That Affair Next Door — A Shrewd Conjecture

The test of which I speak was as follows: I would advertise for a person dressed as I believed Mrs. Van Burnam to have been when she left the scene of crime.

If I received news of such a person, I might safely consider my theory established.

I accordingly wrote the following advertisement: "Information wanted of a woman who applied for lodgings on the morning of the eighteenth inst.

, dressed in a brown silk skirt and a black and white plaid blouse of fashionable cut.

She was without a hat, or if a person so dressed wore a hat, then it was bought early in the morning at some store, in which case let shopkeepers take notice.

The person answering this description is eagerly sought for by her relatives, and to any one giving positive information of the same, a liberal reward will be paid.

Please address, T. W.

Alvord, ---- Liberty Street."

I purposely did not mention her personal appearance, for fear of attracting the attention of the police.

This done, I wrote the following letter: "DEAR MISS FERGUSON: "One clever woman recognizes another.

I am clever and am not ashamed to own it.

You are clever and should not be ashamed to be told so.

I was a witness at the inquest in which you so notably distinguished yourself, and I said then, 'There is a woman after my own heart!'

But a truce to compliments!

What I want and ask of you to procure for me is a photograph of Mrs. Van Burnam.

I am a friend of the family, and consider them to be in more trouble than they deserve.

If I had her picture I would show it to the Misses Van Burnam, who feel great remorse at their treatment of her, and who want to see how she looked.

Cannot you find one in their rooms?

The one in Mr. Howard's room here has been confiscated by the police.

[C]

"Hoping that you will feel disposed to oblige me in this--and I assure you that my motives in making this request are most excellent--I remain, "Cordially yours, "AMELIA BUTTERWORTH.

"P. S.

--Address me, if you please, at 564 ---- Avenue.

Care of J.

H.

Denham."

This was my grocer, with whom I left word the next morning to deliver this package in the next bushel of potatoes he sent me.

My smart little maid, Lena, carried these two communications to the east side, where she posted the letter herself and entrusted the advertisement to a lover of hers who carried it to the _Herald_ office.

While she was gone I tried to rest by exercising my mind in other directions.

But I could not.

I kept going over Howard's testimony in the light of my own theory, and remarking how the difficulty he experienced in maintaining the position he had taken, forced him into inconsistencies and far-fetched explanations.

With his wife for a companion at the Hotel D----, his conduct both there and on the road to his father's house was that of a much weaker man than his words and appearance led one to believe; but if, on the contrary, he had with him a woman with whom he was about to elope (and what did the packing up of all his effects mean, if not that?

), all the precautions they took seemed reasonable.

Later, my mind fixed itself on one point.

If it was his wife who was with him, as he said, then the bundle they dropped at the old woman's feet contained the much-talked of plaid silk.

If it was not, then it was a gown of some different material.

Now, could this bundle be found?

If it could, then why had not Mr. Gryce produced it?

The sight of Mrs. Van Burnam's plaid silk spread out on the Coroner's table would have had a great effect in clinching the suspicion against her husband.

But no plaid silk had been found (because it was not dropped in the bundle, but worn away on the murderess's back), and no old woman.

I thought I knew the reason of this too.

There was no old woman to be found, and the bundle they carried had been got rid of some other way.

What way?

I

would take a walk down that same block and see, and I would take it at the midnight hour too, for only so could I judge of the possibilities there offered for concealing or destroying such an article.

Having made this decision, I cast about to see how I could carry it into effect.

I am not a coward, but I have a respectability to maintain, and what errand could Miss Butterworth be supposed to have in the streets at twelve o'clock at night!

Fortunately, I remembered that my cook had complained of toothache when I gave her my orders for breakfast, and going down at once into the kitchen, where she sat with her cheek propped up in her hand waiting for Lena, I said with an asperity which admitted of no reply: "You have a dreadful tooth, Sarah, and you must have something done for it at once.

When Lena comes home, send her to me.

I am going to the drug-store for some drops, and I want Lena to accompany me."

She looked astounded, of course, but I would not let her answer me.

"Don't speak a word," I cried, "it will only make your toothache worse;

and don't look as if some hobgoblin had jumped up on the kitchen table.

I guess I know my duty, and just what kind of a breakfast I will have in the morning, if you sit up all night groaning with the toothache."

And I was out of the room before she had more than begun to say that it was not so bad, and that I needn't trouble, and all that, which was true enough, no doubt, but not what I wanted to hear at that moment.

When Lena came in, I saw by the brightness of her face that she had accomplished her double errand.

I therefore signified to her that I was satisfied, and asked if she was too tired to go out again, saying quite peremptorily that Sarah was ill, and that I was going to the drug-store for some medicine, and did not wish to go alone.

Lena's round-eyed wonder was amusing; but she is very discreet, as I have said before, and she ventured nothing save a meek, "It's very late, Miss Butterworth," which was an unnecessary remark, as she soon saw.

I do not like to obtrude my aristocratic tendencies too much into this narrative, but when I found myself in the streets alone with Lena, I could not help feeling some secret qualms lest my conduct savored of impropriety.

But the thought that I was working in the cause of truth and justice came to sustain me, and before I had gone two blocks, I felt as much at home under the midnight skies as if I were walking home from church on a Sunday afternoon.

There is a certain drug-store on Third Avenue where I like to deal, and towards this I ostensibly directed my steps.

But I took pains to go by the way of Lexington Avenue and Twenty-seventh Street, and upon reaching the block where this mysterious couple were seen, gave all my attention to the possible hiding-places it offered.

Lena, who had followed me like my shadow, and who was evidently too dumfounded at my freak to speak, drew up to my side as we were half-way down it and seized me tremblingly by the arm.

"Two men are coming," said she.

"I am not afraid of men," was my sharp rejoinder.

But I told a most abominable lie; for I am afraid of them in such places and under such circumstances, though not under ordinary conditions, and never where the tongue is likely to be the only weapon employed.

The couple who were approaching us now seemed to be in a merry mood.

But when they saw us keep to our own side of the way, they stopped their chaffing and allowed us to go by, with just a mocking word or two.

"Sarah ought to be very much obliged to you," whispered Lena.

At the corner of Third Avenue I paused.

I had seen nothing so far but bare stoops and dark area-ways.

Nothing to suggest a place for the disposal of such cumbersome articles as these persons had made way with.

Had the avenue anything better to offer?

I stopped under the gas-lamp at the corner to consider, notwithstanding Lena's gentle pull towards the drug-store.

Looking to left and right and over the muddy crossings, I sought for inspiration.

An almost obstinate belief in my own theory led me to insist in my own mind that they had encountered no old woman, and consequently had not dropped their bundles in the open street.

I even entered into an argument about it, standing there with the cable cars whistling by me and Lena tugging away at my arm.

"If," said I to myself, "the woman with him had been his wife and the whole thing nothing more than a foolish escapade, they might have done this; but she was not his wife, and the game they were playing was serious, if they did laugh over it, and so their disposal of these tell-tale articles would be serious and such as would protect their secret.

Where, then, could they have thrust them?"

My eyes, as I muttered this, were on the one shop in my line of vision that was still open and lighted.

It was the den of a Chinese laundryman, and through the windows in front I could see him still at work, ironing.

"Ah!"

thought I, and made such a start across the street that Lena gasped in dismay and almost fell to the ground in her frightened attempt to follow me.

"Not that way!"

she called.

"Miss Butterworth, you are going wrong."

But I kept right on, and only stopped when I reached the laundry.

"I have an errand here," I explained.

"Wait in the doorway, Lena, and don't act as if you thought me crazy, for I was never saner in my life."

I don't think this reassured her much, lunatics not being supposed to be very good judges of their own mental condition, but she was so accustomed to obey, that she drew back as I opened the door before me and entered.

The surprise on the face of the poor Chinaman when he turned and saw before him a lady of years and no ordinary appearance, daunted me for an instant.

But another look only showed me that his very surprise was inoffensive, and gathering courage from the unexpectedness of my own position, I inquired with all the politeness I could show one of his abominable nationality: "Didn't a gentleman and a heavily veiled lady leave a package with you a few days ago at about the same hour of night as this?"

"Some lalee clo' washee?

Yes, ma'am.

No done.

She tellee me no callee for one week."

"Then that's all right; the lady has died very suddenly, and the gentleman gone away; you will have to keep the clothes a long time."

"Me wantee money, no wantee clo'!"

"I'll pay you for them; I don't care about them being ironed."

"Givee tickee, givee clo'!

No givee tickee, no givee clo'!"

This was a poser!

But as I did not want the clothes so much as a look at them, I soon got the better of this difficulty.

"I don't want them to-night," said I. "I only wanted to make sure you had them.

What night were these people here?"

"Tuesday night, velly late; nicee man, nicee lalee.

She wantee talk.

Nicee man he pullee she; I no hear if muchee stasch.

All washee, see!"

he went on, dragging a basket out of the corner, "him no ilon."

I was in such a quiver; so struck with amazement at my own perspicacity in surmising that here was a place where a bundle of underclothing could be lost indefinitely, that I just stared while he turned over the clothes in the basket.

For by means of the quality of the articles he was preparing to show me, the question which had been agitating me for hours could be definitely decided.

If they proved to be fine and of foreign manufacture, then Howard's story was true and all my fine-spun theories must fall to the ground.

But if, on the contrary, they were such as are usually worn by American women, then my own idea as to the identity of the woman who left them here was established, and I could safely consider her as the victim and Louise Van Burnam as the murderess, unless further facts came to prove that he was the guilty one, after all.

The sight of Lena's eyes staring at me with great anxiety through the panes of the door distracted my attention for a moment, and when I looked again, he was holding up two or three garments before me.

The articles thus revealed told their story in a moment.

They were far from fine, and had even less embroidery on them than I expected.

"Are there any marks on them?"

I asked.

He showed me two letters stamped in indelible ink on the band of a skirt.

I did not have my glasses with me, but the ink was black, and I read O. R.

"The minx's initials," thought I. When I left the place my complacency was such that Lena did not know what to make of me.

She has since informed me that I looked as if I wanted to shout Hurrah!

but I cannot believe I so far forgot myself as that.

But pleased as I was, I had only discovered how one bundle had been disposed of.

The dress and outside fixings still had to be accounted for, and I was the woman to do it.

We had mechanically moved in the direction of the drug-store and were near the curb-stone when I reached this point in my meditations.

It had rained a little while before, and a small stream was running down the gutter and emptying itself into the sewer opening.

The sight of it sharpened my wits.

If I wanted to get rid of anything of a damaging character, I would drop it at the mouth of one of these holes and gently thrust it into the sewer with my foot, thought I. And never doubting that I had found an explanation of the disappearance of the second bundle, I walked on, deciding that if I had the police at my command I would have the sewer searched at those four corners.

We rode home after visiting the drug-store.

I was not going to subject Lena or myself to another midnight walk through Twenty-seventh Street.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote C: This was _so_ probable, it cannot be considered an untruth.

--A.

B.

] XXII. A BLANK CARD.

The next day at noon Lena brought me up a card on her tray.

It was a perfectly blank one.

"Miss Van Burnam's maid said you sent for this," was her demure announcement.

"Miss Van Burnam's maid is right," said I, taking the card and with it a fresh installment of courage.

Nothing happened for two days, then there came word from the kitchen that a bushel of potatoes had arrived.

Going down to see them, I drew from their midst a large square envelope, which I immediately carried to my room.

It failed to contain a photograph; but there was a letter in it couched in these terms: "DEAR MISS BUTTERWORTH: "The esteem which you are good enough to express for me is returned.

I regret that I cannot oblige you.

There are no photographs to be found in Mrs. Van Burnam's rooms.

Perhaps this fact may be accounted for by the curiosity shown in those apartments by a very spruce new boarder we have had from New York.

His taste for that particular quarter of the house was such that I could not keep him away from it except by lock and key.

If there was a picture there of Mrs. Van Burnam, he took it, for he departed very suddenly one night.

I am glad he took nothing more with him.

The talks he had with my servant-girl have almost led to my dismissing her.

"Praying your pardon for the disappointment I am forced to give you, I remain, "Yours sincerely, "SUSAN FERGUSON."

So!

so!

balked by an emissary of Mr. Gryce.

Well, well, we would do without the photograph!

Mr. Gryce might need it, but not Amelia Butterworth.

This was on a Thursday, and on the evening of Saturday the long-desired clue was given me.

It came in the shape of a letter brought me by Mr. Alvord.

Our interview was not an agreeable one.

Mr. Alvord is a clever man and an adroit one, or I should not persist in employing him as my lawyer;

but he never understood _me_.

At this time, and with this letter in his hand, he understood me less than ever, which naturally called out my powers of self-assertion and led to some lively conversation between us.

But that is neither here nor there.

He had brought me an answer to my advertisement and I was presently engrossed by it.

It was an uneducated woman's epistle and its chirography and spelling were dreadful; so I will just mention its contents, which were highly interesting in themselves, as I think you will acknowledge.

She, that is, the writer, whose name, as nearly as I could make out, was Bertha Desberger, knew such a person as I described, and could give me news of her if I would come to her house in West Ninth Street at four o'clock Sunday afternoon.

If I would!

I think my face must have shown my satisfaction, for Mr. Alvord, who was watching me, sarcastically remarked: "You don't seem to find any difficulties in that communication.

Now, what do you think of this one?"

He held out another letter which had been directed to him, and which he had opened.

Its contents called up a shade of color to my cheek, for I did not want to go through the annoyance of explaining myself again: "DEAR SIR: "From a strange advertisement which has lately appeared in the _Herald_, I gather that information is wanted of a young woman who on the morning of the eighteenth inst.

entered my store without any bonnet on her head, and saying she had met with an accident, bought a hat which she immediately put on.

She was pale as a girl could be and looked so ill that I asked her if she was well enough to be out alone; but she gave me no reply and left the store as soon as possible.

That is all I can tell you about her."

With this was enclosed his card: PHINEAS COX,

_Millinery_, _Trimmed and Untrimmed Hats_, ---- Sixth Avenue.

"Now, what does this mean?"

asked Mr. Alvord.

"The morning of the eighteenth was the morning when the murder was discovered in which you have shown such interest."

"It means," I retorted with some spirit, for simple dignity was thrown away on this man, "that I made a mistake in choosing your office as a medium for my business communications."

This was to the point and he said no more, though he eyed the letter in my hand very curiously, and seemed more than tempted to renew the hostilities with which we had opened our interview.

Had it not been Saturday, and late in the day at that, I would have visited Mr. Cox's store before I slept, but as it was I felt obliged to wait till Monday.

Meanwhile I had before me the still more important interview with Mrs. Desberger.

As I had no reason to think that my visiting any number in Ninth Street would arouse suspicion in the police, I rode there quite boldly the next day, and with Lena at my side, entered the house of Mrs. Bertha Desberger.

For this trip I had dressed myself plainly, and drawn over my eyes--and the puffs which I still think it becoming in a woman of my age to wear--a dotted veil, thick enough to conceal my features, without robbing me of that aspect of benignity necessary to the success of my mission.

Lena wore her usual neat gray dress, and looked the picture of all the virtues.

A large brass door-plate, well rubbed, was the first sign vouchsafed us of the respectability of the house we were about to enter; and the parlor, when we were ushered into it, fully carried out the promise thus held forth on the door-step.

It was respectable, but in wretched taste as regards colors.

I, who have the nicest taste in such matters, looked about me in dismay as I encountered the greens and blues, the crimsons and the purples which everywhere surrounded me.

But I was not on a visit to a temple of art, and resolutely shutting my eyes to the offending splendor about me--worsted splendor, you understand,--I waited with subdued expectation for the lady of the house.

She came in presently, bedecked in a flowered gown that was an epitome of the blaze of colors everywhere surrounding us; but her face was a good one, and I saw that I had neither guile nor over-much shrewdness to contend with.

She had seen the coach at the door, and she was all smiles and flutter.

"You have come for the poor girl who stopped here a few days ago," she began, glancing from my face to Lena's with an equally inquiring air, which in itself would have shown her utter ignorance of social distinctions if I had not bidden Lena to keep at my side and hold her head up as if she had business there as well as myself.

"Yes," returned I, "we have.

Lena here, has lost a relative (which was true), and knowing no other way of finding her, I suggested the insertion of an advertisement in the paper.

You read the description given, of course.

Has the person answering it been in this house?"

"Yes; she came on the morning of the eighteenth.

I remember it because that was the very day my cook left, and I have not got another one yet."

She sighed and went on.

"I took a great interest in that unhappy young woman--Was she your sister?"

This, somewhat doubtfully, to Lena, who perhaps had too few colors on to suit her.

"No," answered Lena, "she wasn't my sister, but----" I immediately took the words out of her mouth.

"At what time did she come here, and how long did she stay?

We want to find her very much.

Did she give you any name, or tell where she was going?"

"She said her name was Oliver."

(I thought of the O. R.

on the clothes at the laundry.

) "But I knew this wasn't so; and if she had not looked so very modest, I might have hesitated to take her in.

But, lor!

I can't resist a girl in trouble, and she was in trouble, if ever a girl was.

And then she had money--Do you know what her trouble was?"

This again to Lena, and with an air at once suspicious and curious.

But Lena has a good face, too, and her frank eyes at once disarmed the weak and good-natured woman before us.

"I thought"--she went on before Lena could answer--"that whatever it was, _you_ had nothing to do with it, nor this lady either."

"No," answered Lena, seeing that I wished her to do the talking.

"And we don't know" (which was true enough so far as Lena went) "just what her trouble was.

Didn't she tell you?"

"She told nothing.

When she came she said she wanted to stay with me a little while.

I sometimes take boarders----" She had twenty in the house at that minute, if she had one.

Did she think I couldn't see the length of her dining-room table through the crack of the parlor door?

"'I can pay,' she said, which I had not doubted, for her blouse was a very expensive one; though I thought her skirt looked queer, and her hat--Did I say she had a hat on?

You seemed to doubt that fact in your advertisement.

Goodness me!

if she had had no hat on, she wouldn't have got as far as my parlor mat.

But her blouse showed her to be a lady--and then her face--it was as white as your handkerchief there, madam, but so sweet--I thought of the Madonna faces I had seen in Catholic churches."

I started; inwardly commenting: "Madonna-like, _that_ woman!"

But a glance at the room about me reassured me.

The owner of such hideous sofas and chairs and of the many pictures effacing or rather defacing the paper on the walls, could not be a judge of Madonna faces.

"You admire everything that is good and lovely," I suggested, for Mrs. Desberger had paused at the movement I made.

"Yes, it is my nature to do so, ma'am.

I love the beautiful," and she cast a half-apologetic, half-proud look about her.

"So I listened to the girl and let her sit down in my parlor.

She had had nothing to eat that morning, and though she didn't ask for it, I went to order her a cup of tea, for I knew she couldn't get up-stairs without it.

Her eyes followed me when I went out of the room in a way that haunted me, and when I came back--I shall never forget it, ma'am--there she lay stretched out on the floor with her face on the ground and her hands thrown out.

Wasn't it horrible, ma'am?

I don't wonder you shudder."

Did I shudder?

If I did, it was because I was thinking of that other woman, the victim of this one, whom I had seen, with her face turned upward and her arms outstretched, in the gloom of Mr. Van Burnam's half-closed parlor.

"She looked as if she was dead," the good woman continued, "but just as I was about to call for help, her fingers moved and I rushed to lift her.

She was neither dead nor had she fainted; she was simply dumb with misery.

What could have happened to her?

I have asked myself a hundred times."

My mouth was shut very tight, but I shut it still tighter, for the temptation was great to cry: "She had just committed murder!"

As it was, no sound whatever left my lips, and the good woman doubtless thought me no better than a stone, for she turned with a shrug to Lena, repeating still more wistfully than before: "_Don't_ you know what her trouble was?"

But, of course, poor Lena had nothing to say, and the woman went on with a sigh: "Well, I suppose I shall never know what had used that poor creature up so completely.

But whatever it was, it gave me enough trouble, though I do not want to complain of it, for why are we here, if not to help and comfort the miserable.

It was an hour, ma'am; it was an hour, miss, before I could get that poor girl to speak; but when I did succeed, and had got her to drink the tea and eat a bit of toast, then I felt quite repaid by the look of gratitude she gave me and the way she clung to my sleeve when I tried to leave her for a minute.

It was this sleeve, ma'am," she explained, lifting a cluster of rainbow flounces and ribbons which but a minute before had looked little short of ridiculous in my eyes, but which in the light of the wearer's kind-heartedness had lost some of their offensive appearance.

"Poor Mary!"

murmured Lena, with what I considered most admirable presence of mind.

"What name did you say?"

cried Mrs. Desberger, eager enough to learn all she could of her late mysterious lodger.

"I had rather not tell her name," protested Lena, with a timid air that admirably fitted her rather doll-like prettiness.

"_She_ didn't tell you what it was, and _I_ don't think I ought to."

Good for little Lena!

And she did not even know for whom or what she was playing the _rôle_ I had set her.

"I thought you said Mary.

But I won't be inquisitive with you.

I wasn't so with her.

But where was I in my story?

Oh, I got her so she could speak, and afterwards I helped her up-stairs; but she didn't stay there long.

When I came back at lunch time--I have to do my marketing no matter what happens--I found her sitting before a table with her head on her hands.

She had been weeping, but her face was quite composed now and almost hard.

"'O you good woman!'

she cried as I came in.

'I want to thank you.'

But I wouldn't let her go on wasting words like that, and presently she was saying quite wildly: 'I want to begin a new life.

I want to act as if I had never had a yesterday.

I have had trouble, overwhelming trouble, but I will get something out of existence yet.

I _will_ live, and in order to do so, I will work.

Have you a paper, Mrs. Desberger, I want to look at the advertisements?'

I brought her a _Herald_ and went to preside at my lunch table.

When I saw her again she looked almost cheerful.

'I have found just what I want,' she cried, 'a companion's place.

But I cannot apply in this dress,' and she looked at the great puffs of her silk blouse as if they gave her the horrors, though why, I cannot imagine, for they were in the latest style and rich enough for a millionaire's daughter, though as to colors I like brighter ones myself.

'Would you'--she was very timid about it--'buy me some things if I gave you the money?'

"If there is one thing more than another that I like, it is to shop, so I expressed my willingness to oblige her, and that afternoon I set out with a nice little sum of money to buy her some clothes.

I should have enjoyed it more if she had let me do my own choosing--I saw the loveliest pink and green blouse--but she was very set about what she wanted, and so I just got her some plain things which I think even you, ma'am, would have approved of.

I brought them home myself, for she wanted to apply immediately for the place she had seen advertised, but, O dear, when I went up to her room----" "Was she gone?"

burst in Lena.

"O no, but there was such a smudge in it, and--and I could cry when I think of it--there in the grate were the remains of her beautiful silk blouse, all smoking and ruined.

She had tried to burn it, and she had succeeded too.

I could not get a piece out as big as my hand."

"But you got some of it!"

blurted out Lena, guided by a look which I gave her.

"Yes, scraps, it was so handsome.

I think I have a bit in my work-basket now."

"O get it for me," urged Lena.

"I want it to remember her by."

"My work-basket is here."

And going to a sort of _etagère_ covered with a thousand knick-knacks picked up at bargain counters, she opened a little cupboard and brought out a basket, from which she presently pulled a small square of silk.

It was, as she said, of the richest weaving, and was, as I had not the least doubt, a portion of the dress worn by Mrs. Van Burnam from Haddam.

"Yes, it was hers," said Lena, reading the expression of my face, and putting the scrap away very carefully in her pocket.

"Well, I would have given her five dollars for that blouse," murmured Mrs. Desberger, regretfully.

"But girls like her are so improvident."

"And did she leave that day?"