Chapter IX: The Matter of a Cigar

Nick Carter sat silent for a long time after that, and Lynne seemed quite content that he should do so.

The detective was thinking over the facts of the case as he was arranging them in sequence in his own mind, and he could see but one conclusion at which to arrive as an explanation of the mystery; if the reader has already guessed at that conclusion, so much the better, for it is not the purpose here to mystify--only to arrive at facts just as the detective arrived at them.

First, then, the known fondness between J. Cephas Lynne and his daughter Edythe.

The papers had had it, and all the world understood it, that ever since the death of the mother of Edythe Lynne the daughter had been the apple of the father’s eye.

He had taken her everywhere, escorted her to many of the places she attended, and she had seemed to prefer his company to that of the young men of her acquaintance.

She had been his thought and care, and, indeed, his whole life, ever since the death of his wife twelve years before. That was the generally accepted idea of both of them.

One never saw in the papers the mention of the presence of one of them at a function, that the other was not there; for one to be absent meant that both were absent.

Upon the occasion of his going abroad that preceding spring, the papers had commented upon the fact that it was the first time the millionaire had been known to part with his daughter for more than a few hours, or at the most a few days at a time.

But some business had arisen which had called the millionaire abroad, and which could not be avoided, and a house party had already been invited to Pleasantglades.

But it was understood, and so stated in the papers, that it was to be a hurried trip, and so, when later it was announced that he had gone to Switzerland for a little outing, there was some wonder expressed in different quarters about it.

It had even been stated at the time that Edythe would sail by the next steamer to join her father abroad, and that then had come a peremptory cable directing her to remain where she was.

But that father and daughter should have been apart for more than seven months--Nick had not known of the time of Lynne’s return until now--was utterly unprecedented.

The idea of the father’s ever marrying again, devoted as he was to his daughter, and to the memory of her mother, would have sounded utterly absurd in the ears of any one of the acquaintances who knew them well.

The whole affair had a strange look to Nick Carter, for, as he had been led to understand the character of Cephas Lynne, the detective believed him to be a man of the very highest kind of sterling qualities.

Not at all such a man as he had found awaiting him in that room in the Riverside Drive mansion that morning; not at all such a man as was now seated beside him in the limousine body of the car, riding toward the body of his dead daughter.

The man whom Nick had cast for the part of Cephas Lynne should not have resorted to theatricals when first told of her death; and most certainly he should not have discussed trivial matters with the detective now, with the relish that this man beside him seemed to take in it.

In short, the whole bearing of Mr. Lynne had been that of one desiring to avoid some subjects, and to be willing to grasp at almost any other one to avoid those that he disliked--or feared--at the moment.

That sudden illness in the mountains was an interesting feature of the whole affair to the detective, for it seemed to him that the man whom he had cast for the part of the gentleman beside him, would have hurried home to his daughter the first moment he was able to travel after it.

But something had changed the father evidently--how greatly was yet to be determined.

And that something that had brought about the change? Was the woman, whom he had met abroad, but whom he had known for a long time at home, the woman to whom he said he was now engaged to be married--could she be entirely responsible for that?

Was this another case of the devoted father who finds a sweetheart and is afraid to tell his daughter of the fact?

Not as Nick Carter believed he understood the character of J. Cephas Lynne.

Suddenly and without warning the detective reopened the subject of Mrs. Babbington. He began it by saying, as if merely for the purpose of bringing an end to the silence between them:

“So you met Mrs. Babbington abroad and discovered only then that you loved her? That is interesting. I am always interested in romances. You have known her, of course, for some years, haven’t you?”

“Yes; since just prior to her first marriage, six years ago.”

“Was it after your illness in Switzerland that you encountered her abroad last summer?”

“Yes; some time after that.”

“When you had quite recovered from your illness as a result of the poisoning?”

“While I was recuperating in Scotland. I joined a party there, little supposing that I would meet with old acquaintances.”

“Ah! and she was of the party. It is really quite a romance.”

“It turned out to be so,” was the reply, and Nick thought that he spoke with some grimness that was not entirely called for by the circumstance.

“I suppose the fact that you were so far away from home, coupled with the other one that you had been so ill, and the general romantic qualities of the air around you, brought about an understanding quite speedily, did it not?”

“We became engaged almost at once, if that is what you mean,” was the reply. And for some reason, which the detective could not name, the present aspect of the subject seemed to be distasteful to Lynne.

“But,” said the detective meditatively, as if he were trying to remember, “it seems to me that I saw somewhere a notice of Mrs. Babbington’s return to the city, a long time before your own arrival. Were you together long in Scotland?”

“We were at the same house about two weeks. We did not, unfortunately, meet again until I arrived here the day before yesterday.”

“Indeed. It would seem as if you should have made an effort to get together sooner than that, under the circumstances. I suppose you both dreaded the moment when Edythe had to be informed of the prospective relationship.”

Lynne grasped at that straw, as Nick would have called it.

“Yes; that was it,” he said eagerly. “I dreaded to tell Edythe about it; Mrs. Babbington insisted, rightly of course, that she should be told at once. I really think, Mr. Carter, that I found excuses to defer my home-coming, solely on that account.”

“No doubt. No doubt. Really, now, were there no little things that happened here in town when you knew Mrs. Babbington here, that led you to think that she might some day be your wife?”

The man turned a half angry glance upon the detective, and then the ghost of a fleeting smile appeared for an instant on his face.

“What a prober you are, Mr. Carter,” he said, with an effort at kindness, but Nick could see that it was an effort, and that there was something behind it, too.

“My dear, sir,” he said quickly, “I am trying to play the friend, as well as the enforced companion, since you want my professional services. I am endeavoring to discuss subjects that will lead your thoughts into pleasant channels. Now, for instance, when you first met your present fiancée in Scotland, you must have been greatly changed, by reason of your recent illness.”

“Indeed I was very greatly changed in every way.”

“And she saw it at once, of course.”

“Naturally.”

“And was greatly shocked by it, I have no doubt.”

“She admitted as much as that;” again there was that note of grimness in the reply.

“I suppose, quite naturally, it was a more or less delicate topic with you, Mr. Lynne.”

“Yes; it was. Still, I got over it, you know;” and this time there was a short, hard laugh, which the detective thought entirely out of place.

“The very fact of your recent illness, and your near approach to death, no doubt drew her to you as nothing else would have done.”

“I really think that that is the explanation of it all, Carter.”

“And then, too, having been much at your house--for she used to be quite friendly with Edythe, did she not?--there was not so much difference in their ages as to preclude that--she doubtless had some sort of acquaintance with that cousin of yours who was your valet, and who died?”

“Naturally.”

“She remembered him, of course?”

“Of course.”

“The relationship between you was so distant that, of course, there was no physical likeness between you, was there?”

“Oh, none at all that anybody ever spoke about.”

“All valets are smooth of face, by necessity of their calling, and you have always worn the mustache and Vandyke beard, haven’t you? Every picture of you that I have seen in the papers has had it so.”

“I haven’t shaved my face or upper lip since I entered college, and that was nearly thirty years ago,” was the quick reply.

Again the detective relapsed into silence--with a purpose.

After a moment he began to speak of the beauty of the day, for it was a perfect one, and he drew his companion’s attention to patches of the snow that had fallen during the night upon the landscape they were passing.

And while he did that he did another thing--in an utterly abstracted manner, as if he had no thought of what he was doing.

He removed his cigar case from his pocket a second time, helped himself to a cigar, and then, as if with second thought, passed the case to Lynne while he sought his match safe.

He struck the match and held the flame of it out for the other to light by, and then applied it to his own cigar; and so they smoked on in silence for another distance, until the detective said:

“We should arrive in another ten minutes now. How do you like those cigars, Mr. Lynne?”

“They seem very good, indeed. I--er--I am not much of a smoker, Mr. Carter.”

“No? You seem to take kindly to it just now. I suppose that is due to the excellence of the cigars, isn’t it?”

“It must be so.”

There was another silence after that, and a grim smile was playing upon the features of Nick Carter.

It broadened, too, when as they drew nearer to Pleasantglades, and came into the more thickly populated localities, Lynne threw the not half-smoked cigar from the window, and straightened himself suddenly.

“We will be there in a moment now, Mr. Carter,” he said.

“Yes. We will be there in a moment.”

“Need I say to you that you shall be very generously recompensed for whatever you can do to relieve me of the strain and terror of this awful business? I have no doubt that my daughter came here deliberately to kill herself. Why, I do not know; but you must help me to find that out.”