The
papers were in her trunk at Sunnyside, with letters from the dead
man that would prove what she said. She was going; she would not
be judged by earthly laws; and somewhere else perhaps Lucy would
plead for her. It was she who had crept down the circular
staircase, drawn by a magnet, that night Mr. Jamieson had heard
some one there. Pursued, she had fled madly, anywhere--through
the first door she came to. She had fallen down the clothes
chute, and been saved by the basket beneath. I could have cried
with relief; then it had not been Gertrude, after all!
That was the story. Sad and tragic though it was, the very
telling of it seemed to relieve the dying woman. She did not
know that Thomas was dead, and I did not tell her. I
promised to look after little Lucien, and sat with her until the
intervals of consciousness grew shorter and finally ceased
altogether. She died that night.
CHAPTER XXXIII
AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS
As I drove rapidly up to the house from Casanova Station in the
hack, I saw the detective Burns loitering across the street from
the Walker place. So Jamieson was putting the screws on--lightly
now, but ready to give them a twist or two, I felt certain, very
soon.
The house was quiet. Two steps of the circular staircase had
been pried off, without result, and beyond a second message from
Gertrude, that Halsey insisted on coming home and they would
arrive that night, there was nothing new. Mr. Jamieson, having
failed to locate the secret room, had gone to the village.
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