CHAPTER II.
MURDER.
For several hours August Bordine scoured the woods in search of game. His hunt proved unsuccessful, however, and with weary limbs and anything but pleasant mood he retraced his steps.
At length he stood in the road within sight of the Vane cottage.
Everything looked quiet and peaceful about the place.
No smoke curled up from the kitchen chimney, although the sun was low in the western heavens.
"Vic hasn't begun to prepare supper it seems," muttered Bordine. "Wonder if I had best go up that way and call. Of course Ransom has returned. I believe I will and inquire who the gentleman was who called just as I was entering the woods."
And so Bordine turned his steps in the direction of the Vane cottage. The front door was closed, and a dead silence reigned over the place as he came up.
"Wonder if the folks are gone."
Bordine rapped.
No answer was vouchsafed.
He rapped again.
Silence profound as the grave.
"Well, there seems nobody at home. Vic sometimes occupies the back porch with the cat and her book; I will see."
He walks swiftly around the house.
He came to a sudden stand as he gained the broad side porch of the cottage.
He stood staring, struck dumb with an awful, deadly fear. Then he moved forward a step.
His eye fell on the interior of the porch, and he started and stopped.
What was it that held his steps?
[Illustration: HIS EYE FELL ON THE INTERIOR OF THE PORCH, AND HE STARTED
AND STOPPED.]
An object on the ground—Victoria Vane, lying at full length, with open, staring eyes, her masses of yellow hair stained a horrible crimson.
She lay within the porch, while at her side was a basket overturned, its contents scattered about, as though she had been holding it in her lap at the time of the accident.
Was it an accident?
As soon as he could recover his self-possession, August Bordine sat down his gun and bent over the prostrate girl.
There was a subdued horror in his eyes as he gazed.
Blood had trickled out in a little pool from a wound in her neck, that wound had proved the death of poor Victoria Vane.
Who had made it?
Suicide!
This was the young man's first thought—yet he soon convinced himself that this was not likely.
A letter, torn and blood-stained, lay near. August picked it from the ground and examined it. It proved to be from a gentleman, and was written in a friendly, not to say lover-like strain. At the bottom was signed a name, "A. Bor——"
The latter part of the name was completely obliterated by a blot of blood.
While the young engineer stood in an attitude of shocked irresolution, a step sounded on the gravel behind him.
He turned to look into the face of a young man whose countenance showed resemblance to the dead girl.
"My God! what is this?"
The new-comer darted forward, gazed for a moment into the dead face of poor Victoria, then staggered back, clutching the arm of August Bordine to save himself from falling.
"Suicide, I fear," answered Bordine for lack of words.
"Suicide! My soul, is Victoria dead?"
Then the last comer knelt down beside the prostrate girl, and lifted her golden head to his knee.
His cries and moans were heartrending.
In vain Bordine tried to soothe the young man, but he found that a brother's grief was beyond assuagement.
For many minutes Ransom Vane sat and moaned and wept beside his dead sister.
Then he became calm suddenly, and sprang to his feet, glancing about him in a way that caused Bordine to fear for his reason.
"Suicide you said?" turning fiercely upon August Bordine.
"I said it might be."
"It is not. Vic was happy; why should she take her own life?"
"I do not know."
"She was murdered."
"It may be so."
"You know it is. Look! See where the steel of the assassin entered her poor neck, and cut to the life. Oh, Vic, my poor darling! you shall be avenged. I will go to the ends of the earth but I will find your slayer and have his life."
Ransom Vane was white as death, and trembled like a leaf.
"I will go for a doctor," said Bordine.
"A doctor? See the life-blood there. Think you a doctor can be of service?" groaned the young brother.
"No, but it is customary in such cases, and the coroner must be notified."
August Bordine turned to depart.
"Stop!"
Ransom Vane laid a detaining hand on the arm of the young engineer.
"See; what is that?"
It proved to be a spot of blood on the hand and sleeve of the young engineer's shirt, a point of which peered below his outer sleeve.
"It came from this," explained August, holding out the letter.
"Where did you get that?"
Vane took the stained and torn letter from the hand of Bordine.
"I found it on the porch."
Ransom Vane read the note hurriedly.
"MY DEAR:—Expect me on the 10th of June. I have been anxious to see you for a long time, dear girl, and I know you will forgive me when you hear what I have to say. If you cannot, then we must part forever, unless—but I will tell you more when I see you. Till then, good by, dear.
"Your faithful
"A. BOR——"
Quickly Ransom Vane turned upon the man before him, casting a fierce look into his face.
"This letter is yours—"
"No; you may keep it," answered Bordine quickly. "It may lead to some clew."
"But I say the letter is yours. You wrote it."
"Certainly not." "But see here;" and Vane pointed to the mutilated signature.
Bordine started when he saw how closely the name resembled his own.
"Do you deny that you wrote that?" demanded Ransom Vane, fiercely.
"Certainly; I did not write it."
"By heaven, you did, and it is you who murdered my sister!" hissed young Vane, trembling with the maddest emotions that ever whelmed a human breast.
"Vane clutched the arm of young Bordine, and glared furiously into his face.
"Calm yourself, my dear Ransom," urged the engineer. "You are beside yourself now. I had no quarrel with Victoria. In fact, we were the best of friends, and I parted from her this morning on the best of terms. I—"
"But this letter?" demanded Vane, fiercely.
"I know no more about it than you do, Ransom. I found it there on the porch."
"But it is yours?—you wrote it?"
"No; a thousand times no," articulated August Bordine, in a convincing tone.
Ransom Vane groaned and reeled against a post, the letter falling from his nerveless hand to the ground.
For some moments not a word passed between the two. Both were evidently thinking.
The thoughts of Bordine were not pleasant ones. He remembered the tramp who had that morning made himself so disagreeable to Victoria. It must be that he was the author of this horrible crime.
Another figure too came up before the vision of the young engineer, the man on horseback who sat with lifted hat, bowing to Victoria Vane, just as he (Bordine) entered the woods.
One of these men had committed the deed. Which one? Most likely the tramp.
Such were the thoughts that passed through the brain of August in the five minutes that he stood silently regarding vacancy.
"August."
The voice of the sorrowing brother fell sadly on the ear of the engineer.
"Well, Ransom."
"Assist me to carry poor Vic—"
He could go no further, but moved with tear-dimmed eyes toward the dead.
August bent to the work without further speech, and assisted the brother to move the body into the house to the pleasant front bed-room, the especial resort of the poor girl in life. Here they placed her on the low, neatly-covered bed, and then Bordine turned away, leaving brother and sister in solemn, silent companionship.
That was the saddest moment of August Bordine's life.
Not even when his own sister died six years before had he felt the solemn weight of sadness more deeply. Victoria had been his friend. She was not over-bright, yet she was kind and tender of heart. He felt her death deeply, and found himself wondering who could have been so wicked as to murder a pretty girl, who he believed, had not an enemy in the wide world.
There was something of mystery about the affair.
Once outside Bordine examined the ground closely. He saw nothing of the letter, and was about to move away, when a shadow fell athwart the grass giving him a sudden start.