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The Woman in the Alcove

by Anna Katharine Green




CONTENTS
I THE WOMAN WITH THE DIAMOND
II THE GLOVES
II ANSON DURAND
IV EXPLANATIONS
V SUPERSTITION
VI SUSPENSE
VII NIGHT AND A VOICE
VIII ARREST
IX THE MOUSE NIBBLES AT THE NET
X I ASTONISH THE INSPECTOR
XI THE INSPECTOR ASTONISHES ME
XII ALMOST
XIII THE MISSING RECOMMENDATION
XIV TRAPPED
XV SEARS OR WELLGOOD
XVI DOUBT
XVII SWEETWATER IN A NEW ROLE
XVIII THE CLOSED DOOR
XIX THE FACE
XX MOONLIGHT--AND A CLUE
XXI GRIZEL! GRIZEL!
XXII GUILT
XXIII THE GREAT MOGUL


I

THE WOMAN WITH THE DIAMOND

I was, perhaps, the plainest girl in the room that night. I was
also the happiest--up to one o'clock. Then my whole world
crumbled, or, at least, suffered an eclipse. Why and how, I am
about to relate.

I was not made for love. This I had often said to myself; very
often of late. In figure I am too diminutive, in face far too
unbeautiful, for me to cherish expectations of this nature.
Indeed, love had never entered into my plan of life, as was
evinced by the nurse's diploma I had just gained after three
years of hard study and severe training.

I was not made for love. But if I had been; had I been gifted
with height, regularity of feature, or even with that eloquence
of expression which redeems all defects save those which savor of
deformity, I knew well whose eye I should have chosen to please,
whose heart I should have felt proud to win.

This knowledge came with a rush to my heart--(did I say heart? I
should have said understanding, which is something very
different)--when, at the end of the first dance, I looked up from
the midst of the bevy of girls by whom I was surrounded and saw
Anson Durand's fine figure emerging from that quarter of the hall
where our host and hostess stood to receive their guests. His eye
was roaming hither and thither and his manner was both eager and
expectant. Whom was he seeking? Some one of the many bright and
vivacious girls about me, for he turned almost instantly our way.
But which one?

I thought I knew. I remembered at whose house I had met him
first, at whose house I had seen him many times since. She was a
lovely girl, witty and vivacious, and she stood at this very
moment at my elbow. In her beauty lay the lure, the natural lure
for a man of his gifts and striking personality. If I continued
to watch, I should soon see his countenance light up under the
recognition she could not fail to give him. And I was right; in
another instant it did, and with a brightness there was no
mistaking. But one feeling common to the human heart lends such
warmth, such expressiveness to the features. How handsome it made
him look, how distinguished, how everything I was not except--

But what does this mean? He has passed Miss Sperry--passed her
with a smile and a friendly word--and is speaking to me, singling
me out, offering me his arm! He is smiling, too, not as he smiled
on Miss Sperry, but more warmly, with more that is personal in
it. I took his arm in a daze. The lights were dimmer than I
thought; nothing was really bright except his smile. It seemed to
change the world for me. I forgot that I was plain, forgot that I
was small, with nothing to recommend me to the eye or heart, and
let myself be drawn away, asking nothing, anticipating nothing,
till I found myself alone with him in the fragrant recesses of
the conservatory, with only the throb of music in our ears to
link us to the scene we had left.

Why had he brought me here, into this fairyland of opalescent
lights and intoxicating perfumes? What could he have to say--to
show? Ah in another moment I knew. He had seized my hands, and
love, ardent love, came pouring from his lips.

Could it be real? Was I the object of all this feeling, I? If so,
then life had changed for me indeed.

Silent from rush of emotion, I searched his face to see if this
Paradise, whose gates I was thus passionately bidden to enter,
was indeed a verity or only a dream born of the excitement of the
dance and the charm of a scene exceptional in its splendor and
picturesqueness even for so luxurious a city as New York.

But it was no mere dream. Truth and earnestness were in his
manner, and his words were neither feverish nor forced.

"I love you I! I need you!" So I heard, and so he soon made me
believe. "You have charmed me from the first. Your tantalizing,
trusting, loyal self, like no other, sweeter than any other, has
drawn the heart from my breast. I have seen many women, admired
many women, but you only have I loved. Will you be my wife?"

I was dazzled; moved beyond anything I could have conceived. I
forgot all that I had hitherto said to myself--all that I had
endeavored to impress upon my heart when I beheld him
approaching, intent, as I believed, in his search for another
woman; and, confiding in his honesty, trusting entirely to his
faith, I allowed the plans and purposes of years to vanish in the
glamour of this new joy, and spoke the word which linked us
together in a bond which half an hour before I had never dreamed
would unite me to any man.

His impassioned "Mine! mine!" filled my cup to overflowing.
Something of the ecstasy of living entered my soul; which, in
spite of all I have suffered since, recreated the world for me
and made all that went before but the prelude to the new life,
the new joy.

Oh, I was happy, happy, perhaps too happy! As the conservatory
filled and we passed back into the adjoining room, the glimpse I
caught of myself in one of the mirrors startled me into thinking
so. For had it not been for the odd color of my dress and the
unique way in which I wore my hair that night, I should not have
recognized the beaming girl who faced me so naively from the
depths of the responsive glass.

Can one be too happy? I do not know. I know that one can be too
perplexed, too burdened and too sad.

Thus far I have spoken only of myself in connection with the
evening's elaborate function. But though entitled by my old Dutch
blood to a certain social consideration which I am happy to say
never failed me, I, even in this hour of supreme satisfaction,
attracted very little attention and awoke small comment. There
was another woman present better calculated to do this. A fair
woman, large and of a bountiful presence, accustomed to conquest,
and gifted with the power of carrying off her victories with a
certain lazy grace irresistibly fascinating to the ordinary man;
a gorgeously appareled woman, with a diamond on her breast too
vivid for most women, almost too vivid for her. I noticed this
diamond early in the evening, and then I noticed her. She was not
as fine as the diamond, but she was very fine, and, had I been in
a less ecstatic frame of mind, I might have envied the homage she
received from all the men, not excepting him upon whose arm I
leaned. Later, there was no one in the world I envied less.

The ball was a private and very elegant one. There were some
notable guests. One gentleman in particular was pointed out to me
as an Englishman of great distinction and political importance. I
thought him a very interesting man for his years, but odd and a
trifle self-centered. Though greatly courted, he seemed strangely
restless under the fire of eyes to which he was constantly
subjected, and only happy when free to use his own in
contemplation of the scene about him. Had I been less absorbed in
my own happiness I might have noted sooner than I did that this
contemplation was confined to such groups as gathered about the
lady with the diamond. But this I failed to observe at the time,
and consequently was much surprised to come upon him, at the end
of one of the dances, talking With this lady in an animated and
courtly manner totally opposed to the apathy, amounting to
boredom, with which he had hitherto met all advances.

Yet it was not admiration for her person which he openly
displayed. During the whole time he stood there his eyes seldom
rose to her face; they lingered mainly-and this was what aroused
my curiosity--on the great fan of ostrich plumes which this
opulent beauty held against her breast. Was he desirous of seeing
the great diamond she thus unconsciously (or was it consciously)
shielded from his gaze? It was possible, for, as I continued to
note him, he suddenly bent toward her and as quickly raised
himself again with a look which was quite inexplicable to me. The
lady had shifted her fan a moment and his eyes had fallen on the
gem.

The next thing I recall with any definiteness was a tete-a-tete
conversation which I held with my lover on a certain yellow divan
at the end of one of the halls.

To the right of this divan rose a curtained recess, highly
suggestive of romance, called "the alcove." As this alcove
figures prominently in my story, I will pause here to describe
it.

It was originally intended to contain a large group of statuary
which our host, Mr. Ramsdell, had ordered from Italy to adorn his
new house. He is a man of original ideas in regard to such
matters, and in this instance had gone so far as to have this end
of the house constructed with a special view to an advantageous
display of this promised work of art. Fearing the ponderous
effect of a pedestal large enough to hold such a considerable
group, he had planned to raise it to the level of the eye by
having the alcove floor built a few feet higher than the main
one. A flight of low, wide steps connected the two, which,
following the curve of the wall, added much to the beauty of this
portion of the hall.

The group was a failure and was never shipped; but the alcove
remained, and, possessing as it did all the advantages of a room
in the way of heat and light, had been turned into a miniature
retreat of exceptional beauty.

The seclusion it offered extended, or so we were happy to think,
to the solitary divan at its base on which Mr. Durand and I were
seated. With possibly an undue confidence in the advantage of our
position, we were discussing a subject interesting only to
ourselves, when Mr. Durand interrupted himself to declare: "You
are the woman I want, you and you only. And I want you soon. When
do you think you can marry me? Within a week--if--"

Did my look stop him? I was startled. I had heard no incoherent
phrase from him before.

"A week!" I remonstrated. "We take more time than that to fit
ourselves for a journey or some transient pleasure. I hardly
realize my engagement yet."

"You have not been thinking of it for these last two months as I
have."

"No," I replied demurely, forgetting everything else in my
delight at this admission.

"Nor are you a nomad among clubs and restaurants."

"No, I have a home."

"Nor do you love me as deeply as I do you."

This I thought open to argument.

"The home you speak of is a luxurious one," he continued. "I can
not offer you its equal Do you expect me to?"

I was indignant.

"You know that I do not. Shall I, who deliberately chose a
nurse's life when an indulgent uncle's heart and home were open
to me, shrink from braving poverty with the man I love? We will
begin as simply as you please--"

"No," he peremptorily put in, yet with a certain hesitancy which
seemed to speak of doubts he hardly acknowledged to himself, "I
will not marry you if I must expose you to privation or to the
genteel poverty I hate. I love you more than you realize, and
wish to make your life a happy one. I can not give you all you
have been accustomed to in your rich uncle's house, but if
matters prosper with me, if the chance I have built on succeeds--
and it will fail or succeed tonight--you will have those comforts
which love will heighten into luxuries and--and--"

He was becoming incoherent again, and this time with his eyes
fixed elsewhere than on my face. Following his gaze, I discovered
what had distracted his attention. The lady with the diamond was
approaching us on her way to the alcove. She was accompanied by
two gentlemen, both strangers to me, and her head, sparkling with
brilliants, was turning from one to the other with an indolent
grace. I was not surprised that the man at my side quivered and
made a start as if to rise. She was a gorgeous image. In
comparison with her imposing figure in its trailing robe of rich
pink velvet, my diminutive frame in its sea-green gown must have
looked as faded and colorless as a half-obliterated pastel.

"A striking woman," I remarked as I saw he was not likely to
resume the conversation which her presence had interrupted. "And
what a diamond!"

The glance he cast me was peculiar.

"Did you notice it particularly?" he asked.

Astonished, for there was something very uneasy in his manner so
that I half expected to see him rise and join the group he was so
eagerly watching without waiting for my lips to frame a response,
I quickly replied:

"It would be difficult not to notice what one would naturally
expect to see only on the breast of a queen. But perhaps she is a
queen. I should judge so from the homage which follows her."

His eyes sought mine. There was inquiry in them, but it was an
inquiry I did not understand.

"What can you know about diamonds?" he presently demanded.
"Nothing but their glitter, and glitter is not all,--the gem she
wears may be a very tawdry one."

I flushed with humiliation. He was a dealer in gems--that was his
business--and the check which he had put upon my enthusiasm
certainly made me conscious of my own presumption. Yet I was not
disposed to take back my words. I had had a better opportunity
than himself for seeing this remarkable jewel, and, with the
perversity of a somewhat ruffled mood, I burst forth, as soon as
the color had subsided from my cheeks:

"No, no! It is glorious, magnificent. I never saw its like. I
doubt if you ever have, for all your daily acquaintance with
jewels. Its value must be enormous. Who is she? You seem to know
her."

It was a direct question, but I received no reply. Mr. Durand's
eyes had followed the lady, who had lingered somewhat
ostentatiously on the top step and they did not return to me till
she had vanished with her companions behind the long plush
curtain which partly veiled the entrance. By this time he had
forgotten my words, if he had ever heard them and it was with the
forced animation of one whose thoughts are elsewhere that he
finally returned to the old plea:

When would I marry him? If he could offer me a home in a month--
and he would know by to-morrow if he could do so--would I come to
him then? He would not say in a week; that was perhaps to soon;
but in a month? Would I not promise to be his in a month?

What I answered I scarcely recall. His eyes had stolen back to
the alcove and mine had followed them. The gentlemen who had
accompanied the lady inside were coming out again, but others
were advancing to take their places, and soon she was engaged in
holding a regular court in this favored retreat.

Why should this interest me? Why should I notice her or look that
way at all? Because Mr. Durand did? Possibly. I remember that for
all his ardent love-making, I felt a little piqued that he should
divide his attentions in this way. Perhaps I thought that for
this evening, at least, he might have been blind to a mere
coquette's fascinations.

I was thus doubly engaged in listening to my lover's words and in
watching the various gentlemen who went up and down the steps,
when a former partner advanced and reminded me that I had
promised him a waltz. Loath to leave Mr. Durand, yet seeing no
way of excusing myself to Mr. Fox, I cast an appealing glance at
the former and was greatly chagrined to find him already on his
feet.

"Enjoy your dance," he cried; "I have a word to say to Mrs.
Fairbrother," and was gone before my new partner had taken me on
his arm.

Was Mrs. Fairbrother the lady with the diamond? Yes; as I turned
to enter the parlor with my partner, I caught a glimpse of Mr.
Durand's tall figure just disappearing from the step behind the
sage-green curtains.

"Who is Mrs. Fairbrother?" I inquired of Mr. Fox at the end of
the dance.

Mr. Fox, who is one of society's perennial beaux, knows
everybody.

"She is--well, she was Abner Fairbrother's wife. You know
Fairbrother, the millionaire who built that curious structure on
Eighty-sixth Street. At present they are living apart--an
amicable understanding, I believe. Her diamond makes her
conspicuous. It is one of the most remarkable stones in New York,
perhaps in the United States. Have you observed it?"

"Yes--that is, at a distance. Do you think her very handsome?"

"Mrs. Fairbrother? She's called so, but she's not my style." Here
he gave me a killing glance. "I admire women of mind and heart.
They do not need to wear jewels worth an ordinary man's fortune."

I looked about for an excuse to leave this none too desirable
partner.

"Let us go back into the long hall," I urged. "The ceaseless
whirl of these dancers is making me dizzy."

With the ease of a gallant man he took me on his arm and soon we
were promenading again in the direction of the alcove. A passing
glimpse of its interior was afforded me as we turned to retrace
our steps in front of the yellow divan. The lady with the diamond
was still there. A fold of the superb pink velvet she wore
protruded across the gap made by the half-drawn curtains, just as
it had done a half-hour before. But it was impossible to see her
face or who was with her. What I could see, however, and did, was
the figure of a man leaning against the wall at the foot of the
steps. At first I thought this person unknown to me, then I
perceived that he was no other than the chief guest of the
evening, the Englishman of whom I have previously spoken.

His expression had altered. He looked now both anxious and
absorbed, particularly anxious and particularly absorbed; so much
so that I was not surprised that no one ventured to approach him.
Again I wondered and again I asked myself for whom or for what he
was waiting. For Mr. Durand to leave this lady's presence? No,
no, I would not believe that. Mr. Durand could not be there
still; yet some women make it difficult for a man to leave them
and, realizing this, I could not forbear casting a parting glance
behind me as, yielding to Mr. Fox's importunities, I turned
toward the supper-room. It showed me the Englishman in the act of
lifting two cups of coffee from a small table standing near the
reception-room door. As his manner plainly betokened whither he
was bound with this refreshment, I felt all my uneasiness vanish,
and was able to take my seat at one of the small tables with
which the supper-room was filled, and for a few minutes, at
least, lend an ear to Mr. Fox's vapid compliments and trite
opinions. Then my attention wandered.

I had not moved nor had I shifted my gaze from the scene before
me the ordinary scene of a gay and well-filled supper-room, yet I
found myself looking, as if through a mist I had not even seen
develop, at something as strange, unusual and remote as any
phantasm, yet distinct enough in its outlines for me to get a
decided impression of a square of light surrounding the figure of
a man in a peculiar pose not easily imagined and not easily
described. It all passed in an instant, and I sat staring at the
window opposite me with the feeling of one who has just seen a
vision. Yet almost immediately I forgot the whole occurrence in
my anxiety as to Mr. Durand's whereabouts. Certainly he was
amusing himself very much elsewhere or he would have found an
opportunity of joining me long before this. He was not even in
sight, and I grew weary of the endless menu and the senseless
chit chat of my companion, and, finding him amenable to my whims,
rose from my seat at table and made my way to a group of
acquaintances standing just outside the supper-room door. As I
listened to their greetings some impulse led me to cast another
glance down the hall toward the alcove. A man--a waiter--was
issuing from it in a rush. Bad news was in his face, and as his
eyes encountered those of Mr. Ramsdell, who was advancing
hurriedly to meet him, he plunged down the steps with a cry which
drew a crowd about the two in an instant.

What was it? What had happened?

Mad with an anxiety I did not stop to define, I rushed toward
this group now swaying from side to side in irrepressible
excitement, when suddenly everything swam before me and I fell in
a swoon to the floor.

Some one had shouted aloud

"Mrs. Fairbrother has been murdered and her diamond stolen! Lock
the doors!"



II

THE GLOVES

I must have remained insensible for many minutes, for when I
returned to full consciousness the supper-room was empty and the
two hundred guests I had left seated at table were gathered in
agitated groups about the hall. This was what I first noted; not
till afterward did I realize my own situation. I was lying on a
couch in a remote corner of this same hall and beside me, but not
looking at me, stood my lover, Mr. Durand.

How he came to know my state and find me in the general
disturbance I did not stop to inquire. It was enough for me at
that moment to look up and see him so near. Indeed, the relief
was so great, the sense of his protection so comforting that I
involuntarily stretched out my hand in gratitude toward him, but,
failing to attract his attention, slipped to the floor and took
my stand at his side. This roused him and he gave me a look which
steadied me, in spite of the thrill of surprise with which I
recognized his extreme pallor and a certain peculiar hesitation
in his manner not at all natural to it.

Meanwhile, some words uttered near us were slowly making their
way into my benumbed brain. The waiter who had raised the first
alarm was endeavoring to describe to an importunate group in
advance of us what he had come upon in that murderous alcove.

"I was carrying about a tray of ices," he was saying, "and seeing
the lady sitting there, went up. I had expected to find the place
full of gentlemen, but she was all alone, and did not move as I
picked my way over her long train. The next moment I had dropped
ices, tray and all. I bad come face to face with her and seen
that she was dead. She had been stabbed and robbed. There was no
diamond on her breast, but there was blood."

A hubbub of disordered sentences seasoned with horrified cries
followed this simple description. Then a general movement took
place in the direction of the alcove, during which Mr. Durand
stooped to my ear and whispered:

"We must get out of this. You are not strong enough to stand such
excitement. Don't you think we can escape by the window over
there?"

"What, without wraps and in such a snowstorm?" I protested.
"Besides, uncle will be looking for me. He came with me, you
know."

An expression of annoyance, or was it perplexity, crossed Mr.
Durand's face, and he made a movement as if to leave me.

"I must go," he began, but stopped at my glance of surprise and
assumed a different air--one which became him very much better.
"Pardon me, dear, I will take you to your uncle. This--this
dreadful tragedy, interrupting so gay a scene, has quite upset
me. I was always sensitive to the sight, the smell, even to the
very mention of the word blood."

So was I, but not to the point of cowardice. But then I had not
just come from an interview with the murdered woman. Her glances,
her smiles, the lift of her eyebrows were not fresh memories to
me. Some consideration was certainly due him for the shock he
must be laboring under. Yet I did not know how to keep back the
vital question.

"Who did it? You must have heard some one say."

"I have heard nothing," was his somewhat fierce rejoinder. Then,
as I made a move, "What you do not wish to follow the crowd
there?"

"I wish to find my uncle, and he is in that crowd."

Mr. Durand said nothing further, and together we passed down the
hall. A strange mood pervaded my mind. Instead of wishing to fly
a scene which under ordinary conditions would have filled me with
utter repugnance, I felt a desire to see and hear everything. Not
from curiosity, such as moved most of the people about me, but
because of some strong instinctive feeling I could not
understand; as if it were my heart which had been struck, and my
fate which was trembling in the balance.

We were consequently among the first to hear such further details
as were allowed to circulate among the now well-nigh frenzied
guests. No one knew the perpetrator of the deed nor did there
appear to be any direct evidence calculated to fix his identity.
Indeed, the sudden death of this beautiful woman in the midst of
festivity might have been looked upon as suicide, if the jewel
had not been missing from her breast and the instrument of death
removed from the wound. So far, the casual search which had been
instituted had failed to produce this weapon; but the police
would be here soon and then something would be done. As to the
means of entrance employed by the assassin, there seemed to be
but one opinion. The alcove contained a window opening upon a
small balcony. By this he had doubtless entered and escaped. The
long plush curtains which, during the early part of the evening,
had remained looped back on either side of the casement, were
found at the moment of the crime's discovery closely drawn
together. Certainly a suspicious circumstance. However, the
question was one easily settled. If any one had approached by the
balcony there would be marks in the snow to show it. Mr. Ramsdell
had gone out to see. He would be coming back soon.

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