Выбрать главу

Markton received me sullenly enough, but when I told him I represented his niece, his face suddenly blazed with an almost maniacal fury. I recoiled involuntarily from his wild expression of rage and hate, while he burst forth into cursing and swearing, declaring that it was the fault of his niece that he had been caught — that she had taken the money, and that she would “pay for it in hell.”

In vain I expostulated and argued with him — it was all to no purpose. The man seemed absolutely convinced that Lillian Markton had taken the fifty thousand dollars which he himself had stolen from the bank; but when I pressed him for proof or evidence he had nothing to say.

Finally, however, I got an explanation of what I had considered the chief difficulties in Miss Markton’s case, though her uncle had no idea that he was thus aiding one whom he considered his worst enemy.

He explained that when he had first discovered that the money was missing from his safe he had had no suspicion of Lillian. Instead, he had suspected a friend and accomplice, who he knew had had many opportunities of obtaining duplicates of his keys — and he had gone to the railway station, not to make his escape, but to watch for his confederate. But when pressed for the man’s name he refused to give it, saying merely that he now knew he had suspected him unjustly — and launching forth again into curses and oaths against his niece.

I found it impossible to get anything further from him, even any reason for his own confession; and he sullenly refused my offer of legal aid, declaring that he would have nothing to do with anyone connected with his niece. I admit I was relieved at his refusal of my offer, which I had made solely for the sake of Miss Markton.

I emerged from the Tombs with a confident belief in Lillian Markton’s innocence. In Markton’s story of the suspected confederate I placed no credence whatever — the thing seemed to me to bear all the marks of a hasty fabrication. Also, in the same breath with which he had accused his niece, Markton admitted that he had not even awakened her when he found the package of money missing.

His accusation of and bitterness toward her made it impossible to consider Miss Markton as an accomplice — for if she were holding the money in collusion with him it would be to his own interest to have her movements free. There was only one possible explanation: that Markton himself had removed and secreted the money.

From the Tombs I went directly to the Montague Bank — but the president was not in, and since the theft had not been made public I hesitated to confer with any other of the officials. Accordingly I returned to my office, leaving word that I would call again the following morning. I wanted, if possible, to get a trace of the money before seeing the president, knowing that to be the easiest way to clear Miss Markton of the breath of suspicion.

That evening I called on Miss Markton at her home.

To all outward appearance it was merely the counterpart of any other New York apartment of the better class; but her presence invested it with a distinct charm and attractiveness.

As I explained to her, I really had no excuse for calling; I had done nothing conclusive, having been unable to get the slightest trace of the missing money; and the only real news I had — that of her uncle’s hostility toward her — was both unwelcome and unimportant. I ended by asking her if she could guess at any possible reason for Markton’s confession.

“That,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation, “is easily explained. Uncle Will is the most lovable man in the world, but he has always been weak and somewhat of a coward. It was simply what you would call lack of nerve. That is why I find it almost impossible to believe you are right in supposing he has the money, or knows where it is.

“Of course they have tried every means to force him to tell, and I don’t see how he could hold out against them, if he knew. And yet,” she continued after a moment’s thought, “where can it be? Perhaps you are right, after all; at any rate, I hope you find it.”

“And I, too,” I said earnestly. “You know, Miss Markton, I am interested in this case as I have never been in any other. It is not only that I wish to prove you innocent; your name must not even be mentioned — that is, publicly. It is to that end that I am working — I trust, successfully. It is the greatest pleasure of my life to be allowed to help you.”

Miss Markton rose suddenly and walked to the window. When she turned back again her eyes were moist with tears and the hand she held toward me trembled as I grasped it in my own.

“Really, Mr. Moorfield,” she smiled falteringly, “I am very silly. You must forgive me; but I have never had a great deal of friendship, and yours is very sweet to me. And just to prove it,” she added with a brave attempt at gaiety, “I am going to be very kind and send you home to bed!”

She finished with an adorable little smile that haunted me long after I reached my own chambers, which, for the first time in my life, seemed lonely and bare and cheerless.

How little, after all, do we shape our actions by reason, when once the senses feel their strength! The lightest perfume of a woman’s hair is sufficient to benumb the strongest brain; the slightest glance from her eyes is blinding, fatal. And how hideously ugly does the truth appear when our senses have forced us to nurse a lie!

It would have been strange indeed if I had not succeeded in ridding Lillian Markton of the suspicion that had fallen upon her. I had set my heart on it; I felt in my heart that she was innocent; and I expended all my faculties and energy in her assistance.

I soon gave up all hope of finding any trace of the missing money. Markton remained firm in his statement that he had placed it in the safe, and that when he went for it he found it gone. A careful search of the apartment revealed nothing. I attempted to communicate with the confederate whom Markton had mentioned in his confession, but found that the police had exhausted all inquiries in that direction, and without success.

The money seemed absolutely to have disappeared from the face of the earth. I learned that the police had spread their net in all directions; that every possible clue had been unearthed and developed — in vain.

At last, in despair, I made a long-deferred call on the president of the Montague Bank.

“I have been expecting to see you,” said the bank official as I entered his office, “since you left your card on Tuesday. Pray be seated!”

I came to the point at once without preliminary.

“I have come,” I said, “as the representative of Miss Lillian Markton. For the past week her every move has been spied upon — wherever she has gone she has been followed, presumably by detectives in your employ. Further, she has every reason to fear that she will be publicly accused of complicity in the theft to which her uncle has confessed. As a result she is almost in a state of nervous collapse. The thing is monstrously unjust, sir, and you must know it.”

As I spoke the bank president was walking up and down the floor. When I stopped he turned and regarded me uncertainly.

“Mr. Moorfield,” he said, “I thoroughly appreciate your feelings and those of your client. But what are we to do? We owe it both to ourselves and to others to exhaust every possible effort to recover the stolen money, and certain facts point strongly to the possibility of your client’s complicity.

“As far as Miss Markton personally is concerned, I have a high regard for her; she has been a friend of my daughter; and to tell the truth, she would have escaped all annoyance if it had not been for the importunities of my fellow directors. But until the money is found—”

“Which will possibly be never,” I interrupted. “Or, at least, not before William Markton has served out his sentence. I fully believe he knows where the money is, and no one else.”

“Perhaps so. But can you blame us for trying every possible means for its recovery?”