CHAPTER XVI—THE WITCH OF THE WALL
I HAD news of Brane's death from the very priest whose hands I had mutilated in the door of the trap. The fellow had been disciplined, unfrocked, driven from Russia, where it was no longer possible for him to make a living, and, as my method is, I had kept in touch with him. I had even helped him to make a sort of fresh start—oh, by no means an honorable one—in America, and purposely I'd seen to it that his new activities should keep him in the neighborhood of Pine Cone. One who knows the underworld as I do, Janice, has friends everywhere, has a tool to her hand in the remotest corners of the earth. Gast was my spy on Theodore Brane; Gast and the Baron. That nobleman, upon whom I dare say you thought you made such an impression, Janice, was at one time Theodore's valet. I knew him for a thief in the old days, but I kept him in the household and so completely in subjection that the wretch would tremble whenever he caught my eye. He, too, came over to this country, and, ostensibly, his business became that of a cabinet-maker, a dealer in old furniture. He had other, less reputable, business on the side. At various times Brane bought furniture through him—Brane was always ready to do a kindness to his inferiors. It was through the Baron that Theodore got possession of that bookcase, the one with the double back, but our wily ex-valet did n't put me wise to the possible hiding-place,—even after I let him know that Brane had something to hide—till I had bribed him for all I was worth. That is, he never did put me wise. He blabbed his secret to you. It was only by finding you on your knees before the shelves, the night after that fool's visit, that I guessed he'd given himself away to my double. Till then I did n't realize how safe I was in depending upon our resemblance, pretty daughter. But, after that night, I amused myself greatly at your expense. And I admit, Janice, I am forced to admit, that you amused yourself at mine. I had no notion till to-night that you had dared to use Maida, to question her, to force her to write notes! And then, to write to Gast, to meet him, to get his translation and to destroy it—Dieu! you have some courage, some wit, my girl!”
Her tone of pride, of complete power set my heart on fire with anger, so that for a moment, I even lost my fear.
“Who found that letter of Gast's under the arbor seat? Whoever it was—I suppose it must have been you—put me into a rage that was like enough to drive me to any sort of violence. It was the last force of it that you felt in the woods that afternoon. Dieu! I suffered from that anger. To lie closed up in the wall, gnawing my own vitals, helpless, and to know that you had got the clue, that you would perhaps be making use of it! It was lucky for me that Jaffrey mentioned in my hearing the trip that you were planning to Pine Cone. I enjoyed thrashing you, Janice, and I enjoyed my little game at your friend Dabney's expense.... But I am going too fast, I must get back to the beginning again. What are you shaking for now? Scared? No, I believe you're angry.”
She peered into my burning face, and met the look, which must have been a hateful one, blazing in my eyes.
“Remember, my dear,” she said tauntingly, “that it behooves you to be in charity with all the world.”
Indeed, it was not the least of my torments on that terrible night to know that the last images to possess my brain should be such horrid ones, of treachery, and cruelty, and murder. Sometimes I thought I would close my eyes to her, shut out her presence from my mind, but the feat was impossible. I was too greatly fascinated by her smooth, sweet voice, by her vital presence, by the interest of her story.
“As I was telling you,” she went on, “it was through Father Gast that I heard of Brane's sudden death. It gave me the fright of my life, for I thought he must have told about the treasures to his wife. Gast swore that the Englishman had n't the courage to make use of his trove any more than he had the courage to confess its whereabouts, but I decided that there was no time to lose. Mrs. Brane might have a bolder spirit.
“I came over to this country disguised as a meek, brown-haired young widow, named Mrs. Gaskell, and I rented a room above the Pine Cone drug-store. This was last fall, about two months after Theodore Brane's death.
“Ask Mrs. Brane some time—oh, I forgot, you are not apt to see her again—no doubt, if you did ask her, she would tell you about the dear, sweet woman who brought her little runaway Robbie home one afternoon and took a friendly cup of tea with her. Yes, and learned in about half an hour—only this the silly, little chatter-box would n't admit—more about the habits of her husband and about her own life and plans and character than most of the detectives I've hoodwinked could have learned in a month. If it had n't been for Mrs. Gaskell, and for Mrs. Gaskell's popularity with Robbie's nurse, and for Mrs. Gaskell's skill in winning Robbie's confidence, I should never have learned about that hole in the kitchen closet.