Evans stopped him as he waited for the elevator. “Did you say anything for me, sir?”
“Yes. I told him I thought you were on the job the whole time.” Trent smiled a little, “I had greater opportunity to observe your work than you will ever know.”
Chapter XIII
The Hidden Exit
The Addison women in their vast and quiet house were tasting to the full all those unpleasantnesses inseparable from a cause célèbre. It was impossible to keep those people away whose newspapers demanded intimate particulars. But it was Cynthia and Roger Ellis who bore the brunt of these interviews. Mrs. Addison seemed to grow weaker with her despondency. It was as though the strength that had been hers had been derived from the stronger partner who had gone.
The hope she cherished that the police would find John Addison, at first vivid and sanguine, died down when not a trace of him was found. The innumerable false alarms when it was found that rumors of Addison’s presence in distant towns were no more than that, discouraged her so that her health suffered.
“Mother,” Cynthia said one evening, “Why was it that when you heard that Dad had been murdered you seemed not to be surprised?”
“In the excitement I may have said anything. We were all of us unstrung, Cynthia. I’m tired enough to sleep tonight.”
Cynthia had been put off several times, but it was not in Mrs. Addison’s power to stop her now. The girl had puzzled over the matter a great deal and now when there seemed to be no probability that Edwards’s clews would amount to anything, she determined to see if she could not find one in what had been wrung from her mother in that moment of agony.
“You said,” Cynthia returned, “ ‘If it had happened before I could have understood, but now—’ What did you mean by that?”
“What does one mean by things torn out of one in a moment of that sort?” Mrs. Addison had recovered her calm admirably. Cynthia felt she was again a little girl asking impossible questions. But she remembered she was twenty and great responsibilities devolved upon her. She was not again to be side-tracked.
“In moments like that,” she answered, “the truth comes out. It is only now when one is alarmed at having said such a thing that one tries to explain it away. Muvvie, dear, don’t look at me like that. You did say it and I feel I must know why.”
Mrs. Addison did not answer. Cynthia could see that she was wondering whether or not to give her confidence.
“Dear,” she said, “you have often wondered why I did not love this place as much as you do or your father did. It is because I am by nature timorous and I have been afraid here. Until some years ago I feared something dreadful might happen to your father. There used to be trees that touched the roof and made strange noises when there was rain or wind. Your father loved them, but he had them cut down because he wanted me to like being here. When you were a little girl I hated it but tried to pretend I did not.”
“You don’t mind it now, though, do you?” Cynthia asked.
“No, but it takes a lot to wipe out some memories. I’m not fearless as you are.”
“What did you mean by saying that if father had been murdered once you wouldn’t have been surprised?”
“There was a man who threatened to kill him.”
“But mother,” the girl cried, “you ought to have told that to Inspector Edwards. When he asked you if you had ever heard of any one who had a grievance against dad you said ‘No.’ ”
“My dear, it was true. The man who hated us both died five years ago. You were at school in Paris when it happened and when you came home you said ‘Muvvie, what has made you grow so young and pretty?’ Do you remember?” Cynthia nodded. “The reason I looked so well was that the haunting dread had been removed.”
Cynthia recalled the incident. It was at a time when the family was disturbed about Mrs. Addison’s health. She seemed likely to develop into a chronic invalid when suddenly the miracle happened.
“And you kept on living here all the time you were so afraid?”
“It didn’t much matter where I lived so long as he was alive. He seemed nearer to me here, somehow, so perhaps that is why I dreaded the summer.”
“Mother, who was it? I ought to know.”
“My dear, I shall never tell you. If you have any love for me let me forget that nightmare. Please, please, don’t talk of it again. It would do you no good to know and it would only bring back things I want buried.”
“The best way to rid yourself of fears like those is to talk about them. Uncover them, the psychoanalysts call it.”
“For moderns like you, perhaps. Not for me.” Cynthia knew her mother’s obstinate look. The matter was closed. And since Mrs. Addison was in a highly nervous condition the girl had to abide by her decision. Knowing her mother’s imaginative nature she could picture to herself the horror she must have experienced. And while Cynthia had played joyously about this great lonely house, her mother had been anticipating a tragedy. This explained so much. Contritely she kissed the wan lips. “Poor muvvie,” she whispered. “Forgive me. I only wanted to help you.”
Roger met her in the hall, “What luck!” he said. “Anthony Trent’s back. Phyllis phoned from the Mill House where he’s staying. They’re coming over. I said it wasn’t too late. You don’t mind?”
“I’m delighted,” she cried. “I simply adore Anthony Trent.” She patted his arm affectionately. “Why shouldn’t I? Didn’t he give us back to one another?”
Directly the first greetings were over, Trent drew Cynthia aside.
“Did you do what I asked you to?” he demanded. “You know, about your mother. You told me she has said things that puzzled you.”
“I did, and the poor dear explained everything satisfactorily.”
“Satisfactorily to you, perhaps, but how am I to accept that?”
The girl hesitated. The interview was so near still and she was not yet recovered from the emotion communicated to her by her mother that she felt it was too private a matter to discuss.
“You are going to disappoint me,” he said, rebuke in his tone. “In a matter like this it isn’t your province to decide that you’ll tell me as much as you like of one thing and nothing at all of another. I am quite certain that your mother knows more than she has let the police believe. Edwards seems to think she is just a woman broken down by grief who knows nothing.”
“In a way you are right,” Cynthia answered. “Mother did know something. Years ago there was a man who swore to kill dad.”
She saw Anthony Trent’s eyes light up.
“What man?”
“I didn’t even ask her. I know she wouldn’t tell anyhow. Don’t look so distressed. The man died five years ago. I remember it well. Mother seemed a new woman from that moment.”
“Where is Mrs. Addison?” he demanded.
“In bed. She is not a bit well. What I told you is in confidence.” There was alarm in the girl’s manner.
“She’ll never know- you told me anything,” he said.
Cynthia looked at Trent curiously. “I don’t understand why you look suddenly as if you’d find something out.”
“I’ve found out nothing definite,” he answered. “Hello, what’s that?” He turned to see Inspector Edwards and Mallon, his chief of detectives. Nor was there any longer on the faces of these officers any sign of good feeling.
“What do you mean,” Edwards said, not returning Trent’s greeting, “by running away like that?”