Schuyler Carleton covered his eyes, and refused to glance at it.
Tom Willard and Robert Fessenden looked at it at the same time, holding the tray between them.
“I make out no fingerprints,” said Tom, at last. “Do you?”
“No,” said Fessenden; “that is, not surely. These may be marks of fingers, but they are far too indistinct to say so positively. What do you think, Doctor Leonard?”
The gruesome property was passed on to the two doctors, who examined it with the greatest care. Going to the window, they looked at it with magnifying glasses, and finally reported that the slight marks might be fingermarks, or might be the abrasion of the nap of the rug on which the dagger had fallen.
“Then,” said Coroner Benson, “we have, so far, no evidence which refutes the theory that Miss Van Norman’s written message was the expression of her deliberate intent, and that that intention was fulfilled by her.”
Once more Mr. Benson scanned intently the faces of his audience.
“Can no one, then,” he said again, “assert or suggest anything that may have any bearing on this written message?”
“I can,” said Robert Fessenden.
VIII
A Soft Lead Pencil
Coroner Benson looked at the young man curiously. Knowing him to be a stranger in the household, he had not expected information from him.
“Your name?” he said quietly.
“I am Robert Fessenden, of New York City. I am a lawyer by profession, and I came to Mapleton yesterday for the purpose of acting as best man at Mr. Carleton’s wedding. I came here this morning, not knowing of what had occurred in the night, and after conversation with some members of the household I felt impelled to investigate some points which seemed to me mysterious. I trust I have shown no intrusive curiosity, but I confess to a natural detective instinct, and I noticed some peculiarities about that paper you hold in your hand to which I should like to call your attention.”
Fessenden’s words caused a decided stir among his hearers, including the coroner and the two doctors.
Mr. Benson was truly anxious to learn what the young man had to say, but at the same time his professional jealousy was aroused by the implication that there was anything to be learned from the paper itself, outside of his own information concerning it.
“I was told,” he said quickly, “that this paper is positively written in Miss Van Norman’s own hand.”
Robert Fessenden, while not exactly a handsome man, was of a type that impressed everyone pleasantly. He was large and blond, and had an air that was unmistakably cultured and exceedingly well-bred. Conventionality sat well upon him, and his courteous self-assurance had in it no trace of egotism or self-importance. In a word, he was what the plainspoken people of Mapleton called citified, and though they sometimes resented this combination of personal traits, in their hearts they admired and envied it.
This was why Coroner Benson felt a slight irritation at the young man’s savoir faire, and at the same time a sense of satisfaction that there was promise of some worthwhile help.
“I was told so, too,” said Fessenden, in response to the coroner’s remark, “and as I have never seen any of Miss Van Norman’s writing, I have, of course, no reason to doubt this. But this is the point I want to inquire about: is it assumed that Miss Van Norman wrote the words on this paper while sitting here at the table last evening, immediately or shortly before her death?”
Mr. Benson thought a moment, then he said: “Without any evidence to the contrary, and indeed without having given this question any previous thought, I think I may say that it has been tacitly assumed that this is a dying confession of Miss Van Norman’s.”
He looked inquiringly at his audience, and Doctor Hills responded.
“Yes,” he said; “we have taken for granted that Miss Van Norman wrote the message while sitting here last evening, after the rest of the household had retired. This we infer from the fact of Mr. Carleton’s finding the paper on the table when he discovered the tragedy.”
“You thought the same, Mr. Carleton?”
“Of course; I could not do otherwise than to believe Miss Van Norman had written the message and had then carried out her resolve.”
“I think, Mr. Fessenden,” resumed the coroner, “we may assume this to be the case.”
“Then,” said Fessenden, “I will undertake to show that it is improbable that this paper was written as has been supposed. The message is, as you see, written in pencil. The pencil here on the table, and which is part of a set of desk-fittings, is a very hard pencil, labeled H. A few marks made by it upon a bit of paper will convince you at once that it is not the pencil which was used to write that message. The letters, as you see, are formed of heavy black marks which were made with a very soft pencil, such as is designated by 2 B or BB. If you please, I will pause for a moment while you satisfy yourself upon this point.”
Greatly interested, Mr. Benson took the pencil from the pen-rack and wrote some words upon a pad of paper. Doctor Leonard and Doctor Hills leaned over the table to note results, but no one else stirred.
“You are quite right,” said Mr. Benson; “this message was not written with this pencil. But what does that prove?”
“It proves nothing,” said Fessenden calmly, “but it is pretty strong evidence that the message was not written at this table last night. For had there been any other pencil on the table, it would doubtless have remained. Assuming, then that Miss Van Norman wrote this message elsewhere, and with another pencil, it loses the special importance commonly attributed to the words of one about to die.”
“It does,” said Mr. Benson, impressed by the fact, but at
