Hand and Ring by Anna Katharine Green (good book club books TXT) 📖

"Yes," was the slow, almost languid, response; "and a dreadful thing, too; quite horrifying in its nature. And so this Mr. Mansell is her nephew?" he suggestively repeated. "Odd! I suppose he has told you all about the affair?"

"He? Mercy! I don't suppose you could get him to say anything about it to save your life. He isn't of the talking sort. Besides, I don't believe he knows any more about it than you or I. He hasn't been to Sibley."

"Didn't he go to the funeral?"

"No; he said he was too ill; and indeed he was shut up one whole day with a terrible sore throat. He is the heir, too, of all her savings, they say; but he won't go to Sibley. Some folks think it is queer, but I——"

Here her eyes wandered and her almost serious look vanished in a somewhat coquettish smile. Following her gaze with his own, Mr. Byrd perceived a gentleman approaching. It was the one he had first taken for Mr. Mansell.

"Beg pardon," was the somewhat abrupt salutation with which this person advanced. "But they are proposing a game in the next room, and Miss Clayton's assistance is considered absolutely indispensable."

"Mr. Brown, first allow me to make you acquainted with Mr. Byrd," said the light-hearted damsel, with a gracious inclination. "As you are both strangers, it is well for you to know each other, especially as I expect you to join in our games."

"Thank you," protested Mr. Brown, "but I don't play games." Then seeing the deep bow of acquiescence which Mr. Byrd was making, added, with what appeared to be a touch of jealousy, "Except under strong provocation," and holding out his arm, offered to escort the young lady into the next room.

With an apologetic glance at Mr. Byrd, she accepted the attention proffered her, and speedily vanished into the midst of the laughing group that awaited her.

Mr. Byrd found himself alone.

"Check number one," thought he; and he bestowed any thing but an amiable benediction upon the man who had interrupted him in the midst of so promising a conversation.

His next move was in the direction of the landlady's daughter, who, being somewhat shy, favored a retired nook behind the piano. They had been neighbors at table, and he could at once address her without fear of seeming obtrusive.

"I do not see here the dark young gentleman whom you call Mr. Mansell?" he remarked, inquiringly.

"Oh, no; he is in trouble. A near relative of his was murdered in cold blood the other day, and under the most aggravating circumstances. Haven't you heard about it? She was a Mrs. Clemmens, and lived in Sibley. It was in all the papers."

"Ah, yes; I remember about it very well. And so he is her nephew," he went on, recklessly repeating himself in his determination to elicit all he could from these young and thoughtless misses. "A peculiar-looking young man; has the air of thoroughly understanding himself."

"Yes, he is very smart, they say."

"Does he never talk?"

"Oh, yes; that is, he used to; but, since his aunt's death, we don't expect it. He is very much interested in machinery, and has invented something——"

"Oh, Clara, you are not going to sit here," interposed the reproachful voice of a saucy-eyed maiden, who at this moment peeped around the corner of the piano. "We want all the recruits we can get," she cried, with a sudden blush, as she encountered the glance of Mr. Byrd. "Do come, and bring the gentleman too." And she slipped away to join that very Mr. Brown who, by his importunities, had been the occasion of the former interruption from which Mr. Byrd had suffered.

"That man and I will quarrel yet," was the mental exclamation with which the detective rose. "Shall we join your friends?" asked he, assuming an unconcern he was far from feeling.

"Yes, if you please," was the somewhat timid, though evidently pleased, reply.

And Mr. Byrd noted down in his own mind check number two.

The game was a protracted one. Twice did he think to escape from the merry crowd he had entered, and twice did he fail to do so. The indefatigable Brown would not let him slip, and it was only by a positive exertion of his will that he finally succeeded in withdrawing himself.

"I wish to have a word with your mother," he explained, in reply to the look of protest with which Miss Hart honored his departure. "I hear she retires early; so you will excuse me if I leave somewhat abruptly."

And to Mrs. Hart's apartment he at once proceeded, and, by dint of his easy assurance, soon succeeded in leading her, as he had already done the rest, into a discussion of the one topic for which he had an interest. He had not time, however, to glean much from her, for, just as she was making the admission that Mr. Mansell had not been home at the time of the murder, a knock was heard at the door, and, with an affable bow and a short, quick stare of surprise at Mr. Byrd, the ubiquitous Mr. Brown stepped in and took a seat on the sofa, with every appearance of intending to make a call.

At this third check, Mr. Byrd was more than annoyed. Rising, however, with the most amiable courtesy, he bowed his acknowledgments to the landlady, and, without heeding her pressing invitation to remain and make the acquaintance of Mr. Brown, left the room and betook himself back to the parlors.

He was just one minute too late. The last of the boarders had gone up-stairs, and only an empty room met his eyes.

He at once ascended to his own apartment. It was on the fourth floor. There were many other rooms on this floor, and for a moment he could not remember which was his own door. At last, however, he felt sure it was the third one from the stairs, and, going to it, gave a short knock in case of mistake, and, hearing no reply, opened it and went in.

The first glance assured him that his recollection had played him false, and that he was in the wrong room. The second, that he was in that of Mr. Mansell. The sight of the small model of a delicate and intricate machine that stood in full view on a table before him would have been sufficient assurance of this fact, even if the inventor himself had been absent. But he was there. Seated at a table, with his back to the door, and his head bowed forward on his arms, he presented such a picture of misery or despair, that Mr. Byrd felt his sympathies touched in spite of himself, and hastily stumbling backward, was about to confusedly withdraw, when a doubt struck him as to the condition of the deathly, still, and somewhat pallid figure before him, and, stepping hurriedly forward, he spoke the young man's name, and, failing to elicit a response, laid his hand on his shoulder, with an apology for disturbing him, and an inquiry as to how he felt.

The touch acted where the voice had failed. Leaping from his partly recumbent position, Craik Mansell faced the intruder with indignant inquiry written in every line of his white and determined face.

"To what do I owe this intrusion?" he cried, his nostrils expanding and contracting with an anger that proved the violence of his nature when aroused.

"First, to my carelessness," responded Mr. Byrd; "and, secondly——" But there he paused, for the first time in his life, perhaps, absolutely robbed of speech. His eye had fallen upon a picture that the other held clutched in his vigorous right hand. It was a photograph of Imogene Dare, and it was made conspicuous by two heavy black lines which had been relentlessy drawn across the face in the form of a cross. "Secondly," he went on, after a moment, resolutely tearing his gaze away from this startling and suggestive object, "to my fears. I thought you looked ill, and could not forbear making an effort to reassure myself that all was right."

"Thank you," ejaculated the other, in a heavy weariful tone. "I am perfectly well." And with a short bow he partially turned his back, with a distinct intimation that he desired to be left alone.

Mr. Byrd could not resist this appeal. Glad as he would have been for even a moment's conversation with this man, he was, perhaps unfortunately, too much of a gentleman to press himself forward against the expressed wishes even of a suspected criminal. He accordingly withdrew to the door, and was about to open it and go out, when it was flung violently forward, and the ever-obtrusive Brown stepped in.

This second intrusion was more than unhappy Mr. Mansell could stand. Striding passionately forward, he met the unblushing Brown at full tilt, and angrily pointing to the door, asked if it was not the custom of gentlemen to knock before entering the room of strangers.

"I beg pardon," said the other, backing across the threshold, with a profuse display of confusion. "I had no idea of its being a stranger's room. I thought it was my own. I—I was sure that my door was the third from the stairs. Excuse me, excuse me." And he bustled noisily out.

This precise reproduction of his own train of thought and action confounded Mr. Byrd.

Turning with a deprecatory glance to the perplexed and angry occupant of the room, he said something about not knowing the person who had just left them; and then, conscious that a further contemplation of the stern and suffering countenance before him would unnerve him for the duty he had to perform, hurriedly withdrew.