“It ‘s Not what You Will Find”

I am not mad;— I would to heaven I were!

For then, ‘t is like I should forget myself:

O, if I could, what grief should I forget!—

Preach some philosophy to make me mad,

For being not mad, but sensible of grief,

My reasonable part produces reason

How I may be delivered of these woes.

King John.

“I regret to disturb you, Arthur; but my business is of great importance, and should be made known to you at once. This I say as a friend. I might have waited for the report to have reached you from hearsay, or through the evening papers; but I preferred to be the one to tell you. You can understand why.”

Sullen and unmollified, the young man thus addressed eyed, apprehensively, his father’s old friend, placed so unfortunately in his regard, and morosely exclaimed:

“Out with it! I’m a poor hand at guessing. What has happened now?”

“A discovery. A somewhat serious one I fear; at least, it will force the police to new action. Your sister may not have died entirely from strangulation; other causes may have been at work!”

“Now, what do you mean by that?” Arthur Cumberland was under his own roof and in presence of one who should have inspired his respect; but he made no effort to hide the fury which these words called up. “I should like to know what deviltry is in your minds now. Am I never to have peace?”

“Peace and tragedy do not often run together,” came in the mild tones of his would-be friend. “A great crime has taken place. All the members of this family are involved — to say nothing of the man who lies, now, under the odium of suspicion, in our common county jail. Peace can only come with the complete clearing up of this crime, and the punishment of the guilty. But the clearing up must antedate the punishment. Mr. Ranelagh’s assertion that he found Miss Cumberland dead when he approached her, may not be, as so many now believe, the reckless denial of a criminal, disturbed in his act. It may have had a basis in fact.”

“I don’t believe it. Nothing will make me believe it,” stormed the other, jumping up, and wildly pacing the drawing-room floor. “It is all a scheme for saving the most popular man in society. Society! That for society!” he shouted out, snapping his fingers. “He is president of the club; the pet of women; the admired of all the dolts and gawks who are taken with his style, his easy laughter, and his knack at getting at men’s hearts. He won’t laugh so easily when he’s up before a jury for murder; and he’ll never again fool women or bulldoze men, even if they are weak enough to acquit him of this crime. Enough of the smirch will stick to prevent that. If it doesn’t, I’ll —”

Again his hands went out in the horribly suggestive way they had done at his sister’s funeral. The coroner sat appalled,— confused, almost distracted between his doubts, his convictions, his sympathy for the man and his recoil from the passions he would be only too ready to pardon if he could feel quite sure of their real root and motive. Cumberland may have felt the other’s silence, or he may have realised the imprudence of his own fury; for he dropped his hands with an impatient sigh, and blurted out:

“But you haven’t told me your discovery. It seems to me it is a little late to make discoveries now.”

“This was brought about by the persistence of Sweetwater. He seems to have an instinct for things. He was leaning out of the window at the rear of the clubhouse — the window of that small room where your sister’s coat was found — and he saw, caught in the vines beneath, a —”

“Why don’t you speak out? I cannot tell what he found unless you name it.”

“A little bottle — an apothecary’s phial. It was labelled ‘Poison,’ and it came from this house.”

Arthur Cumberland reeled; then he caught himself up and stood, staring, with a very obvious intent of getting a grip on himself before he spoke.

The coroner waited, a slight flush deepening on his cheek.

“How do you know that phial came from this house?”

Dr. Perry looked up, astonished. He was prepared for the most frantic ebullitions of wrath, for violence even; or for dull, stupid, blank silence. But this calm, quiet questioning of fact took him by surprise. He dropped his anxious look, and replied:

“It has been seen on the shelves by more than one of your servants. Your sister kept it with her medicines, and the druggist with whom you deal remembers selling it some time ago to a member of your family.”

“Which member? I don’t believe this story; I don’t believe any of your —” He was fast verging on violence now.

“You will have to, Arthur. Facts are facts, and we cannot go against them. The person who bought it was yourself. Perhaps you can recall the circumstance now.”

“I cannot.” He did not seem to be quite master of himself. “I don’t know half the things I do; at least, I didn’t use to. But what are you coming to? What’s in your mind, and what are your intentions? Something to shame us further, I’ve no doubt. You’re soft on Ranelagh and don’t care how I feel, or how Carmel will feel when she comes to herself — poor girl. Are you going to call it suicide? You can’t, with those marks on her throat.”

“We’re going to carry out our investigations to the full. We’re going to hold the autopsy, which we didn’t think necessary before. That’s why I am here, Arthur. I thought it your due to know our intentions in regard to this matter. If you wish to be present, you have only to say so; if you do not, you may trust me to remember that she was your father’s daughter, as well as my own highly esteemed friend.”

Shaken to the core, the young man sat down amid innumerable tokens of the two near, if not dear, ones just mentioned; and for a moment had nothing to say. Gone was his violence, gone his self-assertion, and his insolent, captious attitude towards his visitor. The net had been drawn too tightly, or the blow fallen too heavily. He was no longer a man struggling with his misery, but ............