"I was wasting time. The thought drove me to the table. I caught up the receiver and when central answered, I said something about The Whispering Pines and wanting help. This is all I remember about that.
"Some time afterward—I don't know when—I was stumbling down the stairs on my way out. I had gone to—to the room again for my little bag; for the keys were in it, and I dared not leave them. But I didn't stay a minute, and I cast but one glance at the lounge. What happened afterward is like a dream to me. I found the horse; the horse found the road; and some time later I reached home. As I came within sight of the house I grew suddenly strong again. The open stable door reminded me of my duty, and driving in, I quickly unharnessed Jenny and put her away. Then I dragged the cutter into place, and hung up the harness. Lastly, I locked the door and carried the key with me into the house and hung it up on its usual nail in the kitchen. I had obeyed Adelaide, and now I would go to my room. That is what she would wish; but I don't know whether I did this or not. My mind was full of Adelaide till confusion came—then darkness—and then a perfect blank."
She had finished; she had done as she had been asked; she had told the story of that evening as she knew it, from the family dinner till her return home after midnight—and the mystery of Adelaide's death was as great as ever. Did she realise this? Had I wronged this lovely, tempestuous nature by suspicions which this story put to blush? I was happy to think so—madly, unreasonably happy. Whatever happened, whatever the future threatening Arthur or myself, it was rapture to be restored to right thinking as regards this captivating and youthful spirit, who had suffered and must suffer always—and all through me, who thought it a pleasant pastime to play with hearts, and awoke to find I was playing with souls, and those of the two noblest women I had ever known!
The cutting in of some half dozen questions from Mr. Moffat, which I scarcely heard and which did not at all affect the status of the case as it now stood, served to cool down the emotional element, which had almost superseded the judicial, in more minds than those of the jury; and having thus prepared his witness for an examination at other and less careful hands, he testified his satisfaction at her replies, and turned her over to the prosecution, with the time-worn phrase:
"Mr. District Attorney, the witness is yours."
Mr. Fox at once arose; the moment was ripe for conquest. He put his most vital question first:
"In all this interview with your sister, did you remark any discoloration on her throat?"
The witness's lips opened; surprise spoke from her every feature.
"Discoloration?" she repeated. "I do not know what you mean."
"Any marks darker than the rest of her skin on her throat or neck?"
"No. Adelaide had a spotless skin. It looked like marble as she lay there. No, I saw no marks."
"Miss Cumberland, have you heard or read a full account of this trial?"
She was trembling, now. Was it from fear of the truth, or under that terror of the unknown embodied in this question.
"I do not know," said she. "What I heard was from my nurse and Mr. Moffat. I read very little, and that was only about the first days of the trial and the swearing in of jurors. This is the first time I have heard any mention made of marks, and I do not understand yet what you allude to."
District Attorney Fox cast at Mr. Moffat an eloquent glance, which that gentleman bore unmoved; then turning back to the witness, he addressed her in milder and more considerate tones than were usually heard from him in cross-examination, and asked: "Did you hold your sister's hands all the time she lay dying, as you thought, on the lounge?"
"Yes, yes."
"And did not see her raise them once?"
"No, no."
"How was it when you let go of them? Where did they fall then?"
"On her breast. I laid them down softly and crossed them. I did not leave her till I had done this and closed her eyes."
"And what did you do then?"
"I went for the note, to burn it."
"Miss Cumberland, in your direct examination, you said that you stopped still as you crossed the floor at the time, thinking that your sister called, and that you looked back at her to see."
"Yes, sir."
"Were her hands crossed then?"
"Yes, sir, just the same."
"And afterward, when you came from the fire after waiting some little time for courage?"
"Yes, yes. There were no signs of movement. Oh, she was dead—quite dead."
"No statements, Miss Cumberland. She looked the same, and you saw no change in the position of her hands?"
"None; they were just as I left them."
"Miss Cumberland, you have told us how, immediately after taking the poison, she staggered about the room, and sank first on a chair and then on the lounge. Were you watching her then?"
"Oh, yes—every moment."
"Her hands as well as her face?"
"I don't know about her hands. I should have observed it if she had done anything strange with them."
"Can you say she did not clutch or grip her throat during any of this time?"
"Yes, yes. I couldn't have forgotten it, if she had done that. I remember every move she made so well. She didn't do that."
Mr. Fox's eye stole towards the jury. To a man, they were alert, anxious for the next question, and serious, as the arbitrators of a man's life ought to be.
Satisfied, he put the question: "When, after telephoning, you returned to the room where your sister lay, you glanced at the lounge?"
"Yes, I could not help it."
"Was it in the same condition as when you left—the pillows, I mean?"
"I—I think so. I cannot say; I only half looked; I was terrified by it."
"Can you say they had not been disturbed?"
"No. I can say nothing. But what does—"
"Only the answer, Miss Cumberland. Can you tell us how those pillows were arranged?"
"I'm afraid not. I threw them down quickly, madly, just as I collected them. I only know that I put the window cushion down first. The rest fell anyhow; but they quite covered her—quite."
"Hands and face?"
"Her whole body."
"And did they cover her quite when you came back?"
"They must have—Wait—wait! I know I have no right to say that, but I cannot swear that I saw any change."
"Can you swear that there was no change—that the pillows and the window cushion lay just as they did when you left the room?"
She did not answer. Horror seemed to have seized hold of her. Her eyes, fixed on the attorney's face, wavered and, had they followed their natural impulse, would have turned towards her brother, but her fear—possibly her love—was her counsellor and she brought them back to Mr. Fox. Resolutely, but with a shuddering insight of the importance of her reply, she answered with that one weighty monosyllable which can crush so many hopes, and even wreck a life:
"No."
At the next moment she was in Dr. Carpenter's arms. Her strength had given way for the time, and the court was hastily adjourned, to give her opportunity for rest and recuperation.
XXXI
"WERE HER HANDS CROSSED THEN?"
I shall say nothing about myself at this juncture. That will come later.
I have something of quite different purport to relate.
When I left the court-room with the other witnesses, I noticed a man standing near the district attorney. He was a very plain man—with no especial claims to attention, that I could see, yet I looked at him longer than I did at any one else, and turned and looked at him again as I passed through the doorway.
Afterward I heard that he was Sweetwater, the detective from New York who had had so much to do in unearthing the testimony against Arthur,—testimony which in the light of this morning's revelations, had taken on quite a new aspect, as he was doubtless the first to acknowledge. It was the curious blending of professional disappointment and a personal and characteristic appreciation of the surprising situation, which made me observe him, I suppose. Certainly my heart and mind were full enough not to waste looks on a commonplace stranger unless there had been some such overpowering reason.