Fessenden went to his room, his brain a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts.
He sat down by an open window and endeavored to classify them into some sort of order.
First, he was annoyed at Carleton's inexplicable attitude. Granting he was in love with Miss Burt, he had no reason to act so unconcerned about the Van Norman tragedy. And yet Schuyler's was a peculiar nature, and doubtless all this strange behavior of his was merely the effort to hide his real sorrow.
But again, if he were in love with Miss Burt, his sorrow for the loss of Madeleine was for the loss of her fortune and not herself. This Fessenden refused to believe, but the more he refused to believe it, the more it came back to him. Then there was his new notion, that came to him at dinner, about Miss Burt. Carleton said she was the ingenuous, timid girl she looked, but Rob couldn't believe it. Executive ability showed in that determined little chin. Veiled cunning lurked in the shadows of those innocent eyes. And the girl had a motive. Surely she wanted her rival out of her way. Then she had said good-night to Schuyler nearly an hour before he went over to Madeleine's. Could she have—but, nonsense! Even if she had been so inclined, how could she have entered the house? Ah, that settled it! She couldn't. And Fessenden was honestly glad of it. Honestly glad that he had proved to himself that Miss Burt—lovely, alluring little Dorothy Burt—was not the hardened criminal for whom he was looking!
Then it came back to Schuyler. No! Never Schuyler! But if not he, then who? And what was he doing in that incriminating interval, and why wouldn't he tell?
And then, idly gazing from his window Rob saw again two figures walking in the rose-garden.
And they were the same two that he had seen there the evening before.
Schuyler Carleton and Dorothy Burt were strolling,—no, now they were standing, standing close to each other in earnest conversation.
Rob was no eavesdropper, and of course he couldn't hear a word they said, but somehow he found it impossible to take his eyes from those two figures.
Steadily they talked,—so engrossed in their conversation that they scarcely moved; then Schuyler's arm went slowly round the girl's shoulders.
Gently she drew away, and he did not then again offer a caress.
Rob sat looking at them, saying frankly to himself that he was justified in doing so, since his motive effaced all consideration of puerile conventions. If that girl were really the designing young woman he took her to be,—more, if she could be the author, directly or indirectly, of that awful crime,—then Fessenden vowed he would save Schuyler from her fascinations at the risk of breaking their own lifelong friendship.
After further rapt and earnest conversation, Carleton took Miss Burt gently in his arms and kissed her lightly on the forehead. Then, drawing her arm through his own, they turned and walked slowly to the house.
A few moments later Rob heard the girl's light footsteps as she came up to her room, but Carleton stayed down in the library until long after all the rest of the household were sleeping.
Chapter XV.
Fessenden's Detective Work
Next morning Rob went over to the Van Norman house with a clearly developed plan of action. He declared to himself that he would allow no circumstance to shake his faith in his friend, that he would hold Carleton innocent of all wrongdoing in the affair, and that he would put all his ingenuity and cleverness to work to discover the criminal or any clue that might lead to such a discovery.
Although some questions he had wished to ask Cicely Dupuy were yet unanswered, Fessenden had discovered several important facts, and, after being admitted to the house, he looked about him for a quiet spot to sit down and tabulate them in black and white. The florist's men were still in the drawing-room, so he went into the library. Here he found only Mrs. Markham and Miss Morton, who were apparently discussing a question on which they held opposite opinions.
"Come in, Mr. Fessenden," said Mrs. Markham, as he was about to withdraw. "I should be glad of your advice. Ought I to give over the reins of government at once to Miss Morton?"
"Why not?" interrupted Miss Morton, herself. "The house is mine; why should I not be mistress here?"
Fessenden repressed a smile. It seemed to him absurd that these two middle-aged women should discuss an issue of this sort with such precipitancy.
"It seems to me a matter of good taste," he replied. "The house, Miss Morton, is legally yours, but as its mistress, I think you'd show a more gracious manner if you would wait for a time before making any changes in the domestic arrangements."
Apparently undesirous of pursuing the gracious course he recommended, Miss Morton rose abruptly and flounced out of the room.
"Now she's annoyed again," observed Mrs. Markham placidly. "The least little thing sets her off."
"If not intrusive, Mrs. Markham, won't you tell me how it comes about that Miss Morton inherits this beautiful house? Is she a relative of the Van Normans?"
"Not a bit of it. She was Richard Van Norman's sweetheart, years and years and years ago. They had a falling-out, and neither of them ever married. Of course he didn't leave her any of his fortune. But only a short time ago, long after her uncle's death, Madeleine found out about it from some old letters. She determined then to hunt up this Miss Morton, and she did so, and they had quite a correspondence. She came here for the wedding, and Madeleine intended she should make a visit, and intended to give her a present of money when she went away. In the meantime Madeleine had made her will, though I didn't know this until to-day, leaving the place and all her own money to Miss Morton. I'm not surprised at this, for Tom Willard has plenty, and as there was no other heir, I know Madeleine felt that part of her uncle's fortune ought to be used to benefit the woman he had loved in his youth."
"That explains Miss Morton, then," said Fessenden. "But what a peculiar woman she is!"
"Yes, she is," agreed Mrs. Markham, in her serene way. "But I'm used to queer people. Richard Van Norman used to give way to the most violent bursts of temper I ever saw. Maddy and Tom are just like him. They would both fly into furious rages, though I must say they didn't do it often, and never unless for some deep reason."
"And Mr. Carleton—has he a high temper?" Mrs. Markham's brow clouded. "I don't understand that man," she said slowly. "I don't think he has a quick temper, but there's something deep about him that I can't make out. Oh, Mr. Fessenden, do you think he killed our Madeleine?"
"Do you?" said Fessenden suddenly, looking straight at her.
"I do," she said, taken off her guard. "That is, I couldn't believe it, only, what else can I think? Mr. Carleton is a good man, but I know Maddy never killed herself, and I know the way this house is locked up every night. No burglar or evil-doer could possibly get in.'
"But the murderer may have been concealed in the house for hours beforehand."
"Nonsense! That would be impossible, with a house so full of people, and the wedding preparations going on, and everything. Besides, Mr. Hunt would have heard any intruder prowling around; and then again, how could he have gone out? Everything was bolted on the inside, except the front door, and had he gone out that way he must surely have been heard."
"Well reasoned, Mrs. Markham! I think, with you, we may dismiss the possibility of a burglar. The time was too short for anything except a definitely premeditated act. And yet I cannot believe the act was that of Schuyler Carleton. I know that man very well, and a truer, braver soul never existed."
"I know it," declared Mrs. Markham, "but I think I'm justified in telling you this. Mr. Carleton didn't love Madeleine, and