As she stood by the door looking up into my face with a half-hopeful, half-fearful expression, her rich, cherry lips trembling with the emotion she could not conceal, her eyes glowing and moist, her figure swaying in mute appeal — well, the angels themselves have seen no more delightful picture.
I can see her so now when I close my eyes.
However, I managed to retain my professional sense as I ushered her into the inner office and placed for her the chair before the desk. She sank into it with a murmured “Thank you,” and then, as I seated myself beside her, I saw her gaze light upon the picture.
As I have said, her conduct was very nearly perfection. When the first rush of conscious thought returned — after the inevitable shock produced by the picture — I could observe none of the signs which I had come to regard as unfavorable.
There was no tightening of the lips, no dilation of the nostrils, no widening of the eyelids. It is true that I missed the most important moment, as immediately after her glance of curiosity at myself, I had become suddenly aware of the fact that I was holding a lighted cigar in my hand, and turned aside to throw it in the cuspidor.
It fell instead on the floor, and I stooped to pick it up. Thus I missed three or four valuable seconds which, however trifling they may seem to the average mind, will be recognized as all-important by the student of crime and character.
“Now, madam,” I said gravely, turning to her, “what can I do for you?”
She was regarding me with a look of appeal and helplessness that was well-nigh irresistible.
“I have come,” she said in a low tone, “to ask your help. I am — I am in great trouble. As soon as I discovered—”
“First,” I interrupted, “why do you come to me? It is usual in such cases for one to consult one’s own attorney.”
“I know,” she said hurriedly, “but I have no one. Besides, Mr. Moorfield surely knows his own reputation too well to be surprised at such a visit as mine.”
For the first time in my life I found a compliment a thing not to be despised. I smiled in spite of myself. When I looked up she, too, was smiling bravely through her tears.
The story she told me I shall attempt to reproduce in her own words:
“My name,” she began, “is Lillian Markton. I am living in New York with my uncle, William Markton, of Riverside Drive. There is nothing in particular to tell you about myself unless you care to ask questions. The whole thing is so... so absurd—”
She hesitated, regarding me nervously.
“Go on,” I said encouragingly.
After a moment of silence she continued: “It happened only last night. Uncle Will came home late, looking worried and uneasy, but I thought little of it, for he has had many business troubles, and it was really nothing unusual. You know, he is cashier of the Montague Bank. Well, when I got up this morning he was nowhere to be found.
“We usually ride in the park at seven o’clock, and after I had waited half an hour for him I went up to his room. The bed had not been disturbed. At nine o’clock I went to the bank and found” — her voice sank till it was scarcely audible — “that he had been arrested — charged with stealing fifty thousand dollars from the vaults.”
“Was he arrested at home?” I interrupted.
“No — at the station. He was boarding a train for Chicago.”
“Did he have the money with him?”
“Of course not!” Miss Markton exclaimed indignantly. “Do you think I would be here if he had?”
“My dear madam,” I observed, “I was merely seeking information. But, after all, it is useless to question you. I must see Mr. Markton.”
My visitor eyed me for a moment in silence.
“That, too, is useless,” she said finally. “Mr. Markton has confessed.”
I admit I was taken aback.
“Confessed!” I cried. “Confessed what?”
“To the theft.”
“Then what the deuce do you want me for?” I demanded.
Miss Markton rose and stood facing me.
“Mr. Moorfield,” she said, “I came to you because I have heard you mentioned as a man who, in addition to ability, possesses both sympathy and discernment. If my informant was mistaken—”
“But he was not,” I hastened to assure her. “Pray forgive me and proceed.”
With a nod of thanks and approval, and after a slight hesitation, she continued:
“My uncle’s confession was peculiar,” she said. “He admitted taking the money, but declares that he does not know where it is. It seems that the bank officials have been watching him for some time. He says that he brought the money home last night and locked it in the safe in the dining room; that when he went to get it early this morning it was gone, and that he was leaving New York with only a few dollars of his own.
“The money has not been found. There was no one else in the house but the servants and myself — Uncle Will is a bachelor — and none of the servants could possibly have opened the safe, to which I carried a key. That is why I have come to you. I am suspected of having — stolen—”
She suddenly gave way to sobbing, her head falling forward on the desk.
And I, overcome by a choking sensation that was entirely new to me, and wholly uncomfortable, sat regarding her hungrily, longing to take her in my arms and comfort her. I did not understand it then, and I do not now.
As soon as Miss Markton regained her composure she continued, speaking hurriedly and in a low tone:
“As far as Uncle Will is concerned, he must know I am innocent. They will not let me see him. It is the bank — I suppose they believe me to be an accomplice. They... I saw—” she hesitated, her eyes full of fear and appeal. “A man followed me here to your office. What am I to do?” she cried. “I am all alone! There is no one!”
Many times before had I heard such appeals — but they had left me unmoved and cold. Now it seemed that every fiber of my being trembled in response to this woman’s cry.
My blood leaped and sang — I could see nothing but her tears, hear nothing but her voice. As well as I could I restrained myself; I took her hand, lying before me on the desk, and patted it gently. Words refused to come; but with that gesture I committed myself, and she felt it.
For upward of a quarter of an hour I questioned her, but without gaining any further information. Evidently she had told me all she knew. With my businesslike assumption of responsibility she gradually grew more calm, even cheerful; and as she rose to go she glanced at the picture before her and then looked up at me curiously.
“Someday,” she said, “you must tell me the story of that picture. It is — I can’t describe how it makes me feel.”
She shrugged her shoulders prettily.
“I am sure it must have a history?”
“None whatever,” said I, smiling. “It serves merely to hide the dust.”
“Then we must give it one. Ugh! It looks as though it might hide much more than dust.”
I bade her good-by at the door, assuring her that everything would turn out all right, and advising her to pay no attention whatever to the man who was following her. At parting she took my hand in hers and pressed it gently. When I returned to the office I could still feel the thrill of that contact through every inch of my body.
Once alone I attempted an analysis of the facts she had given me; but I found it impossible. Her voice, her face, her figure, filled my thoughts to the exclusion of all else.
My dry fight had deserted me, and I found myself swimming, or struggling rather, in a sea of sentiment and emotion. Finally, angry and impatient at my inability to formulate my thoughts, I started for the Tombs to see William Markton.