involuntarily. “That could not be! The man was seen leaving the house, and he was black!”
“All cats are gray in the dark, Carteret; and, moreover, nothing is easier than for a white man to black his face. God alone knows how many crimes have been done in this guise! Tom Delamere, to
