But there was just one more unfinished duty that Fessenden determined to attend to. Carleton had assured him that he was at liberty to talk to Dorothy Burt, if he chose, and Rob couldn’t help thinking that he ought to get all possible light on the case before Mr. Stone came; for he proposed to assist that gentleman greatly by his carefully tabulated statements, and his cross-referenced columns of evidence.
So, unaccompanied by Kitty, who was apt to prove a disturbing influence on his concentration of mind, he interviewed Miss Burt.
It was not difficult to get an opportunity, as she rarely left the house, and Mrs. Carleton was not exigent in her demands on her companion’s time.
So the two strolled in the rose-garden late one afternoon, and Rob asked Miss Burt to tell him why she hesitated so when on the witness stand, and why she looked at Carleton with such unmistakable glances of inquiry, which he as certainly answered.
Dorothy Burt replied to the questions as frankly as they were put.
“To explain it to you, Mr. Fessenden,” she said, “I must first tell you that I loved Mr. Carleton even while Miss Van Norman was his affianced bride. I tell you this simply, both because it is the simple truth and because Mr. Carleton advised me to tell you, if you should ask me. And, knowing this, you may be surprised to learn that when I heard of Miss Van Norman’s death, I—” she raised her wonderful eyes and looked straight at Rob—“I thought she died by Schuyler’s hand. Yes, you may well look at me in surprise—I know it was dreadful of me to think he could have done it, but—I did think so. You see, I loved him—and I knew he loved me. He had never told me so, had never breathed a word that was disloyal to Miss Van Norman—and yet I knew. And that last evening in this very rose-garden, on the night before his wedding, we walked here together, and I knew from what he didn’t say, not from what he did say, that it was I whom he loved, and not she. He left me with a few cold, curt words that I knew only too well masked his real feelings, and I saw him no more that night. He had told me he was going over to Miss Van Norman’s, and so, when I heard of the—the tragedy—I couldn’t help thinking he had yielded to a sudden terrible impulse. Oh, I’m not defending myself for my wrong thought of him; I’m only confessing that I did think that.”
“And how did you learn that you were mistaken,” said Rob gently, “and that Schuyler didn’t do it?”
“Why, the very next night he told me he loved me,” said the girl, her face alight with a tender glory, “and then I knew!”
“And your embarrassment at the questions on the witness stand?”
“Was only because I knew suspicion was directed toward him, and I feared I might say something to strengthen it, even while trying to do the opposite.”
“And you didn’t care whether you told the truth or not?”
“If the truth would help to incriminate Schuyler, I would prefer not to tell it.”
The gentle sadness in Dorothy’s tone robbed this speech of the jarring note it would otherwise have held.
“You are right, Miss Burt,” said Rob, “and I thank you for the frank confidence you have shown in talking to me as freely as you have done.”
“Schuyler told me to,” said the girl simply.
XXIII
Fleming Stone
When Fessenden told Kitty of his interview with Dorothy Burt, she agreed that he had now followed every trail that had presented itself, or had been suggested by anybody.
Mr. Fairbanks, too, admitted that he was at his wits’ end, and saw no hope of a solution of the mystery except through the services of Fleming Stone. And so when the great detective arrived, both Fairbanks and Fessenden were ready to do anything they could to help him, but had no suggestions to make.
With her ever-ready hospitality, Miss Morton invited Mr. Stone to make his home at the Van Norman house, and, as this quite coincided with his own wishes, Stone took up his quarters there.
The first evening of his arrival he listened to the details of the case.
Fleming Stone was of a most attractive personality. He was nearly fifty years old, with graying hair and a kindly, responsive face.
At dinner he had won the admiration of all by his tact and interesting conversation. At the table the business upon which he had come had not been mentioned, but now the group assembled in the library felt that the time had come to talk of the matter.
It was a strangely-assorted household. Tom Willard, though the only relative of the Van Normans present, was in no way the head of the house. That position was held by Miss Morton, who, though kindhearted and hospitable, never let it be forgotten that she was owner and mistress of the mansion.
Kitty French was an honored guest, and as Miss Morton had invited her to stay as long as she would, she had determined now to stay through Mr. Stone’s sojourn there, after which, whatever the results of his work, she would go back to her home in New York.
Fessenden and Schuyler Carleton had been with them at dinner, and Mr. Benson and Mr. Fairbanks had come later, and now the group waited only on Mr. Stone’s pleasure to begin the recital of the case.
When Fleming Stone, then, asked Coroner Benson to give him the main facts, it seemed as if the great detective’s work was really about to begin.
“Would you rather see Mr. Benson alone?” asked Schuyler Carleton, actuated, doubtless, by his own shrinking from any publicity.
“Not at all,” said Stone briefly.
