The House Opposite: A Mystery. Elizabeth Kent

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      “IS Mrs. Atkins ready?” I inquired of the pretty maid. Before she had time to answer, I heard the frou-frou of silk skirts advancing rapidly towards me. The perfume I had already noticed grew still more overpowering, and the lady herself appeared. And an exceedingly pretty little woman she proved to to be, too, with golden hair and cheeks that rivalled the roses. Her large blue eyes were as innocent and, it would be hypercritical to add, as expressionless as her sisters’ of the toy-shop. A white muslin garment, slashed in every direction to admit of bands and frills of lace, enveloped her small person, and yards of blue ribbon floated around her. Her tiny, dimpled fingers were covered with glittering rings, which, however, scarcely outshone her small pink nails. She beamed coquettishly at me, showing some very pretty, sharp little teeth as she did so, and I found myself smiling back at her, completely forgetting the tragic errand I had come on.

      “Oh, Doctor,” she cried, in a high treble voice, “isn’t it dreadful! They tell me that a poor man has been killed in the building, and I am so terrified at having to look at him! Must I really do so?” She wrung her hands in graceful distress.

      “I’m afraid you must,” I replied, smiling down at her.

      “But you will go with me, won’t you?” she begged.

      “Certainly, dear Madam, and if your servants are also ready we had better get it over immediately.”

      As the lady crossed the threshold of her apartment she tucked her hand confidingly into my arm, as if the support of the nearest man were her indisputable right, and, followed by the two servants, we proceeded in this fashion down-stairs. Mr. Merritt met us on the landing, and, signing to the two girls to wait outside, ushered us into the room where the body lay.

      As Mrs. Atkins caught sight of the dead man a great shudder shook her whole body, and I felt the hand on my arm grow suddenly rigid. She neither screamed nor fainted, but stood strangely still, as if turned to stone, her eyes riveted on the corpse in a horrified stare.

      “Mrs. Atkins?” inquired the Coroner.

      She seemed incapable of answering him.

      “Mrs. Atkins,” he repeated, a little louder, “do you recognise the deceased?”

      This time she moved slightly and tried to moisten her grey lips. At last, with a visible effort, she slowly raised her eyes and glanced about her with fear.

      “No, no,” she murmured, in a hollow voice.

      “Mrs. Atkins, I must request you to look at the dead man again,” the detective said, fixing his eyes on her. “One of the elevator boys has identified the body as that of a gentleman who called on you on Tuesday evening.”

      She raised her arm as if to ward off a blow, and moved slightly away from me.

      “I don’t know the man,” she said.

      “You deny that he called on you on Tuesday evening?”

      “I do,” she answered, in a steady voice.

      I saw that she was rapidly recovering her self-control, and I made up my mind that I had misjudged the little woman. Under that soft, childish exterior must lie an indomitable will.

      “Do you deny that you received a man on that evening?” She glanced hastily at each of us before answering: “No.”

      “Oh, you did see a gentleman? Who was he?”

      She hesitated a moment: “An old friend.”

      “Will you kindly tell us his name?”

      “No! I won’t have him mixed up in this.”

      “Madam,” said the detective, “the deceased has been murdered, and—” A shriek interrupted him.

      “Murdered! Oh, no, no,” she gasped, her eyes wide with terror.

      “I regret to say that there is no doubt of it.”

      “But when,—how?” she demanded, in a trembling voice.

      “On Tuesday night.”

      She drew a deep breath. The horror faded slowly from her face, and she repeated with great composure, “Oh, Tuesday night,” with a slight emphasis on the Tuesday.

      The change in her was perfectly startling. She seemed calm,—almost indifferent.

      “Have you discovered how he was murdered?” she inquired.

      “Yes; he was stabbed through the heart by an instrument no larger than a knitting-needle.”

      “How strange,” she exclaimed; “do you know who committed the crime?”

      “Not yet,” said the Coroner; “and now, Mrs. Atkins, I ask you again if you are quite sure that you have never seen the deceased before?”

      “Yes,” she answered, firmly.

      “And you are willing to testify to this effect?”

      “Yes.”

      “You are aware that the elevator boy has positively identified the body as that of your visitor?”

      “I guess my word’s as good as a nigger’s,” she said, with a defiant toss of her head.

      “No doubt,” replied the Coroner, politely; “but if you would tell us the name and address of your friend we could look him up and be able to assure the police of his safety, and so save you the disagreeable necessity of appearing in court.”

      “In court,” she repeated, with a horrified expression. Evidently this possibility had not occurred to her, and she glanced hurriedly around as if contemplating immediate flight.

      “Mrs. Atkins,” said the detective, earnestly, “I do not think that you realise certain facts. A man has been murdered who has been identified, rightly or wrongly, with your visitor. Now, no one saw your friend leave the building, and it is our business to ascertain that he did so. Can you tell us what became of him?”

      A hunted expression came into her eyes, but she answered in a steady voice: “My friend left me at a little after eleven; he was going to take the midnight train to Boston.” She paused. “His name is Allan Brown—there, now!”

      “Thank you, madam, and what is Mr. Brown’s address in Boston?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “What was his address in New York?”

      “I’m sure I don’t know.”

      “Was he in any business?”

      “I don’t know,” she answered, sullenly, with a glance at the door.

      “Mrs. Atkins, you seem singularly ignorant about your friend,—your old friend.”

      “Well, I hadn’t seen him for some years. He’s a stranger in the city.”

      “Where is his home?”

      “I don’t know,” she answered, impatiently.

      “Are СКАЧАТЬ