The Clue

The old Van Norman mansion was the finest house in Mapleton. Well back from the road, it sat proudly among its finely kept lawns and gardens, as if with a dignified sense of its own importance, and its white, Colonial columns gleamed through the trees, like sentinels guarding the entrance to the stately hall.

All Mapleton was proud of the picturesque old place, and it was shown to visiting strangers with the same pride that the native villagers pointed out the Memorial Library and the new church.

More than a half-century old, the patrician white house seemed to glance coldly on the upstart cottages, whose inadequate pillars supported beetling second stories, and whose spacious, filigreed verandas left woefully small area for rooms inside the house.

The Van Norman mansion was not like that. It was a long rectangle, and each of its four stories was a series of commodious, well-shaped apartments.

And its owner, the beautiful Madeleine Van Norman, was the most envied as well as the most admired young woman in the town.

Magnificent Madeleine, as she was sometimes called, was of the haughty, imperious type which inspires admiration and respect rather than love. An orphan and an heiress, she had lived all of her twenty-two years of life in the old house, and since the death of her uncle, two years before, had continued as mistress of the place, ably assisted by a pleasant, motherly chaperon, a clever social secretary, and a corps of capable servants.

“Help!”

The loud cry of a single word was not repeated, but repetition was unnecessary, for the sound rang through the old Van Norman house, and carried its message of fear and horror to all, awake or sleeping, within its walls.

It was about half-past eleven that same night, and Cicely Dupuy, still fully dressed, flew from her bedroom out into the hall.

Seeing a light downstairs, and hearing the servants’ bells, one after another, as if rung by a frantic hand, she hesitated a moment only, and then ran downstairs.

In the lower hall Schuyler Carleton, with a dazed expression on his white, drawn face, was uncertainly pushing various electric buttons which, in turn, flashed lights on or off, or rang bells in distant parts of the house.

For a moment Cicely stared straight at the man. Their eyes met, their gaze seemed to concentrate, and they stood motionless, as if spellbound.

This crisis was broken in upon by Marie, Madeleine’s French maid, who came running downstairs in a hastily donned negligee.

“Mon Dieu!” she cried. “Ou est Mademoiselle?”

With a start, Carleton turned from Cicely, and still with that dazed look on his face, he motioned Marie toward the wide doorway of the library. The girl took a step toward the threshold, and then, with a shriek, paused, and ventured no further.

With a sudden start he took a step forward, and as he spoke his voice rang with excitement.

“Doctor Leonard,” he said, in a quick, concise voice, “will you look carefully at that dagger?”

“Yes,” said the older man, impressed by the other’s sudden intensity; and, stepping forward, he scrutinized the dagger as it lay on the table, without, however, touching it.

“There is blood on the handle,” went on Doctor Hills.

“Yes, several stains, now dried.”

“And do you see any blood on the right hand of Miss Van Norman?”

Startled at the implication, Doctor Leonard bent to examine the cold white hand. Not a trace of blood was on it. Instinctively he looked at the girl’s left hand, only to find that also immaculately white.

Doctor Leonard stood upright and pulled himself together.

“I was wrong, Doctor Hills,” he said, with a nod which in him betokened an unspoken apology. “It is a case for the coroner.”

“Mr. Carleton,” said Mr. Benson, “there is an apparent discrepancy here, which it is advisable for you to explain. If you came into this house at quarter after eleven, and rang the bells for help at half-past eleven, what were you doing in the meantime?”

It was out at last. The coroner’s question, though quietly put, was equivalent to an accusation. Every eye in the room was turned toward Carleton, and every ear waited in suspense for his reply.

At last the answer came. The dazed, uncertain look had returned to Carleton’s face and his voice sounded mechanical, like that of an automaton, as he replied, “I decline to say.”

“I think, Mr. Carleton, you can scarcely realize the gravity of the moment, or the mistake you are making in refusing to answer this question.”

“I have nothing to say,” repeated Carleton, and his pallor changed to a faint, angry flush of red.