“I suppose I am nervous, that is all—and I cannot get it out of my head that somewhere there is an explanation for this sudden act of my daughter’s.â€�
“You don’t expect to find such an explanation in that vault, do you?� demanded the detective, in simulated surprise, for he had already assumed that this was what Lynne did expect to find, for the very good reason that he had arranged it, himself, to be found.
For that, and that only, could explain that paragraph of the letter which still was in hiding in one of Nick Carter’s pockets; that paragraph which was:
“The reasons why I have decided that there is no other way, you will discover soon enough, and you will feel deep regret because I did not go to you and tell you all about it, instead of doing this thing.�
The clever forger—this man, of course—who had prepared that paragraph, had also prepared the evidence to establish the meaning of it; the evidence to explain what the forged letter pretended to refuse to explain; the thing that was meant to explain why she should kill herself.
Lynne claimed that he had not been at home until the time he stated in telling Nick Carter about it, but it was certain in the mind of the detective that he had been out here to Pleasantglades before he made his presence known in New York at all, and that he had prepared everything for the moment which had now arrived. The only upset in his plans was the strange absence of the letter that he had left on the table in the room where he had committed the murder.
That was, of course, preying upon his mind, but he did not dare to ask about it, since he could have no knowledge of it, and, doubtless, he consoled himself with the idea that the chief had found it and was holding it back for some purpose of his own.
But, when new evidence should be found in the vault that there was a reason why Edythe should have killed herself, then, of course, according to his hopes, the letter would be forthcoming.
So Nick followed him into the north wing of the house; saw him draw aside the circular rug that had been made for the semioctagonal room that was there; saw him insert a key into a lock in that floor and lift a ponderous trapdoor by adjusting a lever concealed in the wainscoating which applied weights to it to pull it up; saw him snap on electric lights from a switch, and then descend iron stairs to the regions below; saw him consult a small book that he carried in his pocket, and then attack the combination locks one after another until he had opened the two outer doors, and then the two inner ones of the vault; saw him step inside and use small, flat keys upon inner compartments of the great safe, for that is what it was, and presently step back again into the presence of the detective, and show him a beautiful string of pearls, which he drew slowly and lovingly through his hands.
“This is what I came here to get—what I was coming here to get, to give to Mrs. Babbington for her birthday,â€� he said. “Is it not exquisite?â€�