I heard early next day that the police had duly, if discreetly, visited Pine Cliff, and learned that all was "above board." Anne Garth had been impudent, and careless about her duties. She had been discharged some days before the ball, her principal patient having gone away on a visit, in order to "get rid of the nurse without a fuss." Some gossip in the house must have turned the woman's thoughts to Lord John Hasle, and she had seen a way of embarrassing the ladies of the Sisterhood. As for the murder, a theory was suggested by a bundle of love letters found among Anne Garth's effects, forgotten when she departed. From these it appeared that she had been in the habit of meeting a man who signed himself "Dick," whenever she was given a day off from her duties at Sisterhood House. The last letters threatened reprisals if she persisted in seeing a certain "Tom," otherwise unnamed.
As for the Harlequin and Columbine, they were as impossible to trace as ghosts. No one could be discovered who had seen them enter the ballroom or leave it. Had it not been for Lady Mary Proudfit's testimony, I might have floundered into serious difficulties, in spite of the chain armour. Thanks to her (and perhaps a little to my own position) I was free to come and go; which was well, because Anne Garth had left me a tryst to keep for the following night.
The one fact I hid was the existence of the letter found by me in the dead girl's lap. It was typed, and unsigned: but Anne Garth's journal proved to me, if not to the police, that she was loyal; and the note tied to the rose promised a letter from Maida. "From her," the nurse had written, expecting me to understand, and I had understood. I had also believed, because I could see no reason why Anne Garth, risking much to deliver the message, should deceive me. The man in chain armour had had too great a need for haste to seek a letter, nor had he reason to suspect the existence of one. His object, if I read it right, was to prevent Anne Garth from telling her story.
The note so fortunately hidden under the nurse's cloak was not in Maida's writing, but had been neatly typed. It was not the first time, however, that I had received typed letters from her. Sometimes I had doubted their genuineness, but one of them explained that she had learned to use a typewriter, to help the Head Sister with charitable correspondence. After that I had felt more at ease about those clearly typed communications.
"My dear Friend," the letter began (Maida never gave me a warmer title), "I've been ill with grippe, which is an epidemic here. Now I'm better, but so weak that I long for tonic air, and it has been decided to send me up to the Crescent Mountain Inn. I'm looking forward to the change after my hard work and illness. But how glorious it would be if you could come to see me! I hope to start the day after you receive this. If I can get off then, I shall arrive at the Crescent Mountain railway station in the train which reaches there at nine-fifteen. I don't know what time the train that connects with it leaves New York, but you can find out—if you care to! At the station a team of dogs with a driver who serves the Inn (his name is Garth) meets the train if ordered. As my departure is a little uncertain, because I'm not strong, no telegram has been sent so far, and the team is free for anyone who wishes to engage it. If you should do so, and I should happen to be in the train, I'm sure you wouldn't mind having me for an extra passenger! I've spoken only to one person about my brilliant idea of our meeting. Yours ever, M."
Nobody who reads this can wonder that I didn't show it to the police, or that I was ready to believe the letter genuine. Despite the gloom cast upon me by the death of Maida's messenger, despite my annoyance with the police, I was selfishly happy. I saw that I was in great luck to have got out of a tangle which might have enmeshed me in bonds of red tape; and it goes without saying that I telegraphed the Crescent Mountain Inn, ordering a room, and Larry Garth the dog-driver to meet me with his team.
I remembered Teano's mentioning that Anne Garth's brother lived in the mountains; and I 'phoned him to ask if the man were employed by the Crescent Mountain Inn. The answer was, "Yes, he drives their dog-team"; and I was the more firmly convinced that Maida and Anne Garth had concocted the typewritten letter together.
In deducing this, I belittled the Enemy's intelligence. But one lives and learns. Or, one dies and learns.
The Crescent Mountain Inn—as most people know—is one of the most famous winter resorts in America. It is also an autumn and spring resort for those who love winter sports, for snow falls early at that great height, and rests late. Its comparative accessibility from New York adds to the charm, and the sledge with a team of Alaskan dogs (instead of an ordinary sleigh drawn by mere horses) was an inspiration on the part of the landlord.
I told no one but Teano of my intention. He, oppressively prudent where I was concerned, wished to accompany me "in case of queer business," but I discouraged this idea without hurting his feelings. If there were hope of an "accidental" meeting with Maida in the train, I didn't want even a companion.