Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: He brought the.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: What on earth are we going to do? I sobbed hysterically.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: Alan, what can we do?
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: On the hill, I cried wildly.
Speaker 1: You're right there is. It's either an empty one or
its occupants.
Speaker 2: Hit the hay early.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: We did not stop to.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: I followed.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: He laughed, nothin doin. It's a lucky thing for us.
This old barn is well built.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: What is it?
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: I sobbed. This is awful. I can't stand it.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: What are you going to do?
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: Followed.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: To steal it.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: It was a beautiful old house.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: I did not.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: But I was.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: If he will take me.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: Judgment on me.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: Still, I laughed.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: See.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: She's gone.
Speaker 1: 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