Chapter XVI: In Hourly Peril of Death

“Sarah,” said the detective, rising and crossing the room two or three times, “the acts connected with the tragedy which occurred at the Fells two weeks ago are still fresh in your memory, are they not? I refer, of course, to the murder of Orizaba by Mr. Reginald’s valet, Paul Rogers. You recall all the circumstances, do you not?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Now, I want to recall to your attention several things you have told me, to which you have not attached much importance. I want to group them together for your consideration, and, after I have done so, ask you a few questions upon points suggested by them.”

“Very well. I only wish I might be able to tell you something of importance.”

“You have already told me several things of very great importance.”

“Indeed, sir, I did not know it.”

“Possibly not. Now listen.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have said that Miss Mercedes seemed startled when she saw Paul Rogers for the first time.”

“Yes.”

“You have told me that, although Isabel seemed to come to the house without especial recommendation, she seemed not unknown to Orizaba, and that, in fact, there seemed to be an understanding between them.”

“Yes; I often thought there was.”

“And you have spoken of a rather striking resemblance between your mistress and Isabel.”

“It was striking, sir, all but the profile.”

“Did it ever strike you that there was also a faint resemblance between Miss Mercedes and the man she called her cousin--Ramon Orizaba?”

“Quite so; her mother used to speak of it often.”

“Well, now, did that resemblance extend to Orizaba and Isabel?”

“Yes, sir; decidedly. There was quite general comment about it among the servants.”

“What was your own opinion about it?”

“Why, I thought it rather noticeable. I once told Isabel that she might readily pass for Mr. Orizaba’s sister.”

“What reply did she make?”

“She laughed and said that she was one of those persons who resembled almost everybody or anybody.”

“Humph! Now tell me: What effect did the sudden and tragic death of Orizaba seem to have upon Isabel?”

“None at all that I could notice. I thought she was paler than usual, but we were all of us that. I do not think she acted any differently from the others.”

“You have known Miss Mercedes so long and so well that you would notice anything which seemed to affect her, at once, would you not?”

“Surely.”

“You know, of course, that Mr. Reginald did not like Orizaba?”

“Certainly. We all knew that. He did not disguise the fact.”

“How did Miss Mercedes feel toward him?”

“I think she dreaded him. If she were anybody else, I should have said that she feared him--and yet, she was very gracious to him.”

“Do you think by any possibility that she was in love with him, or that she had ever been in love with him?”

“N-no.”

“Why do you hesitate?”

“Because of several contradictory things she did. I used sometimes to think that she despised him; again I would think that she dreaded him; again that she was fond of him. I know that she was very kind to him, and I know, also, that she often supplied him with money. I even know of one occasion when Isabel carried money to him for her, and--that reminds me of one thing which I had totally forgotten. She called him by his first name.”

“Who did?”

“Isabel. She called him Ramon when she gave him the money. I think the money surprised me more than the use of the name, and I was incensed because my mistress had trusted her instead of me.”

“And so you forgot the use of the first name. All right, Sarah. Now I want you to tell me exactly what you fear might have befallen your mistress--what the fear was that induced you to come to me.”

“I don’t know, sir. I fear everything. I cannot get it out of my head that some dreadful thing has happened to her. It was not like her to go away like that. It was not like her to bid me good-by as she did. It was totally unlike her to leave such a message for Mr. Reginald.”

“And,” said Nick, “it was unlike her to pack her trunks in the way she did--to take away the articles she did--to care about her own photographs--to cover her mouth with her handkerchief when she was bidding you good-by--to have been gone an entire week without sending you word after she said that she would do so--in fact, Sarah, there is nothing connected with her going away that is at all like Mercedes Danton, is there?”

“Not a thing, sir; not one.”

“And so you have become frightened lest, in some way, she has been induced to go away against her own wishes and will; lest she has been unduly influenced. Is that it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, Sarah, if you were ill, and obliged to go to the doctor, would you tell him only half of your troubles, or would you tell him all?”

“I should tell him all, sir. What do you mean by that question?”

“Never mind; answer me another. How do you suppose I manage to earn my living at the detective business?”

“Why, sir, how can I answer that?”

“I will answer it for you. I accomplish that difficult task by understanding perfectly when people are telling me the truth and when they are deceiving me. Now there is a difference between telling a downright lie, and only telling a part of the truth and withholding the remainder. I don’t think you have told me a lie, to-day, Sarah, but I am quite sure that you have not told me all the truth. There is something you have kept back--something that I should know.”

“Mr. Carter, I----”

“I would not amount to much at my business, Sarah, if I was not sharp enough to discover that much in your conduct this evening.”

“But, really, sir, there is nothing more that I can tell.”

“Tut-tut, Sarah, there is something more that you can tell me, if you will, and that something is about--who shall I say it is about, Sarah? Shall I say it is about Paul Rogers, the fugitive valet, who murdered Mr. Orizaba, or shall I say that it is about Isabel--or, better still, shall I say that it is about both of them?”

“There is nothing more that I can tell, sir.”

“Now, Sarah, that is pure obstinacy. I know that there is something more. You could, for example, tell me why it was that your mistress was startled when she beheld Paul Rogers acting as valet to her brother--and you could also explain why you were almost, if not quite, as much astonished yourself.”

“One might suppose that you were present at the time, sir.”

“Sarah, you were in Europe with your mistress while she was at school there; you know perfectly well that you both knew Paul Rogers at that time, and you know that you would not have known him in a way to have affected you when you saw him again, if his position at that time had been in accordance with his valethood, later; and, therefore, you know that Paul Rogers was not his true name any more than valet was his true position. Who was he when you knew him in Europe, Sarah?”

“There is nothing more that I can tell, sir.”

“Not even to save your mistress from probable peril?”

“Not even to save her from positive death, sir,” she said, and her lips shut tightly together over her teeth.

“What!” exclaimed Nick. “Is it so serious as all that? This is worse than I supposed. You are keeping the secret because your mistress has sworn you to secrecy, and has charged you never to tell, even to save her life or your own. Is it not so?”

“I have nothing more to tell, sir.”

“All right. If you won’t, you won’t, and I see that you are determined to say no more. But, all the same, Sarah, I will find a way to make you speak, or I will discover what I wish to know in some other manner. You may return to the Fells now. I shall be there in the morning.”

Sarah rose to her feet and started toward the door, but before she had crossed the room she stopped and began to sob.

Nick remained silent, watching her, and presently she turned and faced him again.

“I think my heart is breaking, sir,” she said. “I do not know what to do.”

“There is only one thing for you to do if you would serve your mistress whom you love, and that is to tell me everything you know which will throw light upon this strange disappearance. Has it occurred to you, Sarah, that the woman in the coupé, who put her handkerchief to her mouth when she bade you good-by, was not your mistress at all, but was in reality Isabel Benton, dressed in her clothes? Has it occurred to you that the woman in the other seat of the coupé was not Isabel, but was, in reality, the woman who had been hemming linen in the house and who was sent away--but who did not go--the preceding night?”

“Where, then, was my mistress?”

“Where, indeed?”

“But if she was not in the coupé, where could she have been? She was not in the house.”

“No. She was not in the house, because she had been carried out of the house,” said Nick.

“Carried out of the house! Oh, God! You don’t mean----”

“I don’t know what I mean, Sarah, save that she had been spirited away in the night, after you had put her to bed--after she had been drugged, or possibly murdered.”

“Murdered! My Mercedes? No, no, no! I will not believe it. No, no, no, no.”

“If she was not murdered then, Sarah, rest assured that she is in hourly peril of death,” said Nick slowly. “The conspirators who dared to take her away, and who dared to plot the substitution of another in her place, will not hesitate to put her out of the way the moment they can do so with safety.”