“Look at Schuyler,” said Kitty French to Fessenden. The two had withdrawn to a quiet corner to discuss the affair. But Kitty was doing most of the talking, while Fessenden was quiet and seemed preoccupied. “Of course I suppose he must have killed Madeleine,” went on Kitty, “but it’s so hard to believe it, after all. I’ve tried to think of a reason for it, and this is the only one I can think of. They quarrelled yesterday afternoon, and he went away in a huff. I believe he came back last night to make it up with her, and then they quarrelled again and he stabbed her.”
Fessenden looked at her thoughtfully. “I think that Hunt man testified accurately,” he said. “And if so, Carleton was in the house just fifteen minutes before he gave the alarm. Now, fifteen minutes is an awfully short time to quarrel with anybody so desperately that it leads to a murder.”
“That’s true; but they both have very quick tempers. At least Madeleine had. She didn’t often do it, but when she did fly into a fury it was as quick as a flash. I’ve never seen Mr. Carleton angry, but I know he can be, for Maddy told me so.”
“Still, a quarter of an hour is too short a time for a fatal quarrel, I think. If Carleton killed her he came here for that purpose, and it was done premeditatedly.”
“Why do you say ‘if he killed her’? It’s been proved she didn’t kill herself; it’s been proved that no one could enter the house without a latchkey, and it’s been proved that the deed was done in that one hour between half-past ten and half-past eleven. So it had to be Mr. Carleton.”
“Miss French, you have a logical mind, and I think you’d make a clever little detective. But you have overlooked the possibility that she was killed by someone in the house.”
“Some of us?” Kitty’s look of amazement almost made Fessenden smile.
“Not you or Miss Gardner,” he said. “But a burglar might have been concealed in the house.”
“I never thought of that!” exclaimed Kitty, her eyes opening wide at the thought. “Why, he might have killed us all!”
“It isn’t a very plausible theory,” said Fessenden, unheeding the girl’s remark, “and yet I could think of nothing else. Every instinct of my mind denies Carleton’s guilt. Why, he isn’t that sort of a man!”
“Perhaps he isn’t as good as he looks,” said Kitty, wagging her head wisely. “I know a lot about him. You know he wasn’t a bit in love with Maddy.”
“You hinted that before. And was he really a mere fortune-hunter? I can’t believe that of Carleton. I’ve known the man for years.”
“He must have been, or else why did he marry her? He’s in love with another girl.”
“He is! Who?”
“I don’t know who. But Madeleine hinted it to me only a few days ago. It made her miserable. And that’s why everybody thought she wrote that paper that said, ‘I love S., but he does not love me.’ ”
“And you don’t know who this rival is?”
“No, but I know what she’s like. She’s the ‘clinging rosebud’ effect.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that. You know Madeleine was a big, grand, splendid type—majestic and haughty; and she thought Schuyler loved better some little, timid girl, who would sort of look up to him, and need his protection.”
Fessenden looked steadily at Miss French. “Are you imagining all this,” he said, “or is it true?”
“Both,” responded Kitty, with a charming little smile. “Maddy just hinted it to me, and I guessed the rest. You know, I have detective instinct too, as well as you.”
“You have, indeed;” and Rob gave an admiring glance to the pouting red lips, and roguish eyes. “But tell me more about it.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” said Kitty, looking thoughtful, “but there’s a lot to deduce.”
“Well, tell me what there is to tell, and then we’ll both deduce.”
It pleased Kitty greatly to imagine she was really helping Fessenden, and she went glibly on:
“Why, you see, Maddy was unhappy—we all know that—and it was for some reason connected with Schuyler. Yet they were to be married, all the same. But sometimes Maddy has asked me, with such a wistful look, if I didn’t think men preferred little, kittenish girls to big, proud ones like herself.”
“And you, being a little, kittenish girl, said yes?”
“Don’t be rude,” said Kitty, flashing a smile at him. “I am kittenish in name only. And I am not little!”
“You are, compared to Miss Van Norman’s type.”
“Oh, yes; she was like a beautiful Amazon. Well, she either had reason to think, or she imagined, that Schuyler pretended to love her, and was really in love with some dear little clinging rosebud.”
“Clinging rosebud! What an absurd expression! And yet—by Jove!—it just fits her! And Miss Van Norman said to me—oh, I say, Miss French, don’t you know who the rosebud is?”
“No,” said Kitty, wondering at his sudden look of dismay.
“Well, I do! Oh, this is getting dreadful. Come outside with me and let’s look into this idea. I hope it’s only an idea!”
Throwing a soft fawn-colored cape round her, and drawing its pink-lined hood over her curly hair, Kitty went with Fessenden out on the lawn and down to the little arbor where they had sat before.
“Did you ever hear of Dorothy Burt?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
“No; who is she?”
“Well, she’s your ‘clinging rosebud,’ I’m sure of it! And I’ll tell you why.”
“First tell me who she is.”
“She’s Mrs. Carleton’s companion. Schuyler’s mother, you know. She lives in the Carleton household, and she is the sweetest, prettiest, shyest little thing you ever saw! ‘Clinging rosebud’ just fits her.”
“Indeed!” said Kitty, who had suddenly lost interest in the conversation. And indeed, few
