The abandoned house one. The blinding rain, which had been steadily falling for
the last hour, cut and stung our faces, and the wind, wheezing
through the trees about us, rocked our little car until it made progress almost
impossible. An illuminating streak of lightning, followed by a deafening crash of thunder
caused me to cower down in the seat and cover my ears with my hands.
Well, here's our finish, exclaimed my brother, who had valiantly striven
to pilot the machine in the storm. There's a tree lying directly across the
road. He brought the car to a standstill and turned a spotlight on the
dark object blocking our path. It was a huge tree, evidently stricken down
by the lightning, and it covered the entire road. What on earth are
we going to do? I sobbed hysterically. We can't stay atless storm like
this, and we're miles and miles away from anyone. We had been steadily
climbing an upward grade, and the cavern like ravines on either side and the
depths of blackness behind me struck a chill in my heart. I wish which
we'd never come out on this crazy motor trip, I wailed, New York
is good enough for me. Alan, what can we do? I'll see,
he answered, Keep your hand on the brake. This is a pretty
stiff hill and the road is slippery. If the car starts skidding, it's
good night. He spoke jocularly enough, but I knew he was worried.
Climbing out of the machine, he went around to the big supine tree and
examined it. It's no use now, he called to me, pitching his
voice above the roar of the wind. I can't budget. In the brief
light caused by a second flash of lightning, I saw the stark, bare
outlines of a two story house, possibly a hundred feet ahead of us.
On my right, Alan, there's a house, a house up there,
further on the hill, I cried wildly. You're right there is. It's
either an empty one or its occupants. Hit the hay early. I'll pull
the car out onto the side of the road and we'll make a run for
it. He got back into his car, and with a few careful maneuvers
of the wheel, succeeded in bringing the machine around to a spot where it
might stand in safety. Then he searched in the dark until he found a
rock, which he placed under the wheel in case something should start it rolling
down grade. Turn up your collar. The rain feels like ice water when
you're out in it. The house is probably farther off than it looks.
Taking my hand, he helped me out. My feet went into deep mud
and I almost lost my balance with a little shriek. I clutched him to
save myself. Then we started to run. It was uphill all the way,
a much steeper and longer climb than I had anticipated, and as Alan
had said, the rain was like ice water, beating against the back of
my neck and shoulders. I was shaking and shivering like a drowned cat.
By the time we reached the stoop on the front of the building. The
house was barren a fence and surrounding trees, and stood on a sort of
null at the side of the hills. No light was visible anywhere. Alan
used his pocket flash and that guided us to the front door, which was
swinging dismally back and forth on one hinge, making a doleful creaking noise distinguishable
above the wind. We did not stop to knock, feeling pretty certain the
house had no occupant. Or the door would be locked on a night like
this for such shelter, let us give thanks Allan chuckled grimly, pushing me
in first. He closed the door after us to shut out the rain,
but it immediately swung open again. We found ourselves in a long, wide
hall which evidently divided the house through the center. At the extreme end was
an old fashioned staircase with banisters. The floors creaked and gave with the weight
of our bodies as we walked, and I fancied a rat scurried across my
foot. There was an odor of mustiness and damp about the place, as
though it had not been occupied for years. There were no furnishings of any
kind, no blinds to the windows, and most of the panes of glass
were missing. But even in the dim light that Alan's spot afforded, we
could see that it had an old time elegance. Probably at one time,
monstrous log fires had burnt in the massive brick fireplaces at the end of the
two rooms opening off the separating hallway. The woodwork appeared to be of black
walnut. The floors unquestionably had been highly polished, though now they were worn
and earth stained. The ceilings were falling, and the wall paper hung in
great strips from the plastering. A more uninviting place could not be imagined.
I clung to Alan's arm, half afraid to venture farther. I'm awfully cold,
I whimpered, through chattering teeth. Do you suppose there's a stove in
the kitchen? Maybe we can find some paper and start a fire if there
is. Alan did not answer, but led the way to the back of
the house before some swinging doors. He hesitated a second, then flung them
open and entered. I followed. It was an old fashioned, brick floored
kitchen. In one corner stood a battered, rust covered coal range. The
chimney was disconnected, and part of it lay on the floor before the open
oven. Piles of old rags and broken bits of twigs and newspaper filled a
box near it. Alan thrust the spotlight into my hand and pounced upon the
debray. In a little while he had a fire burning in the old stove,
and the kitchen was filled with sooty smoke and blessed warm. I stripped
off my soggy motor coat and flung it across the box to dry out.
Alan removed his coat and did likewise. Now, if I just had a
cup of coffee in a sandwich, I wouldn't be at all unhappy, I
said, forget it. He laughed, nothin doin. It's a lucky thing
for us. This old barn is well built. If it wasn't, I
could see visions of that wind lifting it off its pins and tossing it down
into the cavern. I shuddered, Let's not think about it. The car
may not even be there in the morning. To kill time and to get
our minds off the storm outside, I suggested that we rummage around a bit
and see what the place was like upstairs. As we stepped into the long
open hallway, a gust of wind whipped through the swinging door and carried with
it a perfect torrent of rain that made little puddles at our feet. Fearfully,
I followed Alan up the long, broad flight of stairs, feeling that
uncanny something that is so often present in an old, unused house. I
half expected some specter of the past reach out and lay clammy unearthly hands upon
me, or a shadowy something to greet us on the landing, where we
paused and looked about there were six doors leading off of the corridor, all
exactly alike, with the exception of one. They were slightly ajar. The
sixth appeared to be locked. Curiosity prompted me to go toward it. First,
the knob turned in my hand, but the door stayed close. Bluebeard's
den laughed, Alan, take care that you are on another ann It's locked,
obviously, I wonder why, possibly for the same reason that all the
others aren't. The owner when he left the place didn't take the trouble to
unlock it. I twisted and turned the knob, trying to force an entrance,
but the lock held in spite of its age and rustiness. Alan laughed
at my efforts. Then he pushed open the door to his right, which
was slightly ajar. His exclamation of surprise called my attention from the bolted door.
What is it? I gasped by George, Now look here two.
I followed him into the room. My surprise equaled his own at what I
saw. In direct contrast to the barrenness of the rooms below, this one
was beautifully furnished, with rich draperies covering the crumbling walls and rugs upon the
floor. The furniture was evidently new, and, though a trifle gaudy,
not without taste. A table in the center of the room, covered with
a damask cloth, china and silver, was spread as though for a meal.
There was a half emptied bottle of wine and two glasses, one glass
still contained the liquor. Even a loaf of bread and some cold cuts and
salad remained. An open lunch kit rested in a chair near the table.
I looked at Alan in amazement. He gave me a glance of equal astonishment.
I don't quite understand it, he murmured. Do you suppose it is
possible that someone lives here? I shook my head, with the whole lower
floor going to rack and ruin and overrun with rats. No, it isn't
possible. Now this bread is soft. He lifted the loaf and thrust his
finger into the crust. Then he glanced half apprehensively over his shoulder at some
velvet draperies which covered the double doors. I don't know why, but I
shivered, judging from their juxtaposition. Those doors led into the room, which
was bolted from the hallway. Alan lowered his voice as he spoke, someone
is either in this house, or has been here but a short time ago.
He said, this food is fresh. For some reason, it's not
been eaten. I gave a little cry, half of protest, half of
fear, as he parted the draperies and drew back the heavy paneled doors behind
them. Then I cried out in horror. Lying across the canopied bed was
a man in evening clothes. It needed no second glance, even in the
small light. Allan's spot afforded to show us that he was dead, that
either suicide or murder had caused his death. For on the white bosom of
his shirt was a hideous red spot, and the blue satin and lace of
the bedspread was stained with blood. My god, Alan whispered hoarsely, as
if dick accentuate the gruesomeness of the picture and its surroundings. A streak of
lightning flashed directly upon that supine figure on the bed. The burst of thunder
which followed seemed to rend the sky into the wind, careening madly around the
house rocked and banged the shutters of the one window. Let's try to go
on. I sobbed. This is awful. I can't stand it here like
this it looks like murder, he muttered. Seemingly compelled against his will,
he advanced towards the bed. I watched him in fascination as he let his
light play upon the features of the man lying there. Then, more fearful
of the shadows behind me and the blackness of the room we had left,
than of dead, I crept close to him. Almost of one accord,
we exclaimed Judge McPherson, a tall, lean man with reddish gray hair,
a trifle long, a sandy beard, and no mustache, keen, cruel
eyes with crisscross wrinkles about them. McPherson in life was a man not easily
forgotten, if once known, and not to be mistaken for anyone else,
even in death. The man stretched out before us was unquestionably Judge Macpherson.
Then, too, I recognized an unusual sapphire and diamond ring on his finger,
which I had admired at a dinner party not a month before. It
is murder, Alan said, he hasn't been robbed either. I wonder if
there's a telephone here, why to call up the police? Of course there
isn't any I'm sure of it. I was right, though the two rooms
we had just entered, were furnished and appeared to have been recently occupied.
All the others were in the same state of decay as the lower floor.
There was no telephone in any of them. After a while, Alan closed
the double doors and drew the velvet hangings. Then, silently, dazed and
horror stricken, we retraced our steps to the kitchen. The fire we had
built at least had life and a certain cheerfulness, and the horror of the
thing we had discovered made it impossible for us to stay in the furnished rooms
upstairs. We can't go on tonight, he said. With daylight we may
find a dear but we can't risk it. In the dark, we don't
know how close the road is to the edge of the ravine. I could
not banish the picture of the dead man lying upstairs, weltering in his own
blood, amidst all the garish luxury of velvets and satin, with the uneaten
meal spread so near to him. Such a short time ago he had sat
at the same table with us, a genial host, though a bit sardonic
in his humor. Knowing him to have been a hard, cruel administrator of
justice, I never doubted for an instant that he had been murdered. Alan,
I whispered, half fearful of being overheard by ears forever deafened. Who
do you suppose killed him? He shook his head. Any one of a
hundred people might desire his death. Revenge is unquestionably the motive behind it.
As he spoke, his eyes widened, and I noted a quick intake of
his breath. Then I saw what had caused this. My motor coat,
which I had left to dry, was gone, though his still remained where
he had placed it. Someone's in this house, I cried hoarsely. Yes,
the purse w who killed mac Pherson is still here. What are you
going to do? I wailed, as he turned abruptly and started to leave
the kitchen search for him. He answered grimly, but you're unarmed. A
man desperate enough to commit murder wouldn't hesitate to kill you. Then a peculiar
sound came to us above the roaring of the wind and the drip of the
rain. Unquestionably it was the buzz of a motor We ran to the window,
and, regardless of the drenching we received, the instant it was opened,
we peered out into the darkness. At first we saw nothing. Then
darker against the dark sky, we distinguished the outline of another building, not
so large as the house we were in, but beyond doubt a big barn.
Our man is in there, said Allan. He was in the house
when we arrived, and beat it to the barn while we were upstairs.
He is a car out there. That's the engine we heard. Don't go
out, Alan, don't go out there. But my protests were in vain.
A door opened from the kitchen to a summer porch and a path which
led to the barn. Almost before the words were out of my mouth,
he darted through this stoor and out into the storm. There was nothing for
me to do but follow. I felt I would rather face a live murderer
than stay alone in that great house with his dead victim. Before we reached
the barn, a car, which by its long, low outlines was just
distinguishable in the darkness, swung out into the road before us. Its lamps
were unlighted, and we could not see its occupant. Alan called out commandingly,
with a bravery which was foolhardy to an extreme stop, Stop where you
are. The car came towards us. The engine sputtered. The machine swerved
a little, as though driven by a drunken person or someone unused to handling
a wheel. Alan gave his command again, then deliberately stepped into the pathway.
The car came to an abrupt stop. You can't go on tonight,
Alan said, the road is blocked, and whoever you are, you'd be
a fool to attempt it in this storm. The person at the wheel did
not reply, but instead swung the car around and returned to the barn.
Followed. As we reached a doorway, a sudden gleam of light illuminated the
passage. It came from a kerosene lantern held by a figure in a motor
coat, which I recognized as my own, a small, unquestionably feminine figure.
I'll go back to the house with you, she said, After all,
what difference does it make? The woman who stood there, holding the
lantern above her head was the most tragically beautiful creature I had ever seen.
She did not appear to be very young, possibly she was in her later
thirties, but her small, almost childish stature gave her the appearance of extreme
youth. Great dark eyes, burnt in a small, ashen, pale face,
whose pallor was accentuated by her vivid scarlet mouth. Masses of blue black
hair tumbled about her shoulders and onto the leather collar of my coat. Evidently
the coat had been hastily donned, for it wasn't fastened and exposed to view
the shimmery satin of an evening gown she wore. In a brief glance,
I noted her sodden silver shoes and the mud stained ham of her gown.
This the overlace which bordered it was mud stained and spattered with blood. A
ponge cloak which she had evidently used to motor en lay a drenched and soggy
mass on the seat of the roadster. For a strained moment, we stared
at each other, the fragile, infinitely pathetic woman facing Alan and myself.
Then she swayed, as if about to fall. I started toward her,
but she straightened up bravely and gave a little laugh. It isn't very pleasant
out here, she said, in a musical voice. The house is a
trifle better. Silently, we trudged back through the overgrown grass and weeds,
our feet sinking deep into the spongy ground. Alan relieved her of the lantern
and lighted us into the house. I I'll return your coat to you,
she said, in a half apologetic tone, going towards the stove, which
still glowed red and cheerful from the fire Alan had built. I shan't need
it now. I really didn't mean to steal it. I hoped to return
it somehow, someway. I was desperate as we were silent. She choked,
and then, with an air of bravado, continued, I'm sorry I
cannot offer you any better hospitality. But a wave of a very thin white
hand expressed more than words could have done offer us any better hospitality, Alan
repeated dumbly after her. Yes, this is my home, but it isn't
the same as it was when I lived here. I don't quite understand,
I stammered three. A thin white line settled about Alan's rigid mouth. I
knew he was wondering what connection the beautiful, pallid woman had with the dead
man lying upstairs, if she had herself killed him, or if she even
knew of his existence. She seemed to sense what I did, for the
half born smile on her lips faded. The dark eyes became darker, if
possible, as they widened. Her hands fluttered upward, then dropped helplessly to
the side of her orchid colored gown. Yes, she said, dully,
as if in reply to a question, I killed him. I was in
the closet up stairs when you went into the other room. While you were
in there, I stole out through the door I had locked on the inside,
and down the stairs. I took your cloak and I ran out to
the stable. I was going to drive away when you called me back.
Perhaps it is just as well you did. It doesn't matter much one way
or another. You killed Judge mac Pherson. I gasped, Why you knew
him very well? An enigmatical smile played about her lips, full and softly
rounded like a child's. That smile held a world of wisdom and tragedy.
In a moment's flicker. It made her face strangely old and careworn. In
the light of the oil lamp, I suddenly seemed to be looking at the
remnants of a once beautiful woman, at a battered and bruised soul, not
at the woman herself. I wondered just how well you knew him? She
said, as though to herself, not as well as I did. At
any rate, he was your lover, Alan asked. We lowered our voices
as if taking our key from her. Curiously, I felt more of an
interest in the woman herself than the fact that she had killed Judge McPherson.
She shook her head in replied to Alan's question, and her lips curled scornfully.
After a little she said, would you like to have me tell you
all about it? Somehow I feel as if I should be relieved if I
did so. I'm really very unnerved and shaken. After all, it's a
terrible thing to take a human life, to watch a soul leave a man's
body, even though you know that man to be a reptile and deserving of
more than one death. I shan't speak when I'm arrested. They can do
as they like with me, but I'll not have the newspapers and their ravenous
readers gloating over my miserable downfall. You do not know who I am,
nor do I know you. We shall never meet again, and something tells
me that when morning comes, you will allow me to go my way and
you will go another. So I should like you to know the truth.
She was strangely calm, only the pallid whiteness of her face and a glitter
to her dark eyes any of the tumults seething within her. Alan and I
both hung upon her words. Somehow it seemed unnecessary for us to talk.
She shivered without a word. Alan pulled the box on which he had flung
his coat nearer the fire, and half assisted her to sit upon it.
Shall I go upstairs and fetch you a chair? He said, no,
no, oh no. For one instant she lost control of herself. The
next moment she was as calm and restrained as a society matron serving tea.
Alan and I seated ourselves on the floor at her feet. The thunder and
lightning had ceased, and but for the steady, dripped drip of the rain,
the night was placid and quiet. For a long time, it seemed
to my overwrought nerves. The woman sat there with her hands clasped loosely in
her lap, her great eyes staring at a red glowing spot on the old
stove. Once or twice she glanced apprehensively over her shoulder, as though she
expected the man she had slain to appear in the doorway behind her. I
was born here, reared here, and married in this house, she said,
At last, my little boy was born here. It was a beautiful
old house then, seeing it now, you can scarcely realize what it was
in those days when I was a girl. It used to be full of
young people, laughing, dancing and enjoying life. We had husking bees in
the barn, Halloween parties, dances in the winter, sleigh rides and Christmas
trees. Many's the time I've coasted down that long hill and landed in a
heap at the bottom. Then I married a man I adored. He worshiped
me, He placed me on a pedestal as something just a little more than
mortal. He was an intensely religious man, perhaps a trifle austere. But
because I loved society, young company, we continued to fill the home with
guests. There was never a shadowy corner in the house like there is now.
The lights were always bright, There were always laughing voices to be heard
in music. She spoke very slowly and in almost pedantic fashion, as though
choosing her words and a bit uncertain of them. It was as though she
were speaking a tongue not quite familiar to her. When my little boy was
born, both my husband and myself were overjoyed. Even the fact that he
was a fragile little fellow did not drown our happiness. For a year,
we battled to keep him alive. Then he began to grow sturdy and rosy,
like the other children who came with their parents to visit us. About
that time, my husband became very absorbed in this profession. He was compiling
a historical volume of intense interest to himself. Because I was lonesome, I
used to go into the city quite often to the theater, generally to matinees,
and come back at dinner time. Several times I went later in the
day and remained overnight. I did not realize then that he was jealous of
me, that he was suspicious, if only he had said something to me,
but he never did until too late. I was very innocent in those
days, principally because I did not wish to disturb him or impose upon my
friends. The few times I remained overnight in the city, I stayed in
a small hotel, walking to and from the theater alone. Imagine my horror
when one night, as I turned to the corner to go to the hotel,
which was in a side street. A man put his hand on my
shoulder, and before I could make any protest, informed me that I was
under arrest. Two dazed in bewildered to demand the reason for this outrage,
I did nothing but declare my innocence. I was dragged downtown to the police
court and put upon the stand before a grinning, gaping crowd of spectators.
I was asked obscene questions by that man lying upstairs, sneered at because of
my protestations of virtue, then thrown in a cell with two drunken prostitutes and
a half insane old woman. I was so ashamed, so horror stricken,
yet so certain of my release in the morning, that I did not telephone
my husband of what had happened. It never occurred to me that I would
be branded as a woman of this streets and sentenced to prison. But I
was. I was. Judge McPherson, a man of the world who should
be able to distinguish between women, laughed at me, and with one wave
of his smug hand, with one word, sentenced me to six months confinement
and a lifetime of hell. Never so long as I live, will I
forget his face. That same night, my baby was taken ill. My
husband tried to find me. His search discovered to him the fact that I
was in jail for soliciting on the street. Then the jealousy, the suspicions
he had felt for me, burst into flame, making him ready to believe
the worst of me. I never saw him but once after that. That
one time he denounced me as a woman unfit to live, as a thing
too vile to breathe the same air as my child. Then he told me
the boy was dead. Of course, he secured my release, but it
was too late. When I came out of prison, I went to Judgemcphearson
since home. I remember he was sitting at dinner. He was very annoyed
at having his meal disturbed by a pale, but draggled, slovenly looking woman.
He was at no pains to hide his annoyance. I told him what
he had done to me, an innocent woman, and I demanded that he
right this wrong. There was the same smiling sneer on his face as when
he sentenced me. Just how can I do this, my dear lady,
he said, Go to my husband. I cried wildly. I had not
learned to restrain myself. Then tell him that I am innocent, absolutely innocent.
My baby is gone, but there's still a chance for me. If
he will take me. You must explain it to him. You must make
him understand. He laughed, laughed at me. Oh stuff, my dear,
he sneered, old stuff. Why can't you women think of something original.
Of course you're all innocent. None of you will even admit to a
first offense. I'm sorry if your child is dead, that is, if
you had one. But I certainly won't help to hoodwink a man who evidently
is a person of principle. If you don't want to suffer, behave yourself.
That's all I have to say. Good evening. Then he showed me
the door. I think I went insane. I remember standing outside and pounding
on it, screaming maledictions on him, shrieking to him that he must clear
me, he must give me back my good name. Then someone seized me
and I was dragged away to the station house again. I left it with
a six month sentence for disorderly conduct. When I got out, this time,
dazed, broken, aged, I realized that nothing I could ever do
or say, would reinstate me. This second arrest, caused by the man
who had ruined me, had branded me forever and ever. I learned my
husband had divorced me, disposed of everything in our home, and sailed to
France. Those who had been my friends passed me on the street without recognition.
There was no one in the world I could turn to practically, without
means to be sure. I owned this house, but I did not have
the money to keep it in repair, and I could not live in it.
The memories it recalled were maddening. Then two, I felt everyone knew
my story and I could not face their scornful glances. Time and again I
was tempted to kill myself, but one thing always held me back, my
undying soul eating hatred for the man who had passed judgment on me. One
day I realized why this monstrous thing had happened to me. I was to
be the instrument with which to save innumerable women from a fate similar to mine.
It was to be my task to rid the world of the viper who
destroyed innocence and laughed at his handiwork. I almost became happy in contemplation of
what I would do. What did it matter to me that to accomplish his
destruction, I must accomplish my own the thing he had branded me, I
became In reality, I was beautiful. I learned I was desirable and I
could be fascinating. I studied all the arts and wiles of the oldest profession
in the world, and determined to sell myself to the highest bidder. My
education, my knowledge of society, my culture all stood me in good stead.
Understand, I always stayed within the law. I was never crude.
I took no chances of another arrest my new name though when I adopted.
When I became of the Demi Monde, I kept unsmirched, if you could
call it that. I became a leader in the set where mistresses laughed at
wives, and where lovers were more popular than husbands. I discovered, to
my intense delight that, although austere and apparently religious, Judge Macpherson's besetting sin
was women, that he used the timeworn excuse of an invalid wife to cover
his indiscretions. You don't know it, of course, as he kept the
scandal quiet. But it was I who brought about his divorce. It took
me three years to secure an introduction to him, but it took less than
three hours to hopelessly ensnare him. It was not strange that in the smiling,
elegantly blaise woman of the world, he did not recognize the half crazed,
bedraggled woman of the police courts. He was just at that most susceptible
age where he felt that youth was slipping from him, an old age waiting
to claim him had put a taboo on affairs of the heart. With a
desperate desire to remain young, he flung himself headlong into my hands, never
doubting that I was what I appeared, a divorcee whose misplaced affections had made
her a trifle bitter toward men, yet who was longing and looking for a
loving protector. I played my cards well. I used all the coyness of
the angenoux, with the blandishments of the courtesan to keep him on tenter hooks
before he became that protector. After that, it was easier. He did
not realize why I suggested weekend parties, gradually making this house their setting.
I had from the first determined that as this was the home he had destroyed,
so here he should be destroyed. It was his money which furnished those
rooms upstairs. Rather grim humor, isn't it. Can you conceive of the
loathing I felt at that man's touch, How I cringed as he embraced me,
How I laughed and anticipated the climax of it all. He called me
a charming child with quaint ideas when he first saw this place abandoned and decayed.
The unusualness of our rendezvous appealed to him as unique. Early I learned
unwholesome things intrigued him. Tonight was our third visit. We arrived just before
the storm broke. As usual, we brought a lunch kit with our dinner
in it. That meal was never eaten. I drugged the wine just enough
to befog his brain and make him like wax in my hands. Then,
as he sat there, stupid, dazed and inert, I told him who
I was and why he was here. And I laughed, laughed at him
as he had laughed at me when he had me taken away kicking and screaming
by the police. You would have laughed too, had you seen his face
when I showed him the revolver and told him I was going to kill him.
He cringed like a sick animal, whimpering and begging for mercy, the
kind of mercy he hadn't shown me. Still, I laughed. He staggered
drunkenly to his feet and came toward me. I don't think he felt certain
that I meant what I said. I whirled on him and backed him into
the bedroom. Then, when he made a lurch toward me trying to secure
the pistol and stumbled against the bed, I fired and he fell across it
dead. Where's the pistol, Alan asked dryly. The woman's eyes narrowed.
I flung it under the bed. His blood smeared my gown. See.
After a little, I went out to drive the car to town, but
it was raining so hard I became drenched before I reached the barn. I
came back to the house. Then I heard you come in at the front
door. I was frightened. I'd fancied myself absolutely alone out here. I
locked the bedroom door when I heard you climb the stairs, you know the
rest. We were silent for a few moments. Then Alan said abruptly,
I'd like to take a look at him again. The woman rose slowly,
and we all filed up the stairs again. At the bedroom door, she
laid a feverish hand on mine, and I felt a shudder go through her.
But when we stood staring at the cold, dark figure before us,
her face was unexpressive, emotionless. Half entangled in the lace of the bedspread,
where it had fallen or been thrown. As mc pherson stumbled against the
bed was the revolver. The light from the lantern, though not brilliant,
illuminated more space than Allan's spot had done, Hence it had been hidden from
our view before. Allan looked steadily at her a moment I could not read
what was passing through his thoughts. Then he motioned for us to follow him
downstairs. The steady drip drip of the rain made me drowsy. We huddled
in silence on the floor before the stove, the woman staring off in space.
Presently I dozed, leaning against Alan's shoulder. When I awakened, it
was breaking day and she was gone, Alan, I cried, shaking him
a little to waken him. She's gone. Yes, I know I saw
her when she left. But who are we to judge, he asked slowly.
Four two days later, picking up a New York newspaper, I read
the headlines Judson McPherson, well known justice of the Criminal Court, commits suicide
in an abandoned house in the Catskill Mountains. Then followed a half column account
of the act in detail. McPherson, having gotten into financial difficulties, had
chosen the coward's way out, so said the paper. A letter announced his
intention of dying and gave the location where to find his body. The paper
also stated that the knowledge he had recently married a young and beautiful actress came
as a distinct surprise to his friends. A picture of his bride accompanied the
article. The wistful, almost tragic face pictured was unquestionably that of the woman
who said that she had killed him. I stared at allan as I handed
him the newspaper. Was she lying, I gasped. He shook his head.
If so, she was a clever actress, he answered, But one
thing is certain, will never know the truth either way. He brought about
his own death and of the abandoned house by Beulah Pointer