“There are points to be explained,” said Rob slowly; “and, Schuyler, since we are talking frankly, I must ask you this: do you know that Miss Dupuy is very much in love with you?”
“How absurd! That cannot be. Why, I’ve scarcely ever spoken to the girl.”
“That doesn’t matter—the fact remains. Now, you know she wrote that paper which stated that she loved S., but he did not love her. That initial designated yourself, and, because of this unfortunate attachment, Cicely was of course jealous, or rather envious, of Madeleine. I have had an interview with Miss Dupuy, in which she gave me much more information about herself than she thought she did, and one of the facts I discovered—from what she didn’t say, rather than what she did—was her hopeless infatuation for you.”
“It’s difficult to believe this, but now that you tell me it is true, I can look back to some episodes which seem to indicate it. But I cannot think it would lead to such desperate results.”
“There’s one thing certain: when we do find the criminal it will have to be somebody we never would have dreamed of; for if there were any probable person we would suspect him already. Now, merely for the sake of argument, let us see if Cicely did not have ‘exclusive opportunity’ as well as yourself. Remember she was the last one who saw Miss Van Norman alive. I mean, so far as we have had any witness or evidence. This fact in itself is always a matter for investigation. And granting the fact of two women, both in love with you, one about to marry you, and the other perhaps insanely jealous; a weapon at hand, no one else astir in the house—is there not at least occasion for inquiry?”
Carleton looked aghast. He took up the story, and in a low voice said, “I can add to that. When I came in, as Hunt has testified, Cicely was leaning over the banister, still fully dressed. When I cried out for help fifteen minutes later, Cicely was the first to run downstairs. She asked no questions, she did not look toward the library, she glared straight at me with an indescribable expression of fear and horror. I cannot explain her attitude at that moment, but if this dreadful thing we have dared to think of could be true, it would perhaps be a reason.”
“And then, you know, she tried to get possession secretly of that slip of paper, after it had served its purpose.”
“Yes, and also after you, by clever observation, had discovered that she wrote it, and not Madeleine.”
“Their writing is strangely alike.”
“Yes; even I was deceived, and I have seen much of Madeleine’s writing. Fessenden—this is an awful thing to hint—but do you suppose some of the notes I have had purporting to be from Miss Van Norman could have been written by Miss Dupuy?”