The Golden Slipper Part 25

Another call, louder and more peremptory than before:

"Humphrey! I say, Humphrey!"

But the answer was the same--silence, and only silence. As the horror of this grew, the doctor spoke:

"Mr. Humphrey Dunbar's ears are closed to all earthly summons. He died last night at the very hour he said he would--four minutes after two."

"Four minutes after two!" It came from her lips in a whisper, but with a revelation of her broken heart and life. "Four minutes after two!"

And defiant to the last, her head rose, and for an instant, for a mere breath of time, they saw her as she had looked in her prime, regal in form, att.i.tude, and expression; then the will which had sustained her through so much, faltered and succ.u.mbed, and with a final reiteration of the words "Four minutes after two!" she broke into a rattling laugh, and fell back into the arms of her old nurse.

And below, one clock struck the hour and then another. But not the big one at the foot of the stairs. That still stood silent, with its hands pointing to the hour and minute of Frank Postlethwaite's hastened death.

END OF PROBLEM VI

PROBLEM VII. THE DOCTOR, HIS WIFE, AND THE CLOCK

Violet had gone to her room. She had a task before her. That afternoon, a packet had been left at the door, which, from a certain letter scribbled in one corner, she knew to be from her employer. The contents of that packet must be read, and she had made herself comfortable with the intention of setting to work at once. But ten o'clock struck and then eleven before she could bring herself to give any attention to the ma.n.u.script awaiting her perusal. In her present mood, a quiet sitting by the fire, with her eyes upon the changeful flame, was preferable to the study of any affair her employer might send her. Yet, because she was conscious of the duty she thus openly neglected, she sat crouched over her desk with her hand on the mysterious packet, the string of which, however, she made no effort to loosen.

What was she thinking of?

We are not alone in our curiosity on this subject. Her brother Arthur, coming unperceived into the room, gives tokens of a similar interest.

Never before had he seen her oblivious to an approaching step; and after a momentary contemplation of her absorbed figure, so girlishly sweet and yet so deeply intent, he advances to her side, and peering earnestly into her face, observes with a seriousness quite unusual to him:

"Puss, you are looking worried,--not like yourself at all. I've noticed it for some time. What's up. Getting tired of the business?"

"No--not altogether--that is, it's not that, if it's anything. I'm not sure that it's anything. I--"

She had turned back to her desk and was pushing about the various articles with which it was plentifully bespread; but this did not hide the flush which had crept into her cheeks and even dyed the snowy whiteness of her neck. Arthur's astonishment at this evidence of emotion was very great; but he said nothing, only watched her still more closely, as with a light laugh she regained her self-possession, and with the practical air of a philosopher uttered this trite remark:

"Everyone has his sober moments. I was only thinking--"

"Of some new case?"

"Not exactly." The words came softly but with a touch of mingled humour and gravity which made Arthur stare again.

"See here, Puss!" he cried. His tone had changed. "I've just come up from the den. Father and I have had a row--a beastly row."

"A row? You and father? Oh, Arthur, I don't like that. Don't quarrel with father. Don't, don't. Some day he and I may have a serious difference about what I am doing. Don't let him feel that he has lost us all."

"That's all right, Puss; but I've got to think of you a bit. I can't see you spoil all your good times with these police horrors and not do something to help. To-morrow I begin life as a salesman in Clarke & Stebbin's. The salary is not great, but every little helps and I don't dislike the business. But father does. He had rather see me loafing about town setting the fashions for fellows as idle as myself than soil my hands with handling merchandise. That's why we quarreled. But don't worry. Your name didn't come up, or--or--you know whose. He hasn't an idea of why I want to work--There, Violet there!"

Two soft arms were around his neck and Violet was letting her heart out in a succession of sisterly kisses.

"O, Arthur, you good, good boy! Together we'll soon make up the amount, and then--"

"Then what?"

A sweet soft look robbed her face of its piquancy, but gave it an aspect of indescribable beauty quite new to Arthur's eyes.

Tapping his lips with a thoughtful forefinger, he asked:

"Who was that sombre-looking chap I saw bowing to you as we came out of church last Sunday?"

She awoke from her dreamy state with an astonishing quickness.

"He? Surely you remember him. Have you forgotten that evening in Ma.s.sachusetts--the grotto--and--"

"Oh, it's Upjohn, is it? Yes, I remember him. He's fond of church, isn't he? That is, when he's in New York."

Her lips took a roguish curve then a very serious one; but she made no answer.

"I have noticed that he's always in his seat and always looking your way."

"That's very odd of him," she declared, her dimples coming and going in a most bewildering fashion. "I can't imagine why he should do that."

"Nor I,--" retorted Arthur with a smile. "But he's human, I suppose.

Only do be careful, Violet. A man so melancholy will need a deal of cheering."

He was gone before he had fully finished this daring remark, and Violet, left again with her thoughts, lost her glowing colour but not her preoccupation. The hand which lay upon the packet already alluded to did not move for many minutes, and when she roused at last to the demands of her employer, it was with a start and a guilty look at the small gold clock ticking out its inexorable reminder.

"He will want an answer the first thing in the morning," she complained to herself. And opening the packet, she took out first a letter, and then a ma.s.s of typewritten ma.n.u.script.

She began with the letter which was as characteristic of the writer as all the others she had had from his hand; as witness:

You probably remember the Hasbrouck murder,--or, perhaps, you don't; it being one of a time previous to your interest in such matters. But whether you remember it or not, I beg you to read the accompanying summary with due care and attention to business. When you have well mastered it with all its details, please communicate with me in any manner most convenient to yourself, for I shall have a word to say to you then, which you may be glad to hear, if as you have lately intimated you need to earn but one or two more substantial rewards in order to cry halt to the pursuit for which you have proved yourself so well qualified.

The story, in deference to yourself as a young and much preoccupied woman, has been written in a way to interest. Though the work of an everyday police detective, you will find in it no lack of mystery or romance; and if at the end you perceive that it runs, as such cases frequently do, up against a perfectly blank wall, you must remember that openings can be made in walls, and that the loosening of one weak stone from its appointed place, sometimes leads to the downfall of all.

So much for the letter.

Laying it aside, with a shrug of her expressive shoulders, Violet took up the ma.n.u.script.

Let us take it up too. It runs thus:

On the 17th of July, 19--, a tragedy of no little interest occurred in one of the residences of the Colonnade in Lafayette Place.

Mr. Hasbrouck, a well known and highly respected citizen, was attacked in his room by an unknown a.s.sailant, and shot dead before a.s.sistance could reach him. His murderer escaped, and the problem offered to the police was how to identify this person who, by some happy chance or by the exercise of the most remarkable forethought, had left no traces behind him, or any clue by which he could be followed.

The details of the investigation which ended so unsatisfactorily are here given by the man sent from headquarters at the first alarm.

When, some time after midnight on the date above mentioned, I reached Lafayette Place, I found the block lighted from end to end. Groups of excited men and women peered from the open doorways, and mingled their shadows with those of the huge pillars which adorn the front of this picturesque block of dwellings.

The house in which the crime had been committed was near the centre of the row, and, long before I reached it, I had learned from more than one source that the alarm was first given to the street by a woman's shriek, and secondly by the shouts of an old man-servant who had appeared, in a half-dressed condition, at the window of Mr. Hasbrouck's room, crying "Murder! murder!"

But when I had crossed the threshold, I was astonished at the paucity of facts to be gleaned from the inmates themselves. The old servant, who was the first to talk, had only this account of the crime to give: