“Would you mind telling me why we are calling on Miss St. Clair?” asked Markham resignedly.
Vance amiably complied.
“Not at all. Indeed, I deem it best for you to know. There are several points connected with the lady that need eluc’dation. First, there are the gloves and the handbag. Nor poppy nor mandragora shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep which thou ow’dst yesterday until you have learned about those articles—eh, what?—Then, you recall, Miss Hoffman told us that the Major was lending an ear when a certain lady called upon Benson the day he was shot. I suspect that the visitor was Miss St. Clair; and I am rather curious to know what took place in the office that day, and why she came back later. Also, why did she go to Benson’s for tea that afternoon? And what part did the jewels play in the chitchat?—But there are other items. For example: Why did the Captain take his gun to her? What makes him think she shot Benson?—he really believes it, y’ know. And why did she think that he was guilty from the first?”
Markham looked sceptical.
“You expect her to tell us all this?”
“My hopes run high,” returned Vance. “With her verray parfit gentil knight jailed as a self-confessed murderer, she will have nothing to lose by unburdening her soul. … But we must have no blustering. Your police brand of aggressive cross-examination will, I assure you, have no effect upon the lady.”
“Just how do you propose to elicit your information?”
“With morbidezza, as the painters say. Much more refined and gentlemanly, y’ know.”
Markham considered a moment.
“I think I’ll keep out of it, and leave the Socratic elenchus entirely to you.”
“An extr’ordin’rily brilliant suggestion,” said Vance.
When we arrived Markham announced over the house-telephone that he had come on a vitally important mission; and we were received by Miss St. Clair without a moment’s delay. She was apprehensive, I imagine, concerning the whereabouts of Captain Leacock.
As she sat before us in her little drawing-room overlooking the Hudson, her face was quite pale, and her hands, though tightly clasped, trembled a little. She had lost much of her cold reserve, and there were unmistakable signs of sleepless worry about her eyes.
Vance went directly to the point. His tone was almost flippant in its lightness: it at once relieved the tension of the atmosphere, and gave an air bordering on inconsequentiality to our visit.
“Captain Leacock has, I regret to inform you, very foolishly confessed to the murder of Mr. Benson. But we are not entirely satisfied with his bona fides. We are, alas! awash between Scylla and Charybdis. We can not decide whether the Captain is a deep-dyed villain or a chevalier sans peur et sans reproche. His story of how he accomplished the dark deed is a bit sketchy: he is vague on certain essential details; and—what’s most confusin’—he turned the lights off in Benson’s hideous living-room by a switch which pos’tively doesn’t exist. Cons’quently, the suspicion has crept into my mind that he has concocted this tale of derring-do in order to shield someone whom he really believes guilty.”
He indicated Markham with a slight movement of the head.
“The District Attorney here does not wholly agree with me. But then, d’ ye see, the legal mind is incredibly rigid and unreceptive once it has been invaded by a notion. You will remember that, because you were with Mr. Alvin Benson on his last evening on earth, and for other reasons equally irrelevant and trivial, Mr. Markham actu’lly concluded that you had had something to do with the gentleman’s death.”
He gave Markham a smile of waggish reproach, and went on:
“Since you, Miss St. Clair, are the only person whom Captain Leacock would shield so heroically, and since I, at least, am convinced of your own innocence, will you not clear up for us a few of those points where your orbit crossed that of Mr. Benson? … Such information cannot do the Captain or yourself any harm, and it very possibly will help to banish from Mr. Markham’s mind his lingering doubts as to the Captain’s innocence.”
Vance’s manner had an assuaging effect upon the woman; but I could see that Markham was boiling inwardly at Vance’s animadversions on him, though he refrained from any interruption.
Miss St. Clair stared steadily at Vance for several minutes.
“I don’t know why I should trust you, or even believe you,” she said evenly; “but now that Captain Leacock has confessed—I was afraid he was going to, when he last spoke to me—I see no reason why I should not answer your questions. … Do you truly think he is innocent?”
The question was like an involuntary cry: her pent-up emotion had broken through her carapace of calm.
“I truly do,” Vance avowed soberly. “Mr. Markham will tell you that before we left his office I pleaded with him to release Captain Leacock. It was with the hope that your explanations would convince him of the wisdom of such a course, that I urged him to come here.”
Something in his tone and manner seemed to inspire her confidence.
“What do you wish to ask me?” she asked.
Vance cast another reproachful glance at Markham, who was restraining his outraged feelings only with difficulty; and then turned back to the woman.
“First of all, will you explain how your gloves and handbag found their way into Mr. Benson’s house? Their presence there has been preying most distressin’ly on the District Attorney’s mind.”
She turned a direct, frank gaze upon Markham.
“I dined with Mr. Benson at his invitation. Things between us were not pleasant, and when we started for home, my resentment of his attitude increased. At Times Square I ordered the chauffeur to stop—I preferred returning home alone. In my anger and my haste to get away, I must have dropped my gloves and bag. It was not until Mr. Benson had driven off that I realized my loss, and having no money, I
