VI + 

Two Links in the Chain + 

We went up to Blankville that evening, arriving late. I confess that I felt a thrill as of cold steel, and peered over my shoulder as we walked up the hill from the depot; but my companion was guilty of no such weakness. He kept as sharp a lookout as the light of a setting moon would permit, but it was only with a view to making himself familiar with the premises. We passed the Argyll mansion on our way to my boarding-place; it was too late to call; the lights were extinguished, except the faint one always left burning in the hall, and in two or three of the chambers. A rush of emotion oppressed me, as I drew near it; I would fain have laid my head against the pillars of the gateway and wept⁠—tears such as a man may shed without reproach, when the woman he loves suffers. A growing anxiety possessed me to hear of Eleanor, no report of her mental or physical condition having reached me since that piercing shriek had announced the parting of her heartstrings when the strain of final separation came. I would have gone to the door a moment, to make inquiries, had I not inferred that a knock at that late hour must startle the family into nervous anticipations. The wan glimmer of the sinking moon struck under the branches of the silent trees, which stood about the dark mass of the stately mansion; not a breath stirred the crisp foliage. I heard a leaf, which loosened itself and rustled downward to the sod. + 

“It is a fine old place,” remarked my companion, pausing because my own steps had come to a standstill. + 

I could not answer; he drew my arm into his, and we went on. Mr. Burton was growing to me in the shape of a friend, instead of a detective-officer. + 

That night I gave up my room to him, taking a hall-bedroom adjoining. After breakfast we went forth into the village, making our first call at the office. Mr. Argyll was there, looking thin and careworn. He said that he was glad to have me back, for he felt unfit for business, and must let the mantle of labor drop upon my shoulders hereafter. + 

There had been an implied understanding, although it had never been definitely agreed upon, that I was to become a partner in the law with my teacher, when I had been admitted to practice. He had no one associated with him in his large and lucrative business, and he was now getting of an age to feel like retiring from at least the drudgery of the profession. That he designed to offer me the place open for some candidate, I had not doubted, for he had said as much many times. This prospect was an unusually fair one for so young a person as myself; it had urged me to patient study, to eager, ambitious effort. For I rightly deemed that a respect for my habits of mental application and a faith in my as yet undeveloped talents, had decided Mr. Argyll to offer me the contemplated encouragement. This had been another reason for James’ dislike of me. He could not look favorably upon one who had, as it were, supplanted him. Instead of seeing that the fault lay in himself, and applying the remedy, he pursued the false course of considering me as a rival and an interloper. He, also, was a student in the office, and that he was a year behind me in his studies, and that, if he ever became a partner, it would be as a third member of the firm, was owing solely to his habitual indolence, which gave him a distaste for the dry details of a lawyer’s work. What he would have liked would be to have his examination shirked over, to be admitted on the strength of his uncle’s reputation, and then to be employed only in making brilliant oratorical efforts before the judge, jury and audience, after someone else had performed all the hard labor of the case, and placed his weapons ready at his hand. + 

If Mr. Argyll really intended to take the son of his old friend into the firm, instead of his nephew, it was simply on the prudent principles of business. I was to pass my examination on the first of November; this remark, then, which he made, as I observed how weary and unwell he looked, was not a surprise to me⁠—it came only as a confirmation of my expectations. + 

At that moment James entered the office. There was a cloud on his brow, called up by his uncle’s words; he hardly took time to shake hands with me, before he said, + 

“How is it, uncle, if you are worried and overworked, that you do not tell me? I should have been glad to help you. But it seems I am of no possible account nowadays.” + 

Mr. Argyll smiled at this outbreak, as he would at the vexation of a child. A father could not be kinder to a son than he was to James; but to depend upon him for solid aid or comfort would be to lean upon a broken reed. The cloud upon the young man’s face grew thunderous when he perceived Mr. Burton; although, if I had not been looking straight in his eyes, I should not have noticed it, for it passed instantly, and he stepped forward with frank cordiality, extending his hand, and saying, + 

“We did not know you were to come up. Indeed, we did not expect Richard back so soon. Has anything transpired?” + 

“We hope that something will transpire, very soon,” answered the detective. “You are very anxious, I see⁠—and no wonder.” + 

“No⁠—no wonder! We are all of us perfectly absorbed⁠—and, as for me, my heart bleeds for my friends, Mr. Burton.” + 

“And your friends’ hearts bleed for you.” + 

Mr. Burton had a peculiar voice, searching, though not loud; I was talking with Mr. Argyll, and yet I heard this reply without listening for it; I did not comprehend it, and indeed, I let it in at one ear and out at the other, for I was asking about Eleanor. + 

“She is better than we hoped for,” said the father, wiping the mist from his eyes which gathered at the mention of her name, “but, alas, Richard, that is not saying much. My girl never will be herself again. My pretty Eleanor will never be my sunshine anymore. Not that her mind is shaken⁠—that remains only too acutely sensitive. But her heart is broken. I can see that⁠—broken, past mending. She has not left her bed since Henry was carried away; the doctor assures me there is nothing dangerous about her illness⁠—only the natural weakness of the system after intense suffering, the same as if she had endured great physical pain. He says she will rally presently.” + 

“If I could take her burden upon myself, I would ask no greater boon,” I said. + 

My voice must have been very full of the feeling within me, for it made Mr. Argyll give me a wondering look; I think it was the first time he had a suspicion of the hopeless passion I had cherished for his daughter. + 

“We must all bear our own troubles,” he said. “Poor Richard, I fear you have your own, like the rest of us.” + 

When I again noticed what was passing between the other two, James was telling Mr. Burton, with great animation, of some information which had been lodged with the authorities of the village. I became absorbed in it, of course. + 

A respectable citizen of a town some thirty or forty miles beyond, on the railroad, hearing of the murder, had taken the trouble to come down to Blankville and testify to some things which had fallen under his observation on the night of the murder. He stated that he was a passenger on the Saturday afternoon train from New York; that the seat in front of his own, in the car, was occupied by a young gentleman, who, by the description since given, he knew must be Henry Moreland; that, as there were but few people in that car, he had given the more attention to those near him; that he was particularly attracted by the prepossessing appearance of the young gentleman, with whom he exchanged a few remarks with regard to the storm, and who informed him that he was going no further than Blankville. + 

“After we had been riding a while,” said the witness⁠—I do not give James’ words in telling it, but his own, as I afterward read them in the sworn testimony⁠—“I noticed a person who sat on the opposite side of the car, facing us. His forehead was bent on his hand, and he was looking out from under his fingers, at the young man in front of me. It was his sinister expression which compelled me to notice him. His small, glittering, black eyes were fixed upon my neighbor with a look which made me shudder. I smiled at myself for my own sensation⁠—said to myself it was none of my business⁠—that I was nervous⁠—yet, in spite of my attempts to be unconcerned, I was continually compelled to look across at the individual of whose serpent-gaze the young gentleman himself appeared totally unconscious. If he had once met those eyes, I am certain he would have been on his guard⁠—for I assert, without other proof than what afterward transpired, that there was murder in them, and that that person was Henry Moreland’s murderer. I can not prove it⁠—but my conviction is unalterable. I only wish, now, that I had yielded to my impulse to shake my unknown neighbor, and say to him⁠—‘See! there is an enemy! beware of him!’ There was nothing but the man’s look to justify such a proceeding, and of course I curbed my feelings. + 

“The man was a common-looking person, dressed in dark clothes; he wore a low-crowned felt hat, slouched down on his forehead; I do not remember about his hair, but his eyes were black, his complexion sallow. I noticed a scar across the back of the hand which he held over his eyes, as if it had sometime been cut across with a knife; also that he had a large ring, with a red stone in it, on his little finger. + 

“When the cars stopped at Blankville, this person arose and followed Henry Moreland from the car. I saw him step off the platform behind him, which was the last I saw of either of them.” + 

It may be imagined with what a thrill of fearful interest we listened to this account, and the thousand conjectures to which it gave rise. + 

“It can not be difficult,” I exclaimed, “to find other witnesses to testify of this man.” + 

We were assured by James that every effort had been made to get some trace of him. No person answering to the description was a resident of the village, and no one could be heard of as having been seen in the vicinity. Not a solitary lounger about the depot, or the hotel close at hand, could recall that he had seen such a stranger leave the cars; no such person had stopped at the hotel; even the conductor of the train could not be certain of such a passenger, though he had a dim recollection of a rough fellow in the car with Mr. Moreland⁠—he had not observed where he left the train⁠—thought his ticket was for Albany. + 

“But we do not despair of some evidence, yet,” said Mr. Argyll. + 

“The New York police, not being able to do anything further here, have gone home,” continued James. “If such a villain lurks in New York, he will be found. That scar on the hand is a good point for identifying him⁠—don’t you think so, sir?” to Mr. Burton. + 

“Well⁠—yes! unless it was put on for the purpose. It may have been done in red ocher, and washed off afterward. If the fellow was a practiced hand, as the skill and precision of the blow would imply, he will be up to all such tricks. If he had a real scar, he would have worn gloves on such an errand.” + 

“You think so?” and James drew a long breath, probably of discouragement at this new statement of the case. + 

“I would like to go down to the depot, and along the docks for an hour,” continued Mr. Burton, “if there’s nothing else to be done immediately.” + 

James politely insisted upon accompanying us. + 

“What the deuce did you bring another of those detectives up here for?” he asked me, sotto voce, at the first opportunity. “We’ve had a surfeit of them⁠—they’re regular bores! and this Burroughs or Burton, or whatever his name is, is the most disagreeable of them all. A conceited fellow⁠—one of the kind I dislike, naturally.” + 

“You mistake his character. He is intelligent and a gentleman.” + 

“I wish you joy of his society,” was the sneering reply. + 

Nevertheless, James favored us with his company during our morning’s tour. One sole fact the detective ascertained in the course of his two hours’ work. A fisherman had lost a small-boat during the storm of Saturday night. He had left it, fastened to its accustomed moorings, and, in the morning, found that the chain, which was old and rusty, had parted one of its links, probably by the extreme violence with which the wind had dashed the boat about. Mr. Burton had asked to see the remnant of the chain. It was still attached to the post around which it had been locked. An examination of the broken link showed that it was partly rusted away; but there were also marks upon it, as if a knife or chisel might have been used. + 

“I see my boy, Billy, a-tinkerin’ with it,” said the fisherman. “Like as not he’s been a-usin’ of it to whittle on. That boy breaks more knives’n his neck’s wuth. He’s goin’ on nine, now, and he’s had six jackknives in as many months.” + 

Mr. Burton stood, holding the chain in his hand, and looking up and down the river. His face glowed with a light which shone through from some inward fire. I, who had begun to watch his varying expressions with keen interest, saw that he was again becoming excited; but not in the same way as on that first evening of our meeting, when he grew so leonine. + 

He looked at the water and the sky, the fair shores and the dull dock, as if these mute witnesses were telling to him a tale which he read like a printed book. A few moments he stood thus in silence, his countenance illuminated by that wonderful intelligence. Then, saying that his researches were through with in this part of the village, we returned, almost in silence, to the office; for when this man was pondering the enigmas whose solution he was so certain to announce, sooner or later, he grew absorbed and taciturn. + 

Mr. Argyll made us go home with him to dinner. I knew that I should not see Eleanor; yet, even to be under the same roof with her, made me tremble. Mary, who was constantly in attendance upon her sister, would not appear at the table. She came down, for a moment, to greet me, and to thank me for my poor efforts. The dear child had changed some, like the rest of us. She could not look like anything but the rosebud which she was⁠—a fresh and pure young creature of sixteen summers⁠—a rosebud drenched in dew⁠—a little pale, with a quiver in her smile, and bright tears beading her eyelashes, ready, at any moment, to drop. It was touching to see one naturally so joyous, subdued by the shadow which had fallen over the house. Neither of us could say much; our lips trembled when we spoke her name; so, after a moment’s holding my hand, while the tears began to flow fast, Mary unclasped my fingers, and went upstairs. I saw Mr. Burton hide those blue-gray eyes of his in his handkerchief; my respect for him deepened as I felt that those eyes, sharp and penetrating as they were, were not too cold to warm with a sudden mist at the vision he had beheld. + 

“Ah!” murmured I to myself, “if he could see Eleanor!” + 

When dinner was over, Mr. Argyll went up to see his children, giving me permission to show the house and grounds to the detective. James went on the portico to smoke a cigar. Mr. Burton sat a short time in the library, taking an impression of it on his mind, examined the lock of the desk, and noticed the arrangement of the one window, which was a large bay-window opening to the floor and projecting over the flower-garden which lay behind the house and bordered the lawn to the right. It was about three feet to the ground, and although quite accessible, as a mode of entrance, to anyone compelled to that resource, the window was not ordinarily used as a mode of ingress or egress. I had sometimes chased Mary, when she was not so old as now, and sent her flying through the open casement into the mignonette and violets beneath, and I after; but since we had both grown more sedate, such pranks were rare. + 

We then went out upon the lawn. I took my companion to the tree beneath which I had stood, when that dark figure had approached, and passed me, to crouch beneath the window from which the death-candles shone. From this spot, the bay-window was not visible, that being at the back of the house and this on the side. Mr. Burton looked carefully about him, walking all over the lawn, going up under the parlor windows, and thence pursuing his way into the garden and around to the bay-window. It was quite natural to search closely in this precinct for some mark or footsteps, some crushed flowers, or broken branches, or scratches upon the wall, left by the thief, if he or she had made his or her entrance at this spot. Going over the ground thus, inch by inch, I observed a bit of white lawn, soiled and weather-beaten, lying under a rosebush a few feet from the window. I picked it up. It was a woman’s handkerchief, of fine lawn, embroidered along the edge with a delicate running vine, and a spray of flowers at the corner. + 

“One of the young ladies has dropped it, some time ago,” I said, “or it has blown across from the kitchen grass-plot, where the linen is put out to dry.” + 

Then I examined the discolored article more closely, and, involved in the graceful twinings of the spray of flowers, I saw worked the initials⁠—“L. S.” + 

“Leesy Sullivan,” said my companion, taking it from my hand. + 

“It seems too dainty an article for her ownership,” I said, at last, for, at first, I had been quite stupefied. + 

“A woman’s vanity will compass many things beyond her means. This thing she has embroidered with her own needle⁠—you remember, she is a proficient in the art.” + 

“Yes, I remember. She may have lost it Sunday night, during that visit which I observed; and the wind has blown it over into this spot.” + 

“You forget that there has been no rain since that night. This handkerchief has been beaten into the grass and earth by a violent rain. A thorn upon this bush has pulled it from her pocket as she passed, and the rain has set its mark upon it, to be used as a testimony against her.” + 

“The evidence seems to conflict. She can not be a man and woman both.” + 

“Why not?” was the quiet reply. “There may be a principal and an accomplice. A woman is a safer accomplice for a man than one of his own sex⁠—and vice versa.” + 

The face which I had seen, in its despair, the face of Leesy Sullivan, rose in my memory, full of passion, marked in every soft yet impressive lineament with slumbering power⁠—“such a nature,” I thought, “can be maddened into crime, but it will not consort with villainy.” + 

Mr. Burton put the handkerchief in the inside pocket of his coat, and we returned into the house. He inquired the names of the servants, none of whose initials corresponded with those we had found, nor could I recall any lady visitors of the family to whom the handkerchief might belong by virtue of its inscription. There was not the shadow of a doubt but that it had been the property of the sewing-girl. Some errand, secret and unlawful, had brought her to these grounds, and under this window. We now considered it proper to show the handkerchief to Mr. Argyll, and relate to him our grounds of suspicion against the girl. Mary and James were admitted to the council. The former said that she remembered Miss Sullivan; that she had been employed in the family, for a few days at a time, on several different occasions, but none of them recent. “We liked her sewing very much, and wanted to engage her for the next six weeks,” she added, with a sigh, “but on inquiring for her, learned that she was now employed in New York.” + 

“She must, then, have been perfectly familiar with the arrangement of the house, and with the habits of the family; as for instance, at what hour you dined. She might enter while the family were at table, since, had she been surprised by the entrance of a servant, or other person, she could affect to have called on an errand, and to be waiting for the young ladies,” remarked Mr. Burton. + 

The servants were then summoned, one at a time, and questioned as to whether they had observed any suspicious persons whatever about the house or grounds within a week. They were, of course, in a national state of high excitement, and immediately upon a question being put to them, answered every other imaginary case in the world but that, blessed themselves, called on the Virgin Mary, gave an account of all the beggars as called at the kitchen last year and the year afore, cried abundantly, and gave no coherent information. + 

“Ah, sure!” said Norah, the cook, “there was the blackin’-and-bluin’ man come around last Wednesday, and I tuk a bottle of the blue for the clothes. It’s a poor mimiry I have, sure, since I came across the say. Afore that I could recollect beyond anything, and the praste used to praise my rading. I think it was the tossin’ an’ rollin’ ov the ship upsot my brain. It was Saturday, it wur, and oh, Lordy, it is setting me all of a trimble a-thinkin’ of that day, and I see a little yeller dog a-stickin’ his nose into the kitching door, which was open about half, and says I, there’s vagabonds around sure, now, I knew by the dog, and I wint and looked out, and sure as me name’s Norah, there was an old lame man wid a stick a-pretinding to look for rags an’ bones in the alley to the stable, which I niver allows such about, as it’s against the master’s orthers, and I druv him off immajetly⁠—and that, I think, was Saturday two weeks now, but I won’t be sure; and I don’t mind nobody else but the chany-woman, wid her basket, which I don’t think it could have been her as done any thin’ bad, for she’s been round rig’ler, for a good while, and is a dacent-spoken body that I’ve had some dalin’s wid myself. I sowld her my old plaid gown for the matchbox of ebony that sits on the kitching-mantel now, and oh dear! but my heart’s dead broke, sure! Margaret and I daren’t set in the kitching of nights no more, unless Jim’s there, an’ I’ve woke up scr’aming two nights now⁠—och hone! and if I’d seed anything, I’d a told it long afore, which I wish I had, seein’ you’ve axed me, sir. It don’t do no good a-cooking delicacies which nobody eats no longer⁠—I wish I had never come to Amyriky, to see poor Miss Eleanor so tuk down!” and having relieved herself of the sympathy which she had been aching to express, without the opportunity, she threw her apron over her head, and sobbed after the manner of her people. + 

Margaret’s testimony was no more to the point than Norah’s. Mr. Burton let each one go on after her own heart, putting up with the tedious circumlocution, in the hope of some kernel of wheat in the bushel of chaff. + 

After a deluge of tears and interjections, Maggie did finally come out with a statement which arrested the attention of her listeners. + 

“I’ve never seen none gawking about as didn’t belong here⁠—not a living sowl. The howly Virgin prevint that iver I should see what Jim did⁠—it wasn’t a human being at all, but a wraith, and he seen it that very night. He niver told us of it, till the Tuesday night, as we sot talking about the funeral, and it frightened us so, we niver slept a wink till morning. Poor Jim’s worried with it, too; he pretinds he isn’t afraid of the livin’ nor dead, but it’s no shame to the best to stand in awe of the sperits, and I see he’s backward about going about the place, alone, after dark, and no wonder! Sure, he saw a ghost!” + 

“What was it like?” + 

“Sure, you’d best call him, and let him describe it for hisself⁠—it’ll make your blood run cold to think of sich things in a Christian family.” + 

Jim was summoned. His story, weeded out, was this: On Saturday evening, after tea, his mistress, Miss Eleanor, had asked him to go to the post-office for the evening mail. It was very dark and rainy. He lighted the lantern. As he went out the back gate, he stopped a minute and lifted his lantern to take a look about the premises, to see if there was anything left out which ought to be taken in from the storm. As he waved the light about, he saw something in the flower-garden, about six feet from the bay-window. It had the appearance of a woman; its face was white, its hair hung down on its shoulders; it stood quite still in the rain, just as if the water was not coming down by bucketfuls. It had very large, bright eyes, which shone when the candle threw the light on them, as if they had been made of fire. He was so frightened that he let his lantern fall, which did not happen to extinguish the candle, but when he lifted it up again, the wraith had vanished. He felt very queer about it, at the time; and next day, when the bad news came, he knew it was a warning. They often had such in the old country. + 

We did not undeceive Jim as to the character of the phantom. With the assurance that it probably would not come again, since its mission had been accomplished, and a caution not to make the girls in the kitchen too nervous about it, we dismissed him. + 