"Very well, ma'am," she said, and left the room.

Mrs. Lawrence turned to me, still breathing quickly under the stress of the emotion which shook her.

"You must leave me to solve this mystery, Mr. Lester," she said rapidly, "by myself and in my own way. I must find who it is that has dared to meddle in my family affairs. I was prepared to forgive-but there are some things which can never be forgiven-however deeply one may pity--"

She checked herself; perhaps she saw the intentness of my interest.

"But that is no concern of yours," she went on more calmly, and I could not but admit the justice of the rebuke. "You're seeking Marcia. In that I would help you, if I could, but I don't know where she is. As soon as I do know, I will summon Mr. Curtiss; I promise you that. Perhaps you will find her without my help. If you do, tell Mr. Curtiss to go to her and demand an explanation; it is due him, and she has my full permission to tell him everything. Then let him decide whether she shall be his wife. We will both bow to his decision."

"But you've heard from her?" I persisted.

"Only this," she answered, and thrust a crumpled piece of paper into my hand, then turned and left the room.

I smoothed it out and read the message at a glance, noting that it was dated from New York:-

"I am safe. Do not worry. Will write.

"Marcia."

CHAPTER XIII

Pursuit

My work at Elizabeth was done. Whatever mystery this house contained, whatever the secrets of the Kingdons and the Lawrences, my business was not with them. I had only to return to New York and place this message in Burr Curtiss's hands. I would counsel him to wait until Marcia Lawrence chose to reveal herself-I was sure it would not be long. A few days' respite would be wise for both of them; they would be calmer, more self-controlled, better able to meet bravely and sensibly what must be the one crisis of their lives. But a great load was lifted from me. Mrs. Lawrence had a.s.sured me that the marriage was not impossible; loving each other as they did, I knew that nothing short of the impossible could stand between them. So they would win through, at last.

Cheered by this thought, I left the house and made my way to the hotel.

"When's the next train to New York?" I asked.

"There's one on the Pennsylvania, sir, in ten minutes," said the clerk. "'Bus just leaving."

I ran out and got aboard, and a moment later we were b.u.mping over the uneven pavement. I took a final look up the shady street; it was the last time I should see it. What was going on, I wondered, in that big house among the trees? Had Miss Kingdon answered the imperative summons sent her? Had there already been an explanation, a revelation of the mystery? Had she confessed that it was indeed she who revealed the secret? Was Mrs. Lawrence right in thinking the letter from New York had no connection with it?

The 'bus stopped abruptly, and I clambered down to the platform and got my ticket. It was still some minutes till train time, and while I waited, a train on the Jersey Central tracks stood puffing a moment, and then started on for Philadelphia. The little station was built in the triangle where the two lines crossed; trains were pa.s.sing almost every minute, and I reflected how easy it would be for a person not familiar with the place to get confused and to take the wrong train.

There came a growing rumble, a shrieking of brakes. A moment more and we were off.

I glanced at my watch. It was nearly twelve o'clock. I should be at the office in, say, forty-five minutes. I would wire Curtiss at once, and the rest would be in his hands. My connection with the case would end. And yet, it was not without a certain regret that I would relinquish it-for I had not solved the mystery; that was, if anything, more impenetrable than when I had first approached it. G.o.dfrey's specious theory-which I had myself at first believed-I put aside, for, even from the broken sentences which had fallen from Mrs. Lawrence's lips, I could see that it was not the right one. If Marcia Lawrence had fled in order to protect the memory of the dead, there could be no question of a living husband. But though I rejected that explanation, it was evident that, with the data at hand, I could form no adequate one to replace it.

I went over in my mind every phase of the affair from first to last; I endeavoured to sift out the significant incidents, and to reject the immaterial; I tried to weld them into a compact ma.s.s, but they would not be welded. There was nothing to connect them, no common thread upon which they could be strung; all that I had in my possession was a bundle of facts which seemed to be flatly self-contradictory.

I remembered Mrs. Lawrence's astonishment when I had mentioned the existence of the letter. What had she said? "I thought it was that woman!" Which woman? Evidently the elder Kingdon, since she had at once sent for her. That had been my suspicion-that it was she or her sister who had betrayed the secret. Yet the letter would seem to prove that it was some one else. And it struck me as significant that at no time had Mrs. Lawrence appeared to suspect the maid.

Was there really any connection, I wondered, between that old tragedy in Mrs. Lawrence's life and this in the life of her daughter? I reviewed again the story Dr. Schuyler had told me. How the lives of the Endicotts and the Kingdons and the Lawrences had intertwined! I got out my notebook and sketched a rough table showing their relationship, which looked somewhat as here shown.

As I gazed down at this, two names seemed to stand out more vividly than all the rest. I closed my eyes and called before me the faces of two beautiful women. I had never seen either of them in the life-of one, I had only a photograph; of the other I had seen only a crude portrait in the parlour of the Kingdon cottage-but they had somehow a.s.sumed for me personalities distinct and vivid. Marcia Lawrence and Ruth Endicott-the tragedy of fate linked them together. Beautiful, young, accomplished, reared amid gentle surroundings, both had tasted the bitterness of life. From the very house whence Marcia Lawrence fled, Ruth Endicott had started on her hopeless search for health.

The train slowed up for Jersey City, and in a moment was rolling under the great shed. Twenty minutes later, I opened our office door. Mr. Royce had gone out for lunch-which reminded me that I had missed mine again-but he came in almost immediately.

"Well?" he cried, as he crossed the threshold, and came forward with expectant face.

"You'd better wire Curtiss to come back," I said.

"You've news for him?"

I nodded.

"I knew you'd have!" he said exultantly, and drew a pad of telegraph forms toward him and wrote a rapid message. "Curtiss is staying at a little place on Jamaica Bay. He was afraid to go any farther away, I suppose. He ought to be here in an hour," he added, and called a boy and gave him the message.

Then he swung around to me again.

"Now let's have the story," he prompted. "I know there's a story."

"Yes," I said; "there's a story. I was just--"

The door burst open with a crash, and in came Burr Curtiss himself.

"I couldn't stay away any longer!" he cried. "I was eating my heart out. Have you any news?"

"Sit down, Curtiss, and pull yourself together," interposed our junior, catching him by the arm. "This won't do. I just wired you to come on. You must have met the boy."

"I believe I did knock over a youngster just outside the door."

"Well, there's no damage done, I guess. Since you're here, Lester can go right ahead with the story."

"But one thing first," interrupted our client. "Did you find out where she went, Mr. Lester?"

"No," I answered. "But I have a message from her."

"Thank G.o.d!" he murmured, and sank back in his chair. I guessed what his fear had been-that Marcia Lawrence was no longer among the living.

Looking at him closely, I was shocked at the change a single day had wrought in him. His eyes were bloodshot from want of sleep, his face pale and drawn, his hair and beard unkempt. In a word, he had ceased to be the handsome, well-groomed man the world knew as Burr Curtiss.

I related my doings briefly, including only the essential points. Then I placed the message in his hands. He read it, his face quivering.

"But this tells us nothing," he said hoa.r.s.ely, looking up at me with piteous eyes.

"Except that she was in New York this morning-and wants to fight her battle out by herself."

Curtiss was on his feet, his face livid.

"But she sha'n't fight it out by herself!" he cried. "Do you think I'm such a coward as that-to stand back, not offering to help?"

"Perhaps you can't help," I interposed.

"Don't talk nonsense!" he retorted. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Lester, but I'm overwrought-I can't choose my words. But it is nonsense. I love her-of course I can help. Don't you see, it's not herself she's thinking of-she's trying to spare me."