Detective and mystery stories; Inheritance and succession -- Fiction
think it right for me to clear the slate, Ransom. Who knows what we may
wish to write upon it next?"
A slight shiver on Ransom's part was the sole answer he gave to this
innuendo; then both settled themselves to work, the eyes of either
flashing hither and thither from one small object to another, in this
seemingly deserted room. In the momentary silence which followed, the
even breathing of the woman in the adjoining room could be distinctly
heard. It seemed to affect Mr. Ransom deeply, though he strove hard to
maintain the business-like attitude he had assumed from the beginning
of this unofficial examination.
"She has confided nothing more to you since your return from the river
bank?" suggested the lawyer.
"No."
The word came sharply, considering Mr. Ransom's usual manner. The lawyer
showed surprise but no resentment, and turned his attention to the bag
both had noted lying open on two chairs.
"Nothing equivocal here," he declared, after a moment's careful scrutiny
of its remaining contents. "The only comment I should make in regard to
what I find here is that all the articles are less carefully chosen than
you would expect from one of your wife's fondness for fine appointments."
"They were collected in a hurry and possibly by telephone," returned the
unhappy husband, after a shrinking glance into the bag. "The ones she
provided in anticipation of her wedding are at the hotel in New York. In
the trunks and bags there you will find articles as elegant as you could
wish." Here he turned to the dresser, and pointed to the various objects
grouped upon it.
"These show that she arranged herself with care for her meeting with you
last night. How did she appear at that interview? Natural?"
"Hardly; she was much too excited. But I had no suspicion of what she
was cherishing in her mind. I thought her intentions whimsical, and
endeavored to edge in a little advice, but she was in no mood to receive
it. Her mind was too full of what she intended to do.
"Here's where she ate her supper," he added, picking up a morsel of crust
from a table set against the wall. "And so this door was found fastened
on this side?" he proceeded, laying his hand on the broken lock.
"It had to be burst open, you see."
"And the window?"
"Was up. The carpet, as you can tell by look and feeling, is still wet
with the soaking it got."
Mr. Harper's air changed to one of reluctant conviction.
"The evidence seems conclusive of your wife having left this room and the
house in the remarkable manner stated by Miss Hazen. Yet--"
This _yet_ showed that he was not as thoroughly convinced as the first
phrase would show. But he added nothing to it; only stood listening,
apparently to the even breathing of the sleeper on the other side of this
loosely hanging door.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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