“Did she seem about as usual in her manner?”
“Yes—except that she was very tired, and seemed a little preoccupied.”
“And then she dismissed you?”
“Yes. She told me to go to bed, and said that she should sit up for an hour or so, and would write some notes herself.”
“Apparently she did not do so, as no notes have been found in the library.”
“That must be so, sir.”
But as she said this, a change came over Miss Dupuy’s face. She seemed to think that the absence of those notes was of startling importance, and though she tried not to show her agitation, it was clearly evident from the way she bit her lower lip, and clenched her fingers.
“At what time did Miss Van Norman dismiss you?” asked Mr. Benson, seeming to ignore her embarrassment.
“At half-past ten.”
“Did you retire at once?”
“No; I had some notes to write for Miss Van Norman, and also some of my own, and I sat at my desk for some time. I don’t know just how long.”
“And then what happened?”
At this question Cicely Dupuy became more nervous and embarrassed than ever. She hesitated and then made two or three attempts to speak, each one of which resulted in no intelligible sound.
X
Some Testimony
“There is nothing to fear,” said Mr. Benson kindly. “Simply tell us what you heard while sitting there writing, that caused you to leave your room.”
Glancing around as if in search of someone, Cicely finally managed to make an audible reply. “I heard a loud cry,” she said, “that sounded as if somebody were frightened or in danger. I naturally ran out into the hall, and, looking over the baluster, I saw Mr. Carleton in the hall below. I felt sure then that it was he who had cried out, so I came downstairs.”
“At what time was this?”
“At half-past eleven exactly.”
“How do you know so accurately?”
“Because as I came downstairs the old clock on the middle landing chimed the half-hour. It has a deep soft note, and it struck just as I passed the clock, and it startled me a little, so of course I remember it perfectly.”
“And then?”
“And then”—Cicely again hesitated, but with a visible effort resumed her speech—“why, and then I came on down, and found Mr. Carleton nearly distracted. I could not guess what was the matter. He was turning on the lights and ringing the servants’ bells and acting like a man beside himself. Then in a moment Marie appeared, and gave one of her French shrieks that completely upset what little nerve I had left.”
“And what did you do next?”
“I—I went into the library.”
“Why?”
Cicely looked up suddenly, as if startled, but after only an instant’s hesitation replied:
“Because Mr. Carleton pointed toward the doorway, and Marie and I went in together.”
“You knew at once that Miss Van Norman was not alive?”
“I was not sure, but Marie went toward her, and then turned away with another of her horrid screams, and I felt that Miss Van Norman must be dead.”
“What did Mr. Carleton say?”
“He said nothing. He—he pointed to the written paper on the table.”
“Which you had written yourself?”
“Yes, but he didn’t know that.” Cicely spoke eagerly, as if saying something of importance. “He thought she wrote it.”
“Never mind that point for the moment. But I must now ask you to explain that written message which you have declared that you yourself wrote.”
At this Cicely’s manner changed. She became again the obstinate and defiant woman who had answered the coroner’s earlier questions.
“I refuse to explain it.”
“Consider a moment,” said Mr. Benson quietly. “Sooner or later—perhaps at a trial—you will be obliged to explain this matter. How much better, then, to confide in us now, and perhaps lead to an immediate solution of the mystery.”
Cicely pondered a moment, then she said, “I have nothing to conceal, I will tell you. I did write that paper, and it was the confession of my heart. I am very miserable, and when I wrote it I quite intended to take my own life. When I was called to go to Miss Van Norman in the library, I gathered up some notes and lists from my desk to take to her. In my haste I must have included that paper without knowing it, for when I reached my room I could not find it. And then—then when I saw it—there on the table—I—” Cicely had again grown nervous and excited. Her voice trembled, her eyes filled with tears, and, fearing a nervous collapse, Mr. Benson hurried on to other questions.
“Whom does that S. in your note stand for.”
“That I shall never tell.” The determination in her voice convinced him that it was useless to insist on that point, so the coroner went on.
“Perhaps we have no right to ask. Now you must tell me some other things, and, believe me, my questions are not prompted by curiosity, but are necessary to the discovery of the truth. Why did Mr. Carleton point to that paper?”
“He—he seemed so shocked and stunned that he was almost unable to speak. I suppose he thought that would explain why she had killed herself.”
“But she hadn’t killed herself.”
“But he thought she had, and he thought that paper proved it.”
“But why had he need to prove it, and to you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what he thought! I don’t know what I thought myself after I reached the library door and looked in and saw that dreadful sight! Oh, I shall see it all my life!” At the memory Cicely broke down again and sank into her chair, shaking with convulsive sobs.
Mr. Benson did not disturb her further, but proceeded to question the others.
The account of Marie, the maid, merely served to corroborate what Cicely had said. Marie, too, had heard Carleton’s cry for help, and, throwing on a dressing-gown, had run downstairs to Madeleine’s room. Not finding her mistress there, she had hurried down to the first floor,
