“Is she talking still? or again?” he asked, just before the door closed. There was a second’s indecision with the knob, then, judging discretion the better part, Mrs. Klopton went away.
“Now, then,” McKnight said, settling himself in a chair beside the bed, “spit it out. Not the wreck - I know all I want about that. But the theft. I can tell you beforehand that it was a woman.”
I had crawled painfully out of bed, and was in the act of pouring the egg-nog down the pipe of the washstand. I paused, with the glass in the air.
“A woman!” I repeated, startled. “What makes you think that?”
“You don’t know the first principles of a good detective yarn,” he said scornfully. “Of course, it was the woman in the empty house next door. You said it was brass pipes, you will remember. Well - on with the dance: let joy be unconfined.”
So I told the story; I had told it so many times that day that I did it automatically. And I told about the girl with the bronze hair, and my suspicions. But I did not mention Alison West. McKnight listened to the end without interruption. When I had finished he drew a long breath.
“Well!” he said. “That’s something of a mess, isn’t it? If you can only prove your mild and child-like disposition, they couldn’t hold you for the murder - which is a regular ten-twent-thirt crime, anyhow. But the notes - that’s different. They are not burned, anyhow. Your man wasn’t on the train - therefore, he wasn’t in the wreck. If he didn’t know what he was taking, as you seem to think, he probably reads the papers, and unless he is a fathead, he’s awake by this time to what he’s got. He’ll try to sell them to Bronson, probably.”
“Or to us,” I put in.
We said nothing for a few minutes. McKnight smoked a cigarette and stared at a photograph of Candida over the mantel. Candida is the best pony for a heavy mount in seven states.
“I didn’t go to Richmond,” he observed finally. The remark followed my own thoughts so closely that I started. “Miss West is not home yet from Seal Harbor.”
Receiving no response, he lapsed again into thoughtful silence. Mrs. Klopton came in just as the clock struck one, and made preparation for the night by putting a large gaudy comfortable into an arm-chair in the dressing-room, with a smaller, stiff-backed chair for her feet. She was wonderfully attired in a dressing-gown that was reminiscent, in parts, of all the ones she had given me for a half dozen Christmases, and she had a purple veil wrapped around her head, to hide Heaven knows what deficiency. She examined the empty egg-nog glass, inquired what the evening paper had said about the weather, and then stalked into the dressing-room, and prepared, with much ostentatious creaking, to sit up all night.
We fell silent again, while McKnight traced a rough outline of the berths on the white table-cover, and puzzled it out slowly. It was something like this:
____________________________________
| 12 | 10 | 8 | |____________|___________|___________| |_______________AISLE________________| | 11 | 9 | 7 | |____________|___________|___________|
“You think he changed the tags on seven and nine, so that when you went back to bed you thought you were crawling into nine, when it was really seven, eh?”
“Probably-yes.”
“Then toward morning, when everybody was asleep, your theory is that he changed the numbers again and left the train.”
“I can’t think of anything else,” I replied wearily.
“Jove, what a game of bridge that fellow would play! It was like finessing an eight-spot and winning out. They would scarcely have doubted your story had the tags been reversed in the morning. He certainly left you in a bad way. Not a jury in the country would stand out against the stains, the stiletto, and the murdered man’s pocketbook in your possession.”
“Then you think Sullivan did it?” I asked.
“Of course,” said McKnight confidently. “Unless you did it in your sleep. Look at the stains on his pillow, and the dirk stuck into it. And didn’t he have the man Harrington’s pocketbook?”
“But why did he go off without the money?” I persisted. “And where does the bronze-haired girl come in?”
“Search me,” McKnight retorted flippantly. “Inflammation of the imagination on your part.”
“Then there is the piece of telegram. It said lower ten, car seven. It’s extremely likely that she had it. That telegram was about me, Richey.”
“I’m getting a headache,” he said, putting out his cigarette against the sole of his shoe. “All I’m certain of just now is that if there hadn’t been a wreck, by this time you’d be sitting in an eight by ten cell, and feeling like the rhyme for it.”
“But listen to this,” I contended, as he picked up his hat, “this fellow Sullivan is a fugitive, and he’s a lot more likely to make advances to Bronson than to us. We could have the case continued, release Bronson on bail and set a watch on him.”
“Not my watch,” McKnight protested. “It’s a family heirloom.”
“You’d better go home,” I said firmly. “Go home and go to bed. You’re sleepy. You can have Sullivan’s red necktie to dream over if you think it will help any.”
Mrs. Klopton’s voice came drowsily from the next room, punctuated by a yawn. “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she called, with the suspicious lisp which characterizes her at night, “somebody called up about noon, Mr. Lawrence. It was long distance, and he said he would call again. The name was” - she yawned - “Sullivan.”
CHAPTER XII
THE GOLD BAG
I have always smiled at those cases of spontaneous combustion which, like fusing the component parts of a seidlitz powder, unite two people in a bubbling and ephemeral ecstasy. But surely there is possible, with but a single meeting, an attraction so great, a community of mind and interest so strong, that between that first meeting and the next the bond may grow into something stronger. This is especially true, I fancy, of people with temperament, the modern substitute for imagination. It is a nice question whether lovers begin to love when they are together, or when they are apart.
Not that I followed any such line of reasoning at the time. I would not even admit my folly to myself. But during the restless hours of that first night after the accident, when my back ached with lying on it, and any other position was torture, I found my thoughts constantly going back to Alison West. I dropped into a doze, to dream of touching her fingers again to comfort her, and awoke to find I had patted a teaspoonful of medicine out of Mrs. Klopton’s indignant hand. What was it McKnight had said about making an egregious ass of myself?
And that brought me back to Richey, and I fancy I groaned. There is no use expatiating on the friendship between two men who have gone together through college, have quarreled and made it up, fussed together over politics and debated creeds for years: men don’t need to be told, and women can not understand. Nevertheless, I groaned. If it had been any one but Rich!
Some things were mine, however, and I would hold them: the halcyon breakfast, the queer hat, the pebble in her small shoe, the gold bag with the broken chain - the bag! Why, it was in my pocket at that moment.
I got up painfully and found my coat. Yes, there was the purse, bulging with an opulent suggestion of wealth inside. I went back to bed again, somewhat dizzy, between effort and the touch of the trinket, so lately hers. I held it up by its broken chain and gloated over it. By careful attention to orders, I ought to be out in a day or so. Then - I could return it to her. I really ought to do that: it was valuable, and I wouldn’t care to trust it to the mail. I could run down to Richmond, and see her once - there was no disloyalty to Rich in that.
I had no intention of opening the little bag. I put it under my pillow - which was my reason for refusing to have the linen slips changed, to Mrs. Klopton’s dismay. And sometimes during the morning, while I lay under a virgin field of white, ornamented with strange flowers, my cigarettes hidden beyond discovery, and Science and Health on a table by my elbow, as if by the merest accident, I slid my hand under my pillow and touched it reverently.