He thought it wiser to be frank in the matter than to attempt to obtain underhand information. Asking to speak with the proprietor alone, he said plainly:
“I’m a detective from New York City, and my name is Fessenden. I’m interested in investigating the death of Miss Van Norman. I have no suspicions of anyone in particular, but I’m trying to collect a few absolute facts by way of making a beginning. I wish you, therefore, to consider this conversation confidential.”
Mr. Taylor, the landlord of the inn, was flattered at being a party to a confidential conversation with a real detective, and willingly promised secrecy in the matter.
“Then,” went on Fessenden, “will you tell me all you know of the movements of Mr. Willard last evening?”
Mr. Taylor looked a bit disappointed at this request, for he foresaw that his story would be but brief. However, he elaborated the recital and spun it out as long as he possibly could. But after all his circumlocution, Fessenden found that the facts were given precisely as Willard had stated them himself.
The bellboy who had carried up the suitcase was called in, and his story also agreed.
“Yessir,” said the boy; “I took up his bag, and he gimme a quarter, just like any nice gent would. ’N’en I come downstairs, and after while the gent’s bell rang, and I went up, and he wanted ice water. He was in his shirt sleeves then, jes’ gittin’ ready for bed. So I took up the water, and he said, ‘Thank you,’ real pleasant-like, and gimme a dime. He’s a awful nice man, he is. He had his shoes off that time, ’most ready for bed. And that’s all I know about it.”
All this was nothing more nor less than Fessenden had expected. He had asked the questions merely for the satisfaction of having verbal corroboration of Tom’s own story.
With thanks to Mr. Taylor, and a more material token of appreciation to the boy, he went away.
On reaching the coroner’s office, he was told that Mr. Benson was not in. Fessenden was sorry, for he wanted to discuss the Morton episode with him. He thought of going to Lawyer Peabody’s, who would know all about Miss Van Norman’s will, but as he sauntered through one of the few streets the village possessed, he was rather pleased than otherwise to see Kitty French walking toward him.
She greeted him with apparent satisfaction, and said chummily, “Let’s walk along together and talk it over.”
Immediately coroner and lawyer faded from Rob’s mind, he willingly fell into step beside her, and they walked along the street which soon merged itself into a pleasant country road.
Fessenden told Kitty of his conversation at the inn, but she agreed that it was unimportant.
“Of course,” she said, “I suppose it was a good thing to have someone else say the same as Tom said, but as Tom wasn’t even in the house, I don’t see as he is in the mystery at all. But there’s no use of looking further for the criminal. It was Schuyler Carleton, just as sure as I stand here.”
Kitty very surely stood there. They had paused beneath an old willow tree by the side of the road, and Kitty, leaning against a rail fence, looked like a very sweet and winsome Portia, determined to mete out justice.
Though he was himself convinced that he was an unprejudiced seeker after truth, at that moment Robert Fessenden found himself very much swayed by the opinions of the pretty, impetuous girl who addressed him.
“I believe I’m going to work all wrong,” he declared. “I can’t help feeling sure that Carleton didn’t do it, and so I’m trying to discover who did.”
“Well, why is that wrong?” demanded Kitty wonderingly.
“Why, I think a better way to do would be to assume, if only for sake of argument, as they say, or rather for sake of a starting-point—to assume that you are right and that Carleton is the evildoer, though I swear I don’t believe it.”
Kitty laughed outright. “You’re a nice detective!” she said. “Are you assuming that Schuyler is the villain, merely to be polite to me?”
“I am not, indeed! I feel very politely inclined toward you, I’ll admit, but in this matter I’m very much in earnest. And I believe, by assuming that Carleton is the man, and then looking for proof of it, we may run across clues that will lead us to the real villain.”
Kitty looked at him admiringly, and for Kitty French to look at any young man admiringly was apt to be a bit disturbing to the young man’s peace of mind.
It proved so in this case, and though Fessenden whispered to his own heart that he would attend first to the vindication of his friend Carleton, his own heart whispered back that after that, Miss French must be considered.
“And so,” said Rob, as they turned back homeward, “I’m going to work upon this line. I’m going to look for clues; real, material, tangible clues, such as criminals invariably leave behind them.”
“Do!” cried Kitty. “And I’ll help you. I know we can find something.”
“You see,” went on Fessenden, his enthusiasm kindling from hers, “the actual stage of the tragedy is so restricted. Whatever we find must be in the Van Norman house.”
“Yes, and probably in the library.”
“Or the hall,” he supplemented.
“What kind of a thing do you expect
