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<div><h1>XXIV</h1></div> A CONFESSION Mr. Taylor, the landlord of the Mapleton Inn, showed a pleased surprise when Fleming Stone walked into his hotel and approached the desk. The men had never met, but everybody in Mapleton knew that Fleming Stone was in town, and had heard repeated and accurate descriptions of his appearance. “Perhaps you can spare half an hour for a smoke and a chat,” said Stone affably, and though Mr. Taylor heartily agreed, he did not confess that he could easily have spared half a day or more had the great detective asked him. In the landlord’s private office they sat down for a smoke, and soon the conversation, without effort, drifted around to the Van Norman affair. Unlike detectives of fiction, Fleming Stone was by no means secretive or close-mouthed. Indeed he was discursive, and Mr. Taylor marvelled that such a great man should indulge in such trivial gossip. They talked of old Richard Van Norman and the earlier days of the Van Norman family. “You’ve lived here a long time, then?” inquired Mr. Stone. “Yes, sir. Boy and man, I’ve lived here nigh onto sixty years.” “But this fine modern hotel of yours is not as old as that?” The landlord’s face glowed with pride. “Right you are, sir. Some few years ago wife had some money left her, and we built the old place over—pretty near made a whole new house of it.” “You have many guests?” “Well, not as many as I’d like; but as many as I can expect in a little town like this. Mostly transients, of course; drummers and men of that sort. Young Willard stayed here, when the Van Norman house was full of company, but after the—the trouble, he went back there to stay.” “Affable sort of man, Willard, isn’t he?” observed Stone. “Yes, he’s all of that, but he’s a scapegrace. He used to lead this town a dance when he lived here.” “How long since he lived here?” “Oh, he’s only been away a matter of three years, or that. ’Bout a year before his uncle died they quarrelled. They both had the devil’s own temper, and they had quarrelled before, but this time it was for keeps; and so off goes Mr. Tom, and never turns up again until he comes to Miss Madeleine’s wedding.” “Was he in any business when he lived here?” “Yes, he had a good position as engineer in a big factory. He was a good worker, Tom was, and not afraid of anything. Always jolly and good-natured, except when he’d have one of them fearful fits of temper. Then he was like a raging lion—no, more like a tiger; quiet-like, but deep and desperate.” Soon after Fleming Stone rose to go. “Thank you very much,” he said politely, “for your half-hour. And, by the way, have you any cachous? I find I haven’t any with me, and after smoking, you know, before going back to the ladies——” “Yes, yes, I know; but I don’t happen to have any. But wait a minute, I believe Tripp has some.” He threw open the door and gave a quick whistle. A boy appeared so suddenly that he could not have been far away, and, moreover, his sharp black eyes and alert manner betokened the type of boy who would be apt to be listening about. His hand was already in his pocket when Mr. Taylor said to him, “Tripp, didn’t I see you have a small bottle of cachous?—those little silver pellets, you know.” “Yessir;” and Tripp drew forth a half-filled bottle. “That’s right. Give them to the gentleman.” “Oh, I only want a couple,” said Fleming Stone, taking the vial which Tripp thrust toward him. “Where did you get these, my boy?” The boy blushed and looked down, twisting his fingers in embarrassment. “Speak up, Tripp,” said the landlord sternly. “Answer the gentleman, and see that you tell the truth.” “I ain’t going to tell no lie,” said Tripp doggedly. “I found this here bottle in the bureau-drawer of number fourteen a few days ago.” “Fourteen? That’s the room Mr. Willard had,” said Mr. Taylor, reflectively. “Yessir, but he didn’t leave them there. They were there before. I seen ’em, and I knew that hatchet-faced hardware man left ’em; then Mr. Willard, he come, but he didn’t swipe ’em, so I did. That ain’t no harm, is it?” “Not a bit,” said Fleming Stone, “since you’ve told the truth about it, and here’s a dollar for your honesty. And I’m going to ask you not to say anything more about the matter, for a few days at least. Also I’m going to ask to be allowed to take a look at room number fourteen.” “Certainly, sir. Tripp, show the gentleman up,” and Mr. Taylor fairly rubbed his hands with satisfaction to think that he and his premises were being made use of by the great detective. “Yessir. It’s at the back of the house, sir. This way, sir.” Mr. Stone’s survey of the room was exceedingly brief. He gave one glance around, looked out of the only window it contained, tried the key in the lock, and then expressed himself satisfied. Tripp, disappointed at the quickly-finished performance, elaborately pointed out the exact spot where he had found the cachou bottle, but Mr. Stone did not seem greatly interested. However, the interview was financially successful to Tripp, and after Mr. Stone’s departure he turned several hand-springs by way of expressing his satisfaction with the detective gentleman. <hr class='tbk100'/> After dinner that evening the group of the night before reassembled in the library. A strange feeling of oppression seemed to hang over all. The very fact that Fleming Stone had as yet said nothing of any discoveries he might have made, and the continued courtesy of his pleasant, affable demeanor, seemed to imply that he had succeeded rather than failed in his mission. Although genial and quickly responsive, he was, after all, an inscrutable man; and Mr. Fairbanks, for one, had learned that his gentle cordiality often hid deep thoughts in a quickly-working mind. Without preamble, as soon as they were seated Mr. Stone began: “Employed by Coroner Benson, I was asked to come here to discover, if might be, the murderer of Miss Madeleine Van Norman. By some unmistakable evidence which I have found, by some reliable witnesses with whom I have talked, and by some proofs which I have discovered, I have learned beyond all doubt who is the criminal, and how the deed was done. Is it the wish of all present that I should now make known what I have discovered, or is it preferred that I should tell Coroner Benson alone?” For several minutes nobody spoke, and then the coroner said, “Unless any one present states an objection, you may proceed to tell us what you know, here and now, Mr. Stone.” After waiting a moment longer and hearing no objection raised, Fleming Stone proceeded. “The man who murdered Miss Van Norman entered the house through a cellar window. He climbed up through the ash-chute in the drawing-room fireplace.” Although some of Mr. Stone’s hearers had listened to this revelation in the morning, the others had not heard of it, and every face expressed utter astonishment, if not unbelief—with the exception of one. Tom Willard turned white and stared at Fleming Stone as if he had not understood. “What?” he said hoarsely. As if he had not heard the interruption, Fleming Stone went on: “Who that man was, I think I need not tell you. Is he not already telling you himself?” Willard’s face grew drawn and stiff, like that of a paralyzed man, but his burning eyes seemed unable to tear themselves away from the quiet gaze of Fleming Stone. Then with a groan Willard’s head sank into his hands and he fell forward on the table—the very table at which Madeleine had sat on that fatal night. There was a stir, and Schuyler Carleton rushed forward to Willard’s assistance if need be. But the man had not fainted, and, raising his white face, he squared his shoulders, clenched his hands, and, again fixing his eyes on those of Fleming Stone, said in a desperate voice, “Go on.” “I must go on,” said Stone, gently. “I know each one of you is thinking that it is absurd to imagine a man of Mr. Willard’s weight and girth climbing up through the seemingly small opening in the fireplace. But this can be explained. To one who does not know how, such a feat would seem impossible, and, moreover, it would be impossible. It is only one who knows how who can do it. There are men in certain occupations, such as engineers and boiler men, who are continually obliged to squeeze through holes quite as small. The regular boiler man-hole is oval, and measures ten by fifteen inches, but there are many of them in large tanks which measure even less each way. I had occasion some time ago to interview an engineer on this subject. He weighed two hundred and fifteen pounds, and had a chest measure of forty-two inches. He told me that he could go through a much smaller man-hole than another workman who weighed only one hundred and sixty pounds, simply because he knew how. It is done by certain manipulations of the great muscles and by following a certain routine of procedure. But the method is unimportant, for the moment. The fact remains, and can be verified by any engineer. I discovered to-day that Mr. Willard is or has been an expert engineer, and for many years held such a position in a large factory right here in Mapleton. As to Mr. Willard’s presence in this house upon that fatal night, a tiny clue discovered by Mr. Fessenden gives us indubitable proof. Mr. Fessenden found next morning on the drawing-room floor a cachou. I have learned that these are by no means in common use in Mapleton, and, moreover, that it is not the custom of any one of the men now present to use them. I further learned that after Mr. Willard left here that night to go to the hotel he found by chance a small bottle of these in the room which was assigned to him. I am assuming that he carelessly put a few in his pocket, and that in his struggle through the ash-chute one fell upon the carpet. The room which Mr. Willard occupied at Mapleton Inn is in the second story, and its window opens upon a veranda roof which has a gentle slope almost to the ground. This provides an easy means of exit and entrance, and as Mr. Willard has no alibi later than half-past ten on that evening, the time would permit him to come here and go away again before the hour when Mr. Carleton is known to have arrived.” Then turning and meeting Tom’s intent gaze, Fleming Stone addressed himself directly to him, and said, “Why you chose to kill your cousin, I don’t know; but you did.” “I did,” said Tom, in a hollow voice, “and I will tell you why.” He rose as he spoke, and standing by the table, he steadied himself by placing one hand upon it. “It was entirely unpremeditated,” he said, “and I’m going to tell you about it, because I owe a confession to Madeleine’s memory, though I am responsible for my deed to no one here present.” Though Willard spoke with no attempt at pride or defiance, his tone and look were those of a man hopeless and utterly crushed. He addressed himself principally to Fleming Stone, looking now and then at Carleton, but not so much as glancing at any one else. “It is no secret, I think, that I loved my cousin Madeleine. Many, many times I have pleaded with her to marry me. But never mind about that. When I came here to attend her wedding, I couldn’t help seeing that the man she was about to marry did not love and worship her as I did. I besought her to give him up and to marry me, but she would not listen to that for a moment. That day before the wedding they had a little tiff, and Carleton did not return for dinner, though Madeleine expected him. She was all broken up about this, and was not herself during the evening. When I left her, at about ten o’clock, to go to the hotel, her sad face haunted me, and I could not dispel the idea that I must have one more talk with her, and beg her not to marry a man who did not love her.” Without seeming to do so, Fleming Stone stole a glance at Carleton. The man sat quietly, with bowed head, as one who hears himself denounced, but recognizes the truth. “I was in my room at the hotel,” went on Tom, “and was preparing for bed when the irresistible impulse came to me to go and see Maddy once more before her wedding day. I had no thought of wrong-doing. I came out through the window, instead of in the ordinary way, only because I knew the inn was about to be closed for the night, and I knew I could get back the same way. A trellis, that was simply a ladder, reached up to the low roof, and it was quite as easy an exit as through the front door. As to the cachous, I had found the stray vial there, and had slipped a couple in my pocket, without really thinking anything about it. I don’t usually carry them, but they are by no means unfamiliar to me. I came directly over here, and found the house partially darkened, as if for the night. There was a low light in the library and hall but the blinds were drawn, and I could see only a glimpse of Maddy’s yellow dress on the floor. I was about to ring the bell, when I suddenly thought that I didn’t care to rouse the household, or even the servants, and, remembering the way I often used to get in when I came home at night later than my uncle approved, I went around and entered by a cellar window. I came up through the fireplace, exactly as Mr. Stone has described to you. It is astonishingly easy to any one who knows how, and quite impossible for one who does not. I crossed the drawing-room at once, and entered the library. Naturally, I made very little noise, but still I am surprised that Hunt did not hear me. I did not try to be entirely silent, for I had no thought of evil in my heart. Madeleine looked up as I came into this room, and smiled. She asked me how I got in, and I told her, and we both laughed at some old reminiscences. I did not see that paper that Miss Dupuy wrote. Then I told her frankly that I wanted her to give up Carleton, for he did not love her and I did. When I said that about Carleton, Maddy burst into weeping, and said it wasn’t true. I said it was, and offered to prove it, and then we quarrelled. To you who do not know our family temper this may sound trivial, but it was not. We had a most intense and fiery quarrel, and though probably our voices were not raised—that was not our way—we were so furious with each other that we were practically beside ourselves. Maddened, too, by jealousy, and by being baffled in my errand, I suddenly resolved to kill both my cousin and myself. I picked up the dagger and told her what I was about to do, being fully determined to stab her and then myself. She did not scream, she simply sat there—in her superb beauty—her arm resting on the table, and said quietly, ‘You dare not do it!’ “This threw me into a frenzy, and with one thrust I drove the dagger home to her heart. She died without a sound, and I pulled out the dagger to turn it upon myself. But the sight of Madeleine’s blood brought me to my senses. I dropped the dagger and new thoughts came rushing to my mind thick and fast. Madeleine was dead. I could not bring her again to life. The fortune was now mine! Would I not be a fool then to kill myself? I’m not excusing these thoughts; I’m simply telling the thing as it occurred. I turned and softly recrossed the hall, let myself down through the drawing-room fireplace, and was back in my room at the hotel without having met any one going or coming. At two o’clock I was summoned over here by telephone, and I came. Miss Morton met me in the parlor, and as there was a bright light there then, I chanced to see one of those miserable cachous on the carpet. I picked it up and concealed it, but it warned me; and when Mr. Fessenden asked me the next day if I had any, I said no. Now I have told you all. Wait—do not speak! I know you would say that I was a coward not to take my own life when I intended to. I admit it; I was a coward, but it is not yet too late for the deed!” Before any one could move to prevent it Tom had grasped the dagger from the drawer where it was hidden and plunged it into his own breast. He sank down into the chair—the very chair where Madeleine had died, and, dreadful as the occasion was, those who saw him could not but feel that it was just retribution. It was Schuyler Carleton who again started forward, and put his arm around the wounded man. “Tom,” he cried, “oh, Tom, why did you do that?” Carleton then involuntarily started to pull the dagger away, but Tom stopped him. “Don’t,” he said thickly. “To pull that out will finish me. Leave it, and I have a few moments more!” “That is true,” said Fleming Stone. “Some one telephone for a doctor, but do not disturb the weapon. Mr. Willard, if you have anything to say, say it quickly.” “I will,” said Tom, quickly; “Fessenden, you are a lawyer, will you draw up my will?” Without a word, Rob caught up paper and pen, and prepared to take the last words of the dying man. Though not entirely in legal phrasing, the will was completed, and after a general bequest to Fessenden himself, and directing that all bills should be paid, and other minor matters of the sort, Tom Willard left the bulk of his fortune to Schuyler Carleton. “That,” he said, with almost his last breath, “is only a deed of justice, in the name of Madeleine and myself.” Before the arrival of Doctor Hills, Tom Willard was dead. Self-confessed, self-convicted, self-punished; but his crime was discovered by Fleming Stone, and proved by means of a tiny clue. <hr class='tbk101'/> <div class='lgc' style=''>  Popular Copyright Novels   AT MODERATE PRICES   Ask Your Dealer for a Complete List of A. L. Burt Company’s Popular Copyright Fiction </div>  <div class='lgl' style=''>    Abner Daniel. By Will N. Harben. Adventures of Gerard. By A. Conan Doyle. Adventures of a Modest Man. By Robert W. Chambers. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. Adventures of Jimmie Dale, The. By Frank L. 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Phillip Steele. By James Oliver Curwood. Pidgin Island. By Harold MacGrath. Place of Honeymoon, The. By Harold MacGrath. Plunderer, The. By Roy Norton. Pole Baker. By Will N. Harben. Pool of Flame, The. By Louis Joseph Vance. Port of Adventure, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. Postmaster, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Power and the Glory, The. By Grace McGowan Cooke. Prairie Wife, The. By Arthur Stringer. Price of Love, The. By Arnold Bennett. Price of the Prairie, The. By Margaret Hill McCarter. Prince of Sinners. By A. E. Phillips Oppenheim. Princes Passes, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. Princess Virginia, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. Promise, The. By J. B. Hendryx. Purple Parasol, The. By Geo. B. McCutcheon.   Ranch at the Wolverine, The. By B. M. Bower. Ranching for Sylvia. By Harold Bindloss. Real Man, The. By Francis Lynde. Reason Why, The. By Elinor Glyn. Red Cross Girl, The. By Richard Harding Davis. Red Mist, The. By Randall Parrish. Redemption of Kenneth Galt, The. By Will N. Harben. Red Lane, The. By Holman Day. Red Mouse, The. By Wm. Hamilton Osborne. Red Pepper Burns. By Grace S. Richmond. Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary, The. By Anne Warner. Return of Tarzan, The. By Edgar Rice Burroughs. Riddle of Night, The. By Thomas W. Hanshew. Rim of the Desert, The. By Ada Woodruff Anderson. Rise of Roscoe Paine, The. By J. C. Lincoln. Road to Providence, The. By Maria Thompson Daviess. Robinetta. By Kate Douglas Wiggin. Rocks of Valpré, The. By Ethel M. Dell. Rogue by Compulsion, A. By Victor Bridges. Rose in the Ring, The. By George Barr McCutcheon. Rose of the World. By Agnes and Egerton Castle. Rose of Old Harpeth, The. By Maria Thompson Daviess. Round the Corner in Gay Street. By Grace S. Richmond. Routledge Rides Alone. By Will L. Comfort.   St. Elmo. (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans. Salamander, The. By Owen Johnson. Scientific Sprague. By Francis Lynde. Second Violin, The. By Grace S. Richmond. Secret of the Reef, The. By Harold Bindloss. Secret History. By C. N. & A. M. Williamson. Self-Raised. (Ill.) By Mrs. Southworth. Septimus. By William J. Locke. Set in Silver. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. Seven Darlings, The. By Gouverneur Morris. Shea of the Irish Brigade. By Randall Parrish. Shepherd of the Hills, The. By Harold Bell Wright. Sheriff of Dyke Hole, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Sign at Six, The. By Stewart Edw. White. Silver Horde, The. By Rex Beach. Simon the Jester. By William J. Locke. Siren of the Snows, A. By Stanley Shaw. Sir Richard Calmady. By Lucas Malet. Sixty-First Second, The. By Owen Johnson. Slim Princess, The. By George Ade. Soldier of the Legion, A. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. Somewhere in France. By Richard Harding Davis. Speckled Bird, A. By Augusta Evans Wilson. Spirit in Prison, A. By Robert Hichens. Spirit of the Border, The. By Zane Grey. Splendid Chance, The. By Mary Hastings Bradley. Spoilers, The. By Rex Beach. Spragge’s Canyon. By Horace Annesley Vachell. Still Jim. By Honoré Willsie. Story of Foss River Ranch, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Story of Marco, The. By Eleanor H. Porter. Strange Disappearance, A. By Anna Katherine Green. Strawberry Acres. By Grace S. Richmond. Streets of Ascalon, The. By Robert W. Chambers. Sunshine Jane. By Anne Warner. Susan Clegg and Her Friend Mrs. Lathrop. By Anne Warner. Sword of the Old Frontier, A. By Randall Parrish.   Tales of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. Taming of Zenas Henry, The. By Sara Ware Bassett. Tarzan of the Apes. By Edgar R. Burroughs. Taste of Apples, The. By Jennette Lee. Tempting of Tavernake, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Tess of the D’Urbervilles. By Thomas Hardy. Thankful Inheritance. By Joseph C. Lincoln. That Affair Next Door. By Anna Katharine Green. That Printer of Udell’s. By Harold Bell Wright. Their Yesterdays. By Harold Bell Wright. The Side of the Angels. By Basil King. Throwback, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis. Thurston of Orchard Valley. By Harold Bindloss. To M. L. G.; or, He Who Passed. By Anon. Trail of the Axe, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Trail of Yesterday, The. By Chas. A. Seltzer. Treasure of Heaven, The. By Marie Corelli. Truth Dexter. By Sidney McCall. T. Tembarom. By Frances Hodgson Burnett. Turbulent Duchess, The. By Percy J. Brebner. Twenty-fourth of June, The. By Grace S. Richmond. Twins of Suffering Creek, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Two-Gun Man, The. By Charles A. Seltzer.   Uncle William. By Jennette Lee. Under the Country Sky. By Grace S. Richmond. Unknown Mr. Kent, The. By Roy Norton. “Unto Caesar.” By Baroness Orczy. Up From Slavery. By Booker T. Washington.   Valiants of Virginia, The. By Hallie Erminie Rives. Valley of Fear, The. By Sir A. Conan Doyle. Vane of the Timberlands. By Harold Bindloss. Vanished Messenger, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Vashti. By Augusta Evans Wilson. Village of Vagabonds, A. By F. Berkley Smith. Visioning, The. By Susan Glaspell.   Wall of Men, A. By Margaret H. McCarter. Wallingford in His Prime. By George Randolph Chester. Wanted—A Chaperon. By Paul Leicester Ford. Wanted—A Matchmaker. By Paul Leicester Ford. Watchers of the Plains, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Way Home, The. By Basil King. Way of an Eagle, The. By E. M. Dell. Way of a Man, The. By Emerson Hough. Way of the Strong, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Way of These Women, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Weavers, The. By Gilbert Parker. West Wind, The. By Cyrus T. Brady. When Wilderness Was King. By Randolph Parrish. Where the Trail Divides. By Will Lillibridge. Where There’s a Will. By Mary R. Rinehart. White Sister, The. By Marion Crawford. White Waterfall, The. By James Francis Dwyer. Who Goes There? By Robert W. Chambers. Window at the White Cat, The. By Mary Roberts Rinehart. Winning of Barbara Worth, The. By Harold Bell Wright. Winning the Wilderness. By Margaret Hill McCarter. With Juliet in England. By Grace S. Richmond. Witness for the Defense, The. By A. E. W. Mason. Woman in Question, The. By John Reed Scott. Woman Haters, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Woman Thou Gavest Me, The. By Hall Caine. Woodcarver of ’Lympus, The. By Mary E. Waller. Woodfire in No. 3, The. By F. Hopkinson Smith. Wooing of Rosamond Fayre, The. By Berta Ruck.   You Never Know Your Luck. By Gilbert Parker. Younger Set, The. By Robert W. Chambers.   </div>  <hr class='tbk102'/> Transcriber’s Notes: Punctuation and type-setting errors have been corrected without note. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. <div class='lgl' style=''>    page 285, if he could succeeded ==>&ensp;if he could succeed   </div>  <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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