I took his humiliation seriously.
“You are very good,” I rejoined, “but I will not trouble you for any facts—those I am enabled to glean for myself; but what I should like you to tell me is this: Whether if you came upon those rings in the possession of a person known to have been on the scene of crime at the time of its perpetration, you would not consider them as an incontrovertible proof of guilt?”
“Undoubtedly,” said he, with a sudden alteration in his manner which warned me that I must muster up all my strength if I would keep my secret till I was quite ready to part with it.
“Then,” said I, with a resolute movement towards the door, “that’s the whole of my business for today. Good morning, Mr. Gryce; tomorrow I shall expect you.”
He made me stop though my foot had crossed the threshold; not by word or look but simply by his fatherly manner.
“Miss Butterworth,” he observed, “the suspicions which you have entertained from the first have within the last few days assumed a definite form. In what direction do they point?—tell me.”
Some men and most women would have yielded to that imperative tell me! But there was no yielding in Amelia Butterworth. Instead of that I treated him to a touch of irony.
“Is it possible,” I asked, “that you think it worth while to consult me? I thought your eyes were too keen to seek assistance from mine. You are as confident as I am that Howard Van Burnam is innocent of the crime for which you have arrested him.”
A look that was dangerously insinuating crossed his face at this. He came forward rapidly and, joining me where I stood, said smilingly:
“Let us join forces, Miss Butterworth. You have from the first refused to consider the younger son of Silas Van Burnam as guilty. Your reasons then were slight and hardly worth communicating. Have you any better ones to advance now? It is not too late to mention them, if you have.”
“It will not be too late tomorrow,” I retorted.
Convinced that I was not to be moved from my position, he gave me one of his low bows.
“I forgot,” said he, “that it was as a rival and not as a coadjutor you meddled in this matter.” And he bowed again, this time with a sarcastic air I felt too self-satisfied to resent.
“Tomorrow, then?” said I.
“Tomorrow.”
At that I left him.
I did not return immediately to Miss Althorpe. I visited Cox’s millinery store, Mrs. Desberger’s house, and the offices of the various city railways. But I got no clue to the rings; and finally satisfied that Miss Oliver, as I must now call her, had not lost or disposed of them on her way from Gramercy Park to her present place of refuge, I returned to Miss Althorpe’s with even a greater determination than before to search that luxurious home till I found them.
But a decided surprise awaited me. As the door opened I caught a glimpse of the butler’s face, and noticing its embarrassed expression, I at once asked what had happened.
His answer showed a strange mixture of hesitation and bravado.
“Not much, ma’am; only Miss Althorpe is afraid you may not be pleased. Miss Oliver is gone, ma’am; she ran away while Crescenze was out of the room.”
XXVII
Found
I gave a low cry and rushed down the steps.
“Don’t go!” I called out to the driver. “I shall want you in ten minutes.” And hurrying back, I ran upstairs in a condition of mind such as I have no reason to be proud of. Happily Mr. Gryce was not there to see me.
“Gone? Miss Oliver gone?” I cried to the maid whom I found trembling in a corner of the hall.
“Yes, ma’am; it was my fault, ma’am. She was in bed so quiet, I thought I might step out for a minute, but when I came back her clothes were missing and she was gone. She must have slipped out at the front door while Dan was in the back hall. I don’t see how ever she had the strength to do it.”
Nor did I. But I did not stop to reason about it; there was too much to be done. Rushing on, I entered the room I had left in such high hopes a few hours before. Emptiness was before me, and I realized what it was to be baffled at the moment of success. But I did not waste an instant in inactivity. I searched the closets and pulled open the drawers; found her coat and hat gone, but not Mrs. Van Burnam’s brown skirt, though the purse had been taken out of the pocket.
“Is her bag here?” I asked.
Yes, it was in its old place under the table; and on the washstand and bureau were the simple toilet articles I had been told she had brought there. In what haste she must have fled to leave these necessities behind her!
But the greatest shock I received was the sight of the knitting-work, with which I had so inconsiderately meddled the evening before, lying in ravelled heaps on the table, as if torn to bits in a frenzy. This was a proof that the fever was yet on her; and as I contemplated this fact I took courage, thinking that one in her condition would not be allowed to run the streets long, but would be picked up and put in some hospital.
In this hope I began my search. Miss Althorpe, who came in just as I was about to leave the house, consented to telephone to Police Headquarters a description of the girl, with a request to be notified if such a person should be found in the streets or on the docks or at any of the station-houses that night. “Not,” I assured her, as we left the telephone and I prepared to say goodbye for the day, “that you need expect her to
