I shall really have to put down at length the incidents of this night. I always knew that Joe Smithers was invaluable not only to myself but to the police, but I really did not know he possessed talents of so high an order. He wrote me this morning that he had succeeded in getting Mr. T—‘s promise to spend the evening with him, and advised me that if I desired to be present as well, his own servant would not be at home, and that an opener of bottles would be required.
As I was very anxious to see Mr. T– with my own eyes, I accepted this invitation to play the spy, and went at the proper hour to Mr. Smithers’s rooms. I found them picturesque in the extreme. Piles of books stacked here and there to the ceiling made nooks and corners which could be quite shut off by a couple of old pictures set into movable frames capable of swinging out or in at the whim or convenience of the owner.
As I had use for the dark shadows cast by these pictures, I pulled them both out, and made such other arrangements as appeared likely to facilitate the purpose I had in view; then I sat down and waited for the two gentlemen who were expected to come in together.
They arrived almost immediately, whereupon I rose and played my part with all necessary discretion. While ridding Mr. T– of his overcoat, I stole a look at his face. It is not a handsome one, but it boasts of a gay, devil-may-care expression which doubtless makes it dangerous to many women, while his manners are especially attractive, and his voice the richest and most persuasive that I ever heard. I contrasted him, almost against my will, with Dr. Zabriskie, and decided that with most women the former’s undoubted fascinations of speech and bearing would outweigh the latter’s great beauty and mental endowments; but I doubted if they would with her.
The conversation which immediately began was brilliant but desultory, for Mr. Smithers, with an airy lightness for which he is remarkable, introduced topic after topic, perhaps for the purpose of showing off Mr. T-’s versatility, and perhaps for the deeper and more sinister purpose of shaking the kaleidoscope of talk so thoroughly, that the real topic which we were met to discuss should not make an undue impression on the mind of his guest.
Meanwhile one, two, three bottles passed, and I had the pleasure of seeing Joe Smithers’s eye grow calmer and that of Mr. T– more brilliant and more uncertain. As the last bottle was being passed, Joe cast me a meaning glance, and the real business of the evening began.
I shall not attempt to relate the half dozen failures which Joe made in endeavouring to elicit the facts we were in search of, without arousing the suspicion of his visitor. I am only going to relate the successful attempt. They had been talking now for some hours, and I, who had long before been waved aside from their immediate presence, was hiding my curiosity and growing excitement behind one of the pictures, when I suddenly heard Joe say:
“He has the most remarkable memory I ever met. He can tell to a day when any notable event occurred.”
“Pshaw!” answered his companion, who, by the way, was known to pride himself upon his own memory for dates, “I can state where I went and what I did on every day in the year. That may not embrace what you call ‘notable events,’ but the memory required is all the more remarkable, is it not?”
“Pooh!” was his friend’s provoking reply, “you are bluffing, Ben; I will never believe that.”
Mr. T-, who had passed by this time into that stage of intoxication which makes persistence in an assertion a duty as well as a pleasure, threw back his head, and as the wreaths of smoke rose in airy spirals from his lips, reiterated his statement, and offered to submit to any test of his vaunted powers which the other might dictate.
“You keep a diary—” began Joe.
“Which at the present moment is at home,” completed the other.
“Will you allow me to refer to it tomorrow, if I am suspicious of the accuracy of your recollections?”
“Undoubtedly,” returned the other.
“Very well, then, I will wager you a cool fifty that you cannot tell where you were between the hours of ten and eleven on a certain night which I will name.”
“Done!” cried the other, bringing out his pocket-book and laying it on the table before him.
Joe followed his example and then summoned me.
“Write a date down here,” he commanded, pushing a piece of paper towards me, with a look keen as the flash of a blade. “Any date, man,” he added, as I appeared to hesitate in the embarrassment I thought natural under the circumstances. “Put down day, month, and year, only don’t go too far back; not farther than two years.”
Smiling with the air of a flunkey admitted to the sports of his superiors, I wrote a line and laid it before Mr. Smithers, who at once pushed it with a careless gesture towards his companion. You can of course guess the date I made use of: July 17, 19—. Mr. T—, who had evidently looked upon this matter as mere play, flushed scarlet as he read these words, and for one instant looked as if he had rather fly the house than answer Joe Smithers’s nonchalant glance of inquiry.
“I have given my word and will keep it,” he said at last, but with a look in my direction that sent me reluctantly back to my retreat. “I don’t suppose you want names,” he went on; “that is, if anything I have to tell is of a delicate nature?”
“Oh, no,” answered the other, “only facts and places.”
“I don’t think places are necessary either,” he returned. “I will tell you what I did and that must serve you. I did not promise to give number and street.”
“Well, well,” Joe exclaimed; “earn your fifty, that is all. Show that you remember where you were on the night of”—and with an admirable show of indifference he pretended to consult the paper between them—“the seventeenth of July, two years ago, and I shall be satisfied.”
“I was at the club for one thing,” said Mr. T-; “then I went to see a lady friend, where I stayed until eleven. She wore a blue muslin—What is that?”
I had betrayed myself by a quick movement which sent a glass tumbler crashing to the floor. Zulma Zabriskie had worn a blue muslin on that same night. You will find it noted in the report given me by the policeman who saw her on their balcony.
“That noise?” It was Joe who was speaking. “You don’t know Reuben as well as I do or you wouldn’t ask. It is his practice, I am sorry to say, to accentuate his pleasure in draining my bottles by dropping a glass at every third one.”
Mr. T– went on.
“She was a married woman and I thought she loved me; but—and this is the greatest proof I can offer you that I am giving you a true account of that night—she had not the slightest idea of the extent of my passion, and only consented to see me at all because she thought, poor thing, that a word from her would set me straight, and rid her of attentions she evidently failed to appreciate. A sorry figure for a fellow like me to cut; but you caught me on the most detestable date in my calendar and—”
There he ceased being interesting and I anxious. The secret of a crime for which there seemed to be no reasonable explanation is no longer a mystery to me. I have but to warn Miss Strange—
He had got thus far when a sound in the room behind him led him to look up. A lady had entered; a lady heavily veiled and trembling with what appeared to be an intense excitement.
He thought he knew the figure, but the person, whoever it was, stood so still and remained so silent, he hesitated to address her; which seeing, she pushed up her veil and all doubt vanished.
It was Violet herself. In disregard of her usual practice she had come alone to the office. This meant urgency of some kind. Had she too sounded this mystery? No, or her aspect would not have worn this look of triumph. What had happened then? He made an instant endeavour to find out.