Back Aa

Gloved Hand

Close

<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> <h2>MISS VAUGHAN'S STORY</h2> Sylvester was still bending in ecstasy over those strange finger-prints—the absorbed ecstasy of the collector who has come unexpectedly upon a specimen wonderful and precious. "Well," he said, looking up, at last, "I've learned something new to-day. These prints shall have the place of honour. They might not be a means of identification among the Thugs, but I'll wager there's no collection in America has a set like them! They're unique!" "But not in the least like the photographs," put in Goldberger, drily. "No," and Sylvester flushed a little as he felt himself jerked from his hobby. "None of the prints we have taken this afternoon resemble the photographs in any way." "But those made by Mr. Swain do resemble them?" "It is more than a resemblance. They are identical with them." "What inference do you draw from that?" "It is more than an inference," Sylvester retorted. "It is a certainty. I am willing to swear that the finger-prints on the robe worn by the murdered man were made by Frederic Swain." "You realise the serious nature of this assertion?" asked the coroner, slowly. "I realise it fully." "And that realisation does not cause you to modify it in any way?" "It cannot be modified," said Sylvester, firmly, "however serious it may be, however reluctant I may be to make it—it cannot be modified because it is the truth." There was a moment's silence, then Goldberger turned to me. "Have you any questions to ask the witness, Mr. Lester?" "No," I answered; "I have none." Sylvester bent again above his prints, while the coroner and the prosecutor held a brief consultation. Then Goldberger turned back to me. "Have you anything further, Mr. Lester?" he asked. "Our evidence is all in, I believe." I was driven to my last entrenchment. "I should like to call Miss Vaughan," I said, "if Dr. Hinman thinks she is strong enough." Swain's chair creaked as he swung toward me. "No, no!" he whispered, angrily. "Don't do that! Spare her that!" But I waved him away, for it was his honour and welfare I had to consider, not Miss Vaughan's convenience, and turned to Dr. Hinman, who was evidently struggling between two duties. One was his duty to his patient; the other his duty to a man cruelly threatened, whom his patient's testimony might save. "Well, what do you say, doctor?" asked the coroner. "Miss Vaughan is no doubt able to testify," said the doctor, slowly, "but I should like to spare her as much as possible. Couldn't her deposition be taken privately? I think you mentioned something of the sort." Goldberger looked at me. "I shall be satisfied," I said, "to question her in the presence of Mr. Goldberger, reserving the right to put her on the stand, should I deem it necessary to do so." "Very well," agreed the doctor. "I will prepare her," and he hurried away toward the house. Swain was gripping my arm savagely. "See here, Mr. Lester," he said in my ear, his voice shaking with anger, "I'm in deadly earnest about this. Take Miss Vaughan's deposition if you wish, but under no circumstances shall she be hauled before this crowd, in her present condition, and compelled to testify." "Why not?" I asked, surprised at his vehemence. "Because, in the first place, her testimony can't help me; and, in the second place, I won't have her tortured." "She wouldn't be tortured." "Look around at these reporters and these photographers, and then tell me she wouldn't be tortured!" "How do you know her evidence won't help you?" "How can it?" "It will confirm your story." "Can it explain away the finger-prints?" At the words, I suddenly realised that there was one person within striking distance of the murdered man whose prints we had not taken—his daughter. Not that they were necessary ... Dr. Hinman appeared at the edge of the lawn and beckoned. As I arose from my chair, Swain gave my arm a last savage grip. "Remember!" he said. But I kept my lips closed. If Miss Vaughan really loved him, and could help him, I would not need to urge her to the stand! Goldberger joined me and together we followed Hinman into the house and up the stairs. He opened the door at the stair-head, waited for us to precede him, followed us into the room, and closed the door gently. Miss Vaughan was half-sitting, half-reclining in a large chair. The blinds were drawn and the room in semi-darkness, but even in that light I could see how changed she was from the girl of whom I had caught a glimpse two days before. Her face was dead white, as though every drop of blood had been drained from it; her eyes were heavy and puffed, as from much weeping, and it seemed to me that there still lingered in their depths a shadow of horror and shrinking fear. "This is Mr. Goldberger," said the doctor, "and this is Mr. Lester." She inclined her head to each of us, as we took the chairs the doctor drew up, and I fancied that her cheeks flushed a little as her eyes met mine. "I have explained to Miss Vaughan," the doctor continued, "that an inquiry is in progress, as the law requires, to determine the manner of her father's death, and that her story of what happened that night is essential to it." "It will, at least, be a great help to us," said Goldberger gently, and I saw how deeply the girl's delicate beauty appealed to him. It was a beauty which no pallor could disguise, and Goldberger's temperament was an impressionable one. "I shall be glad to tell you all I know," said Miss Vaughan, "but I fear it will not help you much." "Will you tell us something, first, of your father's mental state?" I suggested. "For many years," she began, "father had been a student of mysticism, and until quite recently he remained merely a student. I mean by that that he approached the subject with a detached mind and with no interest in it except a scientific interest." "I understand," I said. "And that has changed recently?" "It has changed completely in the last few months. He became a disciple, a convert anxious to win other converts." "A convert to what?" "To Hinduism—to the worship of Siva." "That is the cult to which Francisco Silva belongs?" "Yes; he is a White Priest of Siva." "And this change in your father has been since the coming of this man?" "Yes." "Do you know anything of him?" "Only that he is a very wonderful man." "You know nothing of his past?" "No." "Did your father wish you to become a convert?" "Yes, he desired it deeply." "A priestess of Siva, I believe it is called?" "Yes." "And the yogi also desired it?" "He believed it would be a great destiny. But he urged it only for my father's sake." "So you determined to appeal to Mr. Swain?" The colour deepened in her cheeks again. "I decided to ask his advice," she said. "Please tell us what happened that evening." "Mr. Swain met me at the arbour in the corner of the grounds, as I had asked him to, and convinced me that my father's mind had given way under his long study of the occult. We decided that he should be placed in a sanitarium where he could have proper attention, and Mr. Swain was to make the necessary arrangements. All I would have to do would be to sign some papers. We were just saying good-night, when my father appeared at the entrance of the arbour." "This was about midnight, was it not?" "Yes." "Why did you choose that hour for the meeting?" "Because at that hour my father and the yogi were always engaged in invoking an astral benediction." Even I, who knew the significance of the words, paused a little at them. The doctor and Goldberger were hopelessly at sea. After all, the words were a very good description of the weird ceremony. "Well," I said, "and after your father appeared, what happened?" "He was very excited and spoke to Mr. Swain in a most violent manner. Mr. Swain attempted to take me away from him, not knowing, at first, who it was had seized me; but I pushed him back and led my father away toward the house." "Did Mr. Swain touch your father?" "No; I was between them all the time. I was determined that they should not touch each other. I was afraid, if they came together, that something terrible would happen." Goldberger glanced at me. "Something terrible to your father?" he asked. "Oh, no," she answered, quickly; "Mr. Swain would not have harmed my father, but father did not know what he was doing and might have harmed Mr. Swain." It was my turn to look at Goldberger. "After you left the arbour," I asked, "did you see Mr. Swain again?" "No, I did not see him again." "You went straight to the house?" "Yes; father was still very violent. He had forbidden me to see Mr. Swain or to write to him. He had taken a violent dislike to him." "Do you know why?" "Yes," and she flushed a little, but went on bravely. "He believed that Mr. Swain wished to marry me." "As, in fact, he did," I commented. "Yes; or, at least, he did before his financial troubles came. After that, he wished to give me up." "But you refused to be given up?" "Yes," she said, and looked at me with eyes beautifully radiant. "I refused to be given up." I felt that I was rushing in where angels would hesitate to enter, and beat a hasty retreat. "Was your father always opposed to your marriage?" I asked. "No; he has wanted me to wait until I was of age; but he never absolutely forbade it until a few months ago. It was at the time he first tried to persuade me to become a convert to Hinduism." "What occurred after you and your father reached the house?" "Father was very angry, and demanded that I promise never to see Mr. Swain again. When I refused to promise, he sent me to my room, forbidding me to leave it without his permission. I came up at once, more than ever convinced that father needed medical attention. I was very nervous and over-wrought, and I sat down by the window to control myself before going to bed. And then, suddenly, I remembered something the yogi had told me—that father was not strong, and that a fit of anger might be very serious. I knew the servants had gone to bed, and that he must be downstairs alone, since I had heard no one come up." "You had heard no one in the hall at all?" I asked. "No, I had heard no one. But I remember, as I started down the stairs, a curious feeling of dread seized me. It was so strong that I stood for some moments on the top step before I could muster courage to go down. At last, I did go down and—and found my father!" She stopped, her hands over her eyes, as though to shut away the remembrance of that dreadful sight. "Have you strength to tell me just what happened, Miss Vaughan?" I asked gently. She controlled herself with an effort and took her hands from her face. "Yes," she said; "I can tell you. I remember that I stood for a moment at the door, looking about the room, for at the first glance I thought there was no one there. I thought, for an instant, that father had gone into the grounds, for the curtain at the other door was trembling a little, as though someone had just passed." "Ah!" I said, and looked at Goldberger. "It might have been merely the breeze, might it not?" he asked. "I suppose so. The next instant I saw my father huddled forward in his chair. I was sure he had had a seizure of some sort; I ran to him, and raised his head...." Again she stopped, her eyes covered, and a slow shudder shook her from head to foot. I could guess what a shock the sight of that horrible face had been! "I do not remember anything more," she added, in a whisper. For a moment, we all sat silent. The only portion of her evidence which could in any way help Swain was her discovery of the swaying curtain, and even that, as Goldberger had pointed out, might easily mean nothing. "Miss Vaughan," I said, at last, "how long a time elapsed from the moment you left your father in the library until you found him?" "I don't know. Perhaps fifteen minutes." "Was he quite dead when you found him?" "Yes, I—I think so." "Then," I said to Goldberger, "the murder must have been committed very soon after Miss Vaughan came upstairs." "Yes," agreed Goldberger, in a low tone, "and by somebody who came in from the grounds, since she met no one in the hall and heard no one." Miss Vaughan leaned toward him, her hands clasping and unclasping. "Do you know who it was?" she gasped. "Have you found out who it was?" "We suspect who it was," answered Goldberger gravely. "Tell me," she began. "Wait a minute, Miss Vaughan," I broke in. "Tell me, first—did you hear anyone following you across the garden?" "Yes," she answered thoughtfully; "once or twice I fancied that someone was following us. It seemed to me I heard a step, but when I looked back I saw no one." "Did that fact make you uneasy?" "No," she said, with a little smile. "I thought it was Mr. Swain." I saw Goldberger's sudden movement. I myself could not repress a little shudder. "You thought that would be the natural thing for Mr. Swain to do, did you not?" the coroner inquired. "Yes—I thought he might wish to see me safe." Then she stopped, leaning forward in her chair and staring first at Goldberger and then at me. "What is it?" she whispered, her hands against her heart. "Oh, what is it? You don't mean—you can't mean—oh, tell me! It isn't Fred you suspect! It can't be Fred!" It was Dr. Hinman who laid a gentle and quieting hand upon her shoulder, and it was his grave voice which answered her. "Yes," he said, "there are some things which seem to implicate Mr. Swain; but both Mr. Lester and I are certain he isn't guilty. We're going to prove it!" She looked up at him with a grateful smile. "Thank you!" she gasped. "I—wait a moment—I was silly to give way so. Of course you will prove it! It's absurd!" And then she stopped and looked at Goldberger. "Do you believe it?" she demanded. Goldberger flushed a little under her gaze. "I don't know what to believe, Miss Vaughan," he said. "I'm searching for the truth." "So are we all," I said. "I am counsel for Mr. Swain, Miss Vaughan, and I have come to you, hoping that your story would help to clear him." "Oh, I wish it might!" she cried. "You know Mr. Swain cut his wrist as he came over the wall that night?" "Yes, he told me. He didn't know it was bleeding, at first; then he felt the blood on his hand, and I wrapped his wrist in my handkerchief." "Was it this handkerchief?" asked Goldberger, and took from his pocket the blood-stained square and handed it to her. She took it with a little shiver, looked at it, and passed it back to him. "Yes," she said; "that is it." Then she sat upright, her clenched hands against her breast, staring at us with starting eyes. "I remember now!" she gasped. "I remember now! I saw it—a blotch of red—lying on the floor beside my father's chair! How did it get there, Mr. Lester? Had he been there? Did he follow us?" She stopped again, as she saw the look in Goldberger's eyes, and then the look in mine. With a long, indrawn breath of horror, she cowered back into the chair, shaking from head to foot. "Oh, what have I done!" she moaned. "What have I done?" There could be no question as to what she had done, I told myself, bitterly: she had added another link to the chain of evidence about her lover. I could see the same thought in the sardonic gaze which Goldberger turned upon me; but before either of us could say a word, the doctor, with a peremptory gesture, had driven us from the room. <hr style='width: 65%;' /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2