“She said she wasn’t fond of coroners and had no wish to draw the attention of twelve of her own townsfolk upon herself. She didn’t mean to commit herself with me,” pursued Hickory, rising also. “She was going to give me a hint of the real state of affairs; or, rather, set me working in the right direction, as this little note which she tucked under the door of my room at the hotel will show. But I was too quick for her, and had her by the arm before she could shuffle down the stairs. It was partly to prove her story was true and not a romance made up for the occasion, that I lured this woman here this afternoon.”
“You are not as bad a fellow as I thought,” Mr. Byrd admitted, after a momentary contemplation of the other’s face. “If I might only know how you managed to effect this interview.”
“Nothing easier. I found in looking over the scraps of paper which Mansell had thrown into the wastepaper basket in Buffalo, the draft of a note which he had written to Miss Dare, under an impulse which he afterward probably regretted. It was a summons to their usual place of tryst at or near this hut, and though unsigned, was of a character, as I thought, to effect its purpose. I just sent it to her, that’s all.”
The nonchalance with which this was said completed Mr. Byrd’s astonishment.
“You are a worthy disciple of Gryce,” he asserted, leading the way to the door.
“Think so?” exclaimed the man, evidently flattered at what he considered a great compliment. “Then shake hands,” he cried, with a frank appeal Mr. Byrd found it hard to resist. “Ah, you don’t want to,” he somewhat ruefully declared. “Will it change your feelings any if I promise to ignore what happened here today—my trick with Miss Dare and what she revealed and all that? If it will, I swear I won’t even think of it any more if I can help it. At all events, I won’t tattle about it even to the superintendent. It shall be a secret between you and me, and she won’t know but what it was her lover she talked to, after all.”
“You are willing to do all this?” inquired Mr. Byrd.
“Willing and ready,” cried the man. “I believe in duty to one’s superiors, but duty doesn’t always demand of one to tell everything he knows. Besides, it won’t be necessary, I imagine. There is enough against this poor fellow without that.”
“I fear so,” ejaculated Mr. Byrd.
“Then it is a bargain?” said Hickory.
“Yes.”
And Mr. Byrd held out his hand.
The rain had now ceased and they prepared to return home. Before leaving the glade, however, Mr. Byrd ran his eye over the other’s person and apparel, and in some wonder inquired:
“How do you fellows ever manage to get up such complete disguises? I declare you look enough like Mr. Mansell in the back to make me doubt even now who I am talking to.”
“Oh,” laughed the other, “it is easy enough. It’s my specialty, you see, and one in which I am thought to excel. But, to tell the truth, I hadn’t much to contend with in this case. In build I am famously like this man, as you must have noticed when you saw us together in Buffalo. Indeed, it was our similarity in this respect that first put the idea of personifying him into my head. My complexion had been darkened already, and, as for such accessories as hair, voice, manner, dress, etc., a five-minutes’ study of my model was sufficient to prime me up in all that—enough, at least, to satisfy the conditions of an interview which did not require me to show my face.”
“But you did not know when you came here that you would not have to show your face,” persisted Mr. Byrd, anxious to understand how this man dared risk his reputation on an undertaking of this kind.
“No, and I did not know that the biggest thunderstorm of the season was going to spring up and lend me its darkness to complete the illusion I had attempted. I only trusted my good fortune—and my wits,” he added, with a droll demureness. “Both had served me before, and both were likely to serve me again. And, say she had detected me in my little game, what then? Women like her don’t babble.”
There was no reply to make to this, and Mr. Byrd’s thoughts being thus carried back to Imogene Dare and the unhappy revelations she had been led to make, he walked on in a dreary silence his companion had sufficient discretion not to break.
XIX
Mr. Ferris
Which of you have done this?
Macbeth
What have we here?
Tempest
Mr. Ferris sat in his office in a somewhat gloomy frame of mind. There had been bad news from the jail that morning. Mr. Hildreth had attempted suicide the night before, and was now lying in a critical condition at the hospital.
Mr. Ferris himself had never doubted this man’s guilt. From Hildreth’s first appearance at the inquest, the District Attorney had fixed upon him as the murderer of Mrs. Clemmens, and up to this time he had seen no good and substantial reason for altering his opinion.
Even the doubts expressed by Mr. Byrd had moved him but little. Mr. Byrd was an enthusiast, and, naturally enough, shrank from believing a gentleman capable of such a crime. But the other detective’s judgment was unswayed, and he considered Hildreth guilty. It was not astonishing, then, that the opinion of Mr. Ferris should coincide with that of the older and more experienced man.
But the depth of despair or remorse which had led Mr. Hildreth to this desperate attempt upon his own life had struck the District Attorney with dismay. Though not oversensitive by nature, he could not help feeling
