Willard without doubt sorrowed deeply for his beautiful cousin, but he was a man who rarely gave voice to his grief, and his feelings were evident more from his manner than his words. He seemed preoccupied and absentminded, and, quite unlike Miss Morton, he was in no haste to take even preliminary steps toward the actual acquisition of his fortune.
Fessenden was curious to know whether Willard suspected that his cousin’s death was the work of Schuyler Carleton. But when he tried to sound Tom on the subject he was met by a rebuff. It was politely worded, but it was nevertheless a plainspoken rebuff, and conclusively forbade further discussion of the subject.
And so as an outcome of Kitty’s suggestion, Fessenden determined to have a plain talk with Schuyler Carleton.
“Old man,” he said, the first time opportunity found him alone with Schuyler in the Carleton library, “I want to offer you my help. I know that sounds presumptuous, but we’re old friends, Carleton, and I think I may be allowed a little presumption on that score. And first, though it seems to me absurdly unnecessary, I want to assure you of my belief in your own innocence. Pshaw, belief is a weak word! I know, I am positive, that you no more killed that girl than I did!”
The light that broke over Carleton’s countenance was a fine vindication of Kitty’s theory. The weary, drawn look disappeared from his face, and, impulsively grasping Rob’s hand, he exclaimed, “Do you mean that?”
“Of course I mean it. I never for an instant thought it possible. You’re not that sort of a man.”
“Not that sort of a man;” Carleton spoke musingly. “That isn’t the point, Fessenden. I’ve thought this thing out pretty thoroughly, and I must say I don’t wonder that they suspect me of the deed. You see, it’s a case of exclusive opportunity.”
“That phrase always makes me tired,” declared Rob. “If there’s one thing more misleading than ‘circumstantial evidence,’ it is ‘exclusive opportunity.’ Now, look here, Carleton, if you’ll let me, I’m going to take up this matter. Should you be arrested and tried—and I may as well tell you frankly I’m pretty sure that you will be—I want to act as your lawyer. But in the meantime I want to endeavor to track down the real murderer and so leave no occasion for your trial.”
Schuyler Carleton looked like a condemned man who has just been granted a reprieve.
“Do you know, Fessenden,” he said, “you’re the only one who does believe me innocent?”
“Nonsense, man! Nobody believes you guilty.”
“They’re so strongly suspicious that it’s little short of belief,” said Carleton sadly. “And truly, Rob, I can’t blame them. Everything is against me.”
“I admit there are some things that must be explained away; and, Schuyler, if I’m to be your lawyer, or, rather, since I am your lawyer, I must ask you to be perfectly frank with me.”
Carleton looked troubled. He was not of a frank nature, and it was always difficult for him to confide his personal affairs to anybody. Fessenden saw this, and resolved upon strong measures.
“You must tell me everything,” he said somewhat sternly. “You must do this at the sacrifice of your own wishes. You must ignore yourself, and lay your whole heart bare to me, for the sake of your mother, and—for the sake of the woman you love.”
Schuyler Carleton started as if he had been physically struck.
“What do you mean?” he cried.
“You know what I mean,” said Fessenden gently. “You did not love the woman you were about to marry. You do love another. Can you deny it?”
“No,” said Carleton, settling back into his apathy. “And since you know that, I may as well tell you all. I admired and respected Madeleine Van Norman, and when I asked her to marry me I thought I loved her. After that I met someone else. You know this?”
“Yes; Miss Burt.”
“Yes. She came into this house as my mother’s companion, and almost from the first time I saw her I knew that she and not Madeleine was the one woman in the world for me. But, Fessenden, never by word or look did I betray this to Miss Burt while Madeleine lived. If she guessed it, it was only because of her woman’s intuition. I was always loyal to Madeleine in word and deed, if I could not be in thought.”
“Was it not your duty to tell Madeleine this?”
“I tried several times to do so, but, though I hate to sound egotistical, she loved me very deeply, and I felt that honor bound me to her.”
“I’m not here to preach to you, and that part of it is, of course, not my affair. I know your nature, and I know that you were as loyal to Miss Van Norman as you would have been had you never seen Miss Burt, and I honor and respect you for it. But you were jealous of Willard?”
“My nature is insanely jealous, yes. And though he was her cousin, I knew Willard was desperately in love with her, and somehow it always made me frantic to see him showing affection toward the woman I meant to make my wife.”
“She was not in love with Willard?”
“Not in the least. Madeleine’s heart beat only for me, ungrateful wretch that I am. Her little feints at flirting with Willard were only to pique me. I knew this, and yet to see them together always roused that demon of jealousy which I cannot control. Fessenden, aside from all else, how can people think I killed the woman who loved me as she did?”
“Of course that argument appeals to you, and of course it does to me. But you must see how others, not appreciating all this, and even suspecting or surmising that your heart was not entirely with your intended bride—you must see that some
