the door closed behind them I broke down. Mme. Storey looked at me sympathetically. “Ah, Bella, you are very fond of her, aren't you?” she murmured. “This is damnable!”
In my eagerness I involuntarily clasped my hands. “Ah, but you won't—you won't let it go on!” I implored her.
“I?” she said in great surprise. “How on earth could I stop it, my dear?”
“Oh, but you could! you could!” I wailed. “You can do anything!”
She shook her head. “As an outsider I have no business to interfere. And anyhow my better sense tells me it would be worse than useless. If I said a word to her against her Darius, she'd rush off and marry him the same day. You saw how she looked at you just now. No! it's a tragedy, but it's beyond our mending. If I have learned anything it is that we cannot play Providence in the lives of others. We can only look on and pity her—”
“That's what your head says,” I murmured. “What about your heart?”
She rose, and began to pace the long room. “Ah, don't drag in heart,” she said, almost crossly one would have thought; “I can't set out to save every foolish girl who is determined to make a mess of her life!”
“I can't bear it!” I said.
She continued to walk up and down the long room. That room had been expressly chosen for its length, so that she could pace it while she was thinking. How well it suited her! the bare and beautiful apartment, with its rare old Italian furnishings and pictures.
She herself was wearing a Fortuny gown adapted from the same period; and when you turned your back to the windows which looked out on matter-of-fact New York, you were transported right back to sixteenth century Florence.
I felt that anything more I might say would only damage my suit, so I remained silent. But I couldn't stop the tears from running down. Mme. Storey looked at me uneasily every time she turned.
“We must get to work,” she said crossly. I obediently took up my note book. “Oh, well,” she said in a different tone. “For your sake, Bella—” She returned to her desk, and took the telephone receiver off its hook. “Well see if we cannot dig up something in the circumstances surrounding Mrs. Whittall's death, that will give this foolish girl cause to stop and think what she is doing.”
She called up police headquarters. “Rumsey,” she said, “do you remember the case of Mrs. Darius Whittall who killed herself about two months ago? Well, I suppose there was an inquest or investigation of some sort, and that the findings are on file somewhere. Come and see me this afternoon, will you? And bring the papers with you. I want to go over them with you—I'll tell you when I see you—Thanks, at four then. Good-by.”
Our worthy friend arrived promptly to his hour. Inspector Rumsey was not a distinguished-looking man, but he was true blue. His methods were not brilliant, but patient and industrious, and he was always superior to the political considerations which have been known to sway some of the officials of his department. He owed part of his reputation perhaps, to his friendship for my mistress, who often helps him with the more subtle points of his cases. He in return, I need hardly say, is able to render us the most valuable assistance.
The papers he laid before my mistress told a simple and straightforward tale. On the night of Sunday, September 11th, Mrs. Whittall had dined alone at their place in Riverdale. Her husband was dining with friends in the city. After dinner, that is to say about nine thirty, she had complained of the heat, and had asked her maid, Mary Thole, for a light wrap, saying that she would walk in the grounds for a few minutes. Almost immediately after she left the house, the sound of a shot was heard. Everybody in the house heard it, since the windows were all open.
The butler and the second man rushed out to the spot whence it came, which was a little pavilion or summer house placed on a slight knoll overlooking the river, about two hundred yards from the house. They found the body of their mistress lying at full length on the gravel outside the entrance to the pavilion.
She had evidently fallen with considerable force, for her hair was partly down, the hair pins lying about. An ornamental comb which she wore was found about four feet from her body. One of her slippers was off. So it was judged that she had shot herself within the pavilion, and had fallen backwards down the three steps.
There was a bullet hole in her right temple, and so far as the servants could judge she was already dead. The revolver was still lying in her partly opened hand. Upon a microscopic examination of the gun, later, the finger-prints upon it were proved to be those of Mrs. Whittall's fingers.