THE? DETECTIVE AND THE POISONER.

Auckland Star, Volume XXIX, Issue 172, 23 July 1898, Page 6

THE? DETECTIVE AND THE POISONER.

BY ST. GEORGE RATHBOKNE.

fes&or of "Doctor Jack," "Captain

Tom," etc.

: ; CHAPTEE XIV. 'THAT FATAL NAME.' Joe leaves me ag^ain. He is anxious about his wife, and I caution him about fastening the hall door leading- to Edith's room, which he promises will be done without delay. We do not want any curious servant meddling- around. On second thought, I have decided to keep the outer door-key myself, as I will be around all the while in case the undertaker comes, and either the old detective or myself may wish to enter the room again for some purpose. I do not know where Jacks as, ana have a dim idea he has g-one to-the town, probably with the intention of finding1 out where Jacques put up, and what his movements were. As I walk up and down the avenue I hear the sound of a hammer in the house, and know it is Joe securing the door. One thing- seems plain to me. After this sad event becomes a thing- of the past, 'Joe must influence his wife to tell him' her secret—what is Jacques to her and in what way does the Frenchman hold a power over her head? 1 hope and trust the explanation will be one that may not forever ruin Joe's happiness, although I confess I do not see why Muriel should thus fear the man unless there is something- in her past that puts her in his power. 1 must study her more. She is evidently a woman with a peculiarly nervous temperament, and I can imagine her to be held enthralled by some superior mmd —enslaved as it ,were. I believe the mystery, when cleared up, will show some such condition of affairs. Just at present my mind is almost wholly occupied with the solution of the terrible tragedy which has thrown its dark shadow over fair Bryn Mawr. The coroner, being- a country doctor, did not look into matters as closely as a. more experienced city official might have done. He seemed to leave a gteat deal for Mr. Jacks to discover. When the inquest is held, he promises to draw out all there is in the case. That is no reason he has postponed the matter, hoping and believing that facts bearing on the truth may have been brought out by Doctor Beard's analysis, and the working of the old detective, so that a true statement can be decided upon by the jury. Suddenly, while thus walking up and down, I remember something-. The thought presses so heavily on my mmd that I am compelled to once more^.seek the house and enter the chamber of death. All is silent indeed in there. Joe has "temporarily secured the hall door in some way, sp_ that the only means of ing-ress is throug-h the outer door, to which I hold the key. The thought that has occurred to me is to secure the glass containing the seltzer-water. It was about a third full, I noticed. Some one has been before me, for I now find the g-lass/ empty. Probably the coroner or, Doctor Beard placed the seltzer, with all its sparkling qualities g-one, into a flask, also for analysis. I did not see them do this, but then I was in and out of the room a number of times, and it could have bee.n done, 1 am certain, while I was away. Endeavouring to make positive I cannot remember having- noticed the water in the glass at the time they took their departure. Of course they must haye carried, it away—who else would touch it? I leave the room and ag-ain make for the elm avenue, which has become quite a favourite spot with me. At the terminus I can look out upon the ocean, watch the, manoeuvres of the various boats in the little bay, and even, see the curling- breakers roll up on the strand beyond the point. Morning is well spent, and such a time it has been. Will Bryn Mawr ever look as beautiful aguin after this dark tragedy? It seems to me that a shadow rests upon the place, just as an ugly blot disfignires a clean page of paper. It can be scratched off, but the scar remains. So the death of Edith Morrison, cut down so suddenly in her glorious young womanhood, will become a thing of the past, but I for one must always be inclined to associate.it with my recollections of Bryn Mawr. That is our habit through life. If there is a name you especially, dislike, trace it back and you will find in the dim past some one bearing it with whom you were at loggerheads. It is the association that causes your dislike. Idly I sit there and watch the bay. The fishermen who went out to utilize the slack tide are coming in from the banks now. Some of them at least have been successful, for I can see a pile of silvery weak-fish in their boats, mingled with more homely sea bass, black-fish and perhaps the piratical blue-fish. I think of strolling over to the landing to see them unload their catch, but somehow I do not appear to have energy enough for the attempt. At any rate something restrains me, and I keep my seat at the lookout. It is impossible for me to think of anything- save the perplexing mystery in which I have a part. I ponder over it and feel as though it must be solved before I can know peace again. What was the cause of Edith's death? Was she poisoned? This is the secret thought that has been gnawing at my heart —I am afraid it is true, and should it turn out to be the case, the next question we must solve will be the identity of the person who made use of the poison. Was is Jacques? If so how could he get it to her? Perhaps Edith took it with a purpose in view—her past connection with this man may have filled her soul with horror, so that in despair ghe concluded to commit suicide. Last, but not last, I think of Muriel. Could she have done this in her delirium? Chancing to look along the avenue just then I am surprised to See a female figure approaching-, and to recognise Joe's wife. Undoubtedly she is coming to seek me. I endeayour to collect jny thoughts and ar-

range my plan of faction, while apparently looking out upon the sea and smoking my Havana.

I do not want to tell her too much and if she questions, it must be my duty to put her off, even using" deception if necessary. The end will justify the means, I am sure.

When she has almost reached me, I turn and, pretending to discover her for the first time, jump to my feet;

' Muriel is deathly white, and her eyes are filled with a pained expression, bat to my relief I do not see any signs of insanity. My first wild thought has been that she may be under the effect of that terrible malady, and flying to the sea with the intention of doing herself injury—just as Joe feared on the night he followed the fig-ure h« believed to be his wife

'Ah! Mrs Westerly, I am glad to see you are better; but why do you come here? .Nothing is wrong with Joe, I hope?'

'Ho is not feeling- well. I left him lying down. As for myself there is nothing ailing me beyond the terrible shock my braiir has received. Edith was like a sister to me, doctor.'

She siuks down upon the bench. I understand there is no acting here — every fibre of her frame seems strained under the affliction. Once a dim suspicion had flashed into my head that perhaps Muriel might, in her madness, have been jealous of this friend, for Joe had seemed to regard Edith highly; but this idea no longer has a lodging- within.

'Did you come out for a walk, Muriel?' I ask.

I am easily old enough to be her father, and indeed my deep interest in Joe and his wife has always been of a fatherly nature, so that it comes quite natural for me to use her sweet name, Muriel, when thus endeavouring to console her.

'Doctor, I came to. see you. Peters told mo you had walked along- the avenue.'

'Do you want advice, my dear lady?' 'Indeed T do, for T am terribly in the dark,' she replies, earnestly. 'Do you desire professional advice?' 'No, no, doctor. I come to you as Joe's friend, to ask a few questions,' she exclaims.

On my guard, I reply: If it is right and proper that I should reply, believe me I will do all that lies in my power to ease your mind.' Muriel sighs heavily. 'Who were those men, doctor? I could hear their voices murmuring through the wall.' ♦The coroner and Doctor Board.'

'Is it necessary for the coroner to come here?'

'It is always required by law when a, death has occurred which is out of the common. Miss Morrison was not, so far as we know, suffering from any disease, and not under a doctor's care, So that Doctor Beard, although your family physician, could not give a certificate, which is necessary before burial. Hence, the coroner must be called in—to hear evidence and decide as to.the reason of death.'

'Oh, doctor-! can you give me no idea of the truth —what was the cause of Edith's death?'

I am somewhat taken back at this, but answer presently

.'I would that I could do so, my dear lady, but I am as much, in the dark as yourself. I do not even know enough of Miss Morrison's past to be able to say whether she had any trouble of the heart that, could have suddenly taken an aggravated turn.' 'To my knowledge she was in good health. J newer heard'her complain of heart disease,. ii" that is what you mean.'

'There is another supposition, Muriel Do you know whether your friend had some bitter experience in the past'— some love scrape, perhaps, that may have caused- her much pain?'

Her face lights up. 'Yes, I know that poor Edith mourned over something- in the past. It shadowed her life at times.'

'Did she ever take you into her confidence?' I pursue, intent on my subject.' 'No, doctor. Several times I begged her to share her secret with me, but she always put it off. We were dear friends, and I fully expected that some day she would tell me.' 'That will never be now, and when you learn her secret it must be from other lips.' 'Doctor, do you know it?' she asks quickly, her womanly intuition telling her the truth.

'I believe I do, Muriel.'

'Then tell me—l have a right to hear it —she always intended I should.'

I see no harm in doing so, since the truth must all come out at the coroner's inquest. .'Your friend was unfortunate enough, when younger than she is now, to enter into a foolish marriage with a handsome man. It was probably in her schooldays. Afterwards she heard that he was dead, but he suddenly turned up, here at Bryn Mawr and demanded money or else he would claim her for his wife.'

I watch 'her face while I speak—it expresses surprise but that is all. 'What! Edith in the toils too!' I hear her say, as if to herself.

'It is suspected that the poor young lady, being overwhelmed at the scrape she had found herself in, was led to take something with a view to ending her. life,' I contimie.

With this she hides her face in her hands, and rocks her body to and fro. Tears trickle between lier fingers— they are a blessed relief, for until now her eyes have seemed dry and feverish, as though-her poor brain Avas on fire. 'This thing, of course, must be investigated. Mr Jacks, the detective, means to find that man, and then we will know what manner of blight has been put upon her life by this Jacques. I.speak the name last with a purpose, and ,my plan succeeds. At the mention of it Muriel starts violently, her clasped hands are ..raised, and she murmurs:

'That fatal name—oh, are they all alike, I wonder?'

(To be Continued.)