"I beg your pardon," I said, "but the name struck me. Miss Lawrence's maid is named Kingdon."

"Yes; she's a niece of Mrs. Endicott. I've sometimes thought that it was because of this relationship that Mrs. Lawrence was so kind to her and to her sister."

"Kind to them?" I repeated. "In what way?"

"She gave them the cottage they live in," he explained, "and has helped them in many other ways. The younger girl, Lucy, has a place in her household, where her duties, I fancy, are purely nominal. Her sister is supposed to take in sewing, but she really does very little."

"And they are Mrs. Endicott's nieces?"

"Yes-her sister's children."

"And Boyd Endicott's cousins?"

"Precisely."

I felt a little glow of excitement, for here was a clue which might lead me out of the labyrinth-a loose end, which, grasped firmly, might serve to unravel this tangled skein.

"Please go on," I said. "You have not yet told me what became of Mrs. Endicott and her daughter."

"They made their home with Mrs. Kingdon, who was also a widow. Mrs. Kingdon had had much trouble-her husband had died in an asylum for the insane-and they had a hard time to get along. But Mrs. Endicott died within a year."

"And Ruth?" I questioned.

"Ruth was a lovely girl-I shall never forget her-with the same dark, pa.s.sionate beauty her brother had. She possessed artistic talent which seemed to me of an unusual order, and she fancied that she could make a living by painting portraits. But she soon found that there was no market for her work here in Elizabeth, and that she needed years of training before she could hope to be successful elsewhere. So she was forced to give it up."

"And then?" I prompted, for I saw by his hesitation that there was still something coming, and I was determined to have the whole story.

"I have already told you that Mr. Lawrence was a widower. His first wife was an invalid for a long time before her death, and when Ruth Endicott found she could not make a living with her brush, she accepted the position of companion to Mrs. Lawrence. I do not fancy the place was a pleasant one, but she kept it until Mrs. Lawrence's death."

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes for an instant in the effort to straighten out this story, which was always turning back upon itself. What mystery was there-what mystery could there be-in the lives of the Kingdons and the Lawrences and the Endicotts, which had led up to the tragedy for which I was seeking an explanation?

"Well, and after that?" I asked, giving it up with a sigh of despair and turning back to the clergyman.

"There isn't much more to tell. After Mrs. Lawrence's death, Ruth Endicott remained for a time as Lawrence's housekeeper. But she had overworked herself-she seemed the very embodiment of health, and taxed her strength too heavily. She broke down very suddenly, and died, if I remember rightly, in Florida, where the elder Kingdon girl had taken her. She was the last of the Endicotts."

"The last of the Endicotts. The last of the Endicotts." I repeated the words over and over to myself. It may have been a presentiment, or merely an idle fancy, but something whispered in my ear-some impalpable presence warned me-that I had not yet heard the last of her. "Ruth Endicott." There was a something in the name-a melody, the vision it evoked of a dark and brilliantly beautiful woman-which haunted me.

And yet, what possible connection could she have with the mystery which I had started to investigate? Thirty years dead-how could any fact connected with her drive Marcia Lawrence forth into hiding at the hour of her wedding? The utter absurdity of the thought was so apparent that I put it impatiently from me.

"You knew Mr. Lawrence, of course?" I asked, at last.

"Oh, yes," and he hitched uneasily in his chair, as though approaching an unwelcome topic. "But I did not know him well. He was what the world calls a hard man-somewhat harsh and cold, though perfectly free from positive vice. He was thoroughly respected."

"He seems to have left a large property."

"Yes; one of the largest in Elizabeth. Mrs. Lawrence, of course, inherited her father's, also."

"Both she and her daughter are members of your church?"

"Two of the most faithful. They give largely to charity; they are really Christian women."

We sat silent for a moment. To me, at least, the mystery seemed deeper than ever.

"Has it occurred to you, Mr. Lester," asked the clergyman hesitatingly, "that perhaps Miss Lawrence discovered something in Mr. Curtiss's past--"

"Yes," I interrupted. "I put that before Curtiss squarely, and he a.s.sured me there was nothing she could discover. I'm sure he spoke the truth. Besides, in that case, why should Miss Lawrence flee? Why not merely dismiss him? Her flight seems to argue some guilt on her part."

"Yes," nodded my companion; "yes."

"Some guilt, too," I added, "of a very remarkable kind, which she was not conscious of until this morning, and which then appeared suddenly before her in such hideous shape that flight was her only resource. That seems inconceivable, doesn't it?"

Dr. Schuyler dropped his head back against his chair with a little sigh which bespoke utter fatigue.

"Yes," he said, "inconceivable-the whole thing is inconceivable. It's a kind of horrible nightmare. I can't make anything of it. My brain is in a whirl."

"I'm taxing your patience too long," I protested, rising instantly. "You need rest. Only let me thank you for your kindness."

He held out his hand with a smile.

"I seem only to have made dark places darker," he said. "If you succeed in untangling the snarl, I should like to hear about it."

"You shall," I promised and took myself back to the hotel. I felt that there was nothing more to be done that night, and so mounted to my room.

As I started to undress, I remembered suddenly the envelope Curtiss had sent me. I got it out and opened it, and my heart leaped with a sudden suffocating sympathy as I looked at the photograph within. A Madonna, indeed! Mr. Royce had chosen the right word, had paid a fitting tribute not only to her beauty but to the spotless soul behind it. For the face was essentially girlish, virginal-there was no shameful secret back of that clear, direct gaze. It was sweet, frank, winning-a strong face, too, showing intellect and training; no ordinary woman, I told myself; not one, certainly, to be swayed by momentary pa.s.sion, to yield to an unreasoning impulse. No, nor one to fall victim to an adventurer; for this was a woman with ideals and high ones-a woman whose clear eyes could detect any specious imposture at a glance. A fitting mate for Burr Curtiss-the appointed mate-and yet not his! Not his! s.n.a.t.c.hed from him by a desperate act. Desperate! If I, a man hardened by contact with the world, could feel that, how much more poignantly must she have felt it-with what horror must she have shrunk from it-with what agony yielded!

As I gazed at her, it seemed to me that there was something familiar in the face-in the set of the eyes, the shape of the forehead-something familiar in the expression, in the poise of the head, which puzzled and eluded me. A resemblance to her mother, I decided at last, and so put the photograph away and went to bed.

But sleep did not come easily. Ever before my eyes there danced a vision of that vine-embowered cottage opening from the Lawrence grounds. There, I felt, lay the key to the mystery; it was to it I must turn for the clue which would lead me out of this labyrinth. There was some secret about these Kingdon sisters which defied and worried me. Dr. Schuyler's explanation of their connection with Mrs. Lawrence did not in the least satisfy me. That she should keep them near her, shower them with gifts, merely because of an old fondness for a cousin of theirs, seemed to me exceedingly improbable. There must be some other reason, some more compelling one than that.

It was much more likely, I told myself, remembering the pa.s.sionate fierceness of the younger sister, that the gifts were intended to placate, not to reward; that they were the outgrowth of fear, not of affection. Fear of what? I could not even guess. Fear of the exposure of some secret, perhaps-and the thought stung me to a sudden attention.

Had the gifts been in vain? Had the secret been exposed? Was it they who had whispered in Marcia Lawrence's ear the story which had broken the marriage, caused her flight, ruined her future? Was that their revenge for some old injury? Had they waited till the last moment to make it more complete, more crushing? But if they, indeed, had so avenged themselves, would she have fled to them for refuge? Would she not rather have fled from them with loathing?

I felt that I was entangling myself in a web of my own weaving. I put the problem from me, but it pursued me even past sleep's portals. I dreamed that I was staring over the hedge at the Kingdon cottage, at a lighted window. Three women were in the room, as I could see from the shadows thrown upon the blind. They were walking up and down, seemingly in great excitement. I fancied that I could hear the sound of voices, but I could distinguish no words. Then suddenly, two of the women sprang upon the third. She struggled desperately, but their hands were at her throat, choking her life away. She turned toward me, the curtain seemed to lift, and I beheld the agonised face of Marcia Lawrence.

I tried to leap the hedge, but could not stir. Some power beyond me seemed to hold me fast; some mighty weight bound me to the spot. A moment longer the struggle lasted, while I stood staring; I felt her eyes on mine, I knew that she had seen me. She held out an imploring hand; then, when I made no sign in answer, despair swept across her face, she seemed to realise her helplessness, and collapsed into the arms of her a.s.sailants with a scream so shrill, so terrible that it startled me awake.

CHAPTER X

The Mysterious Light

It was some moments before I could think clearly, so real and vivid had that vision been. I threw out my arms to a.s.sure myself that I was still in bed; I could scarcely believe that I was not really shivering behind the hedge, staring across at that lighted window and the dreadful drama it revealed. I was bathed in perspiration and yet felt chilled to the very marrow.

Indeed, my teeth were chattering as I groped my way to the light, turned it on, and looked at my watch. It was nearly one o'clock. The night was clear and pleasant, with a faint breeze stirring. There was no moon, but the stars were shining so brightly that one looked for it instinctively.

I knew it was no use to return to bed until my nerves were quieter; and, indeed, that vision had banished all desire for sleep; so I filled my pipe, lighted it, drew up a chair and sat down by the open window. The street below was deserted; and for an instant I found myself wondering that it was not thronged with people, roused by the scream which had awakened me. Then I remembered that there had been no scream, that I had simply dreamed it.

But I had only to close my eyes to see again that lighted window and the shadows on the blind. It seemed even clearer to me than it had been in the dream. I could see every detail of the struggle, and I opened my eyes abruptly so that I might escape the end. There was something supernatural about it; I had never dreamed a dream like that before-a dream which, waking, I could rehea.r.s.e at pleasure. Perhaps it was not wholly a vision; perhaps it had some foundation in reality, some telepathic origin. I had read of such things, sceptically; but some of the phenomena of thought transference had, I knew, been accepted, reluctantly enough, even by the scientific world.