"Oh, he didn't exactly say you were foolish, but he said I was. He said it was silly for a girl to hunt around under tables and chairs."
"He had no right to say so. It isn't silly for you to do anything you want to do. But I know what Willard meant. He thinks, as lots of people do, that there's no sense in expecting to find material evidences of crime—or, rather, of the criminal. And I suppose he's right. Whoever murdered Miss Van Norman certainly left no tangible traces. But I'm glad we hunted for them, for now I feel certain there were none left; otherwise, I should always have thought there might have been."
"How much more sensible you are than Mr. Willard," said Kitty, with an admiring glance that went straight to the young man's heart, and stayed there. "And, too, you always make use of 'clues' if you do find them. Look how cleverly you deduced about the soft and hard lead pencils."
"Oh, that was nothing," said Fessenden modestly, though her praise was ecstasy to his soul.
"Indeed it was something! It was great work. And I truly believe you'll make as great a deduction from that little thing you found this morning. What do you call it?"
"A cachou."
"Yes, a cachou. The whole discovery of the murderer may hinge on that tiny clue we found."
"It may, but I can hardly hope so."
"I hope so,—for I do want to prove to Tom Willard that our search for clues wasn't silly, after all."
And Fessenden's foolish heart was so joyed at Kitty's use of "we" and "our" that he cared not a rap for Willard's opinion of his detective methods.
Chapter XVII.
Miss Morton's Statements
That afternoon another session of the inquest was held.
Fessenden had told Coroner Benson of Marie's disclosures concerning Miss Morton, and in consequence that lady was the first witness called.
The summons was a complete surprise to her. Turning deathly white, she endeavored to answer to her name, but only gave voice to an unintelligible stammer.
The coroner spoke gently, realizing that his feminine cloud of witnesses really gave him a great deal of trouble.
"Please tell us, Miss Morton," he said, "what was your errand when you left the library and went upstairs, remaining there nearly half an hour, on the night of Miss Van Norman's death?"
"I didn't do any such thing!" snapped Miss Morton, and though her tone was defiant now, her expression still showed fear and dismay.
"You must have forgotten. Think a moment. You were seen to leave the library, and you were also seen after you reached the upper floors. So try to recollect clearly, and state your errand upstairs at that time."
"I—I was overcome at the tragedy of the occasion, and I went to my own room to be alone for a time."
"Did you go directly from the library to your own room?"
"Yes."
"Without stopping in any other room on the way?"
"Yes."
"Think again, please. Perhaps I had better tell you, a witness has already told of your stopping on the way to your own room."
"She told falsely, then. I went straight to my bedroom."
"In the third story?"
"Yes."
Coroner Benson was a patient man. He had no wish to confound Miss Morton with Marie's evidence, and too, there was a chance that Marie had not told the truth. So he spoke again persuasively:
"You went there afterward, but first you stopped for a moment or two in Miss Van Norman's sitting-room."
"Who says I did?"
"An eye-witness, who chanced to see you."
"Chanced to see me, indeed! Nothing of the sort! It was that little French minx, Marie, who is everlastingly spying about! Well, she is not to be believed."
"I am sorry to doubt your own statement, Miss Morton, but another member of the household also saw you. Denial is useless; it would be better for you to tell us simply why you went to Miss Van Norman's room at that time."
"It's nobody's business," snapped Miss Morton. "My errand there had nothing to do in any way with Madeleine Van Norman, dead or alive."
"Then, there is no reason you should not tell frankly what that errand was."
"I have my own reasons, and I refuse to tell." Mr. Benson changed his tactics.
"Miss Morton," he said, "when did you first know that you were to inherit this house and also a considerable sum of money at the death of Miss Van Norman?"
The effect of this sudden question was startling.
Miss Morton seemed to be taken off her guard. She turned red, then paled to a sickly white. Once or twice she essayed to speak, but hesitated and did not do so.
"Come, come," said the coroner, "that cannot be a difficult question to answer. When was your first intimation that you were a beneficiary by the terms of Miss Van Norman's will?"
And now Miss Morton had recovered her bravado.
"When the will was read," she said in cold, firm accents.
"No; you knew it before that. You learned it when you went to Miss Van Norman's room and read some papers which were in her desk. You read from a small private memorandum book that she had bequeathed this place to you at her death."
"Nothing of the sort," returned the quick, snappy voice. "I knew it before that."
"And you just said you learned of it first when the will was read!"
"Well, I forgot. Madeleine told me the day I came here last year that she had made a will leaving the house to me, because she thought it should have been mine any way."
"The day you were here last year, she told you this?"
"Yes, we had a little conversation on the subject, and she told me."
"Why did you not say this when I first asked you concerning the matter?"
"I forgot it. Miss Morton spoke nonchalantly, as if contradicting oneself was a matter of no moment.
"Then you knew of your legacy before Miss Van Norman died?"
"Yes, now that I think of it, I believe I did." She was certainly a difficult witness. She seemed unable to look upon the questions as important, and her answers were given either in a flippant or savage manner.
"Then why did you go to Miss Van Norman's room to look for her will that night?"
"Her will? I didn't!"
"No, not the will that bequeathed you the house, but a later will that made a different disposal of it."
"There wasn't such a one," said Miss Morton, in a low, scared voice.
"What, then, was the paper which you took from Miss Van Norman's desk, carried to your own room, and burned?"
The coroner's voice was not persuasive now; it was accusing, and his face was stern as he awaited her reply.
Again Miss Morton's face blanched to white. Her thin lips formed a straight line, and her eyes fell, but her voice was strong and sibilant, as she fairly hissed:
"How dare you! Of what do you accuse me?"
"Of burning a paper which you took secretly from Miss Van Norman's private desk."
A moment's hesitation, and then, "I did not do it," she said clearly.
"But