When I came down she was waiting for me. With a finger against her lips in a command for silence, she turned and went along the passage to the door from which I had seen her enter. I followed her and catching¹ up with her as she placed her hand on the knob, burst out:  
"What is it—what does it mean? Where's Barker? In the name of Heaven tell me quickly what has happened?"
 
"I'll tell you in here," she said softly, and opening the door preceded me into the room.
 
It was evidently the dining-room of the house, a round table standing² in the center, a sideboard with glass and china on it against the wall. A coal fire burned in the grate, and the blinds were raised showing the dazzling glitter of the snow outside. It was warm and bright, the one place in that sinister³ house that seemed to have a human note about it. She passed round the table to the fire and, standing there, made a gesture that swept the walls and unveiled windows:
 
"Last night in this room I at last understood the tragedy in which we've all been involved."
 
I stood like a post, still too bemused to have any questions ready. There were too many to ask. It was like a skein so tangled⁵ there was no loose thread to start with.
 
"Did you know Harland was here when you came?" was what I finally said.
 
She nodded:
 
"I suspected it on Sunday afternoon. I was certain of it on Sunday night before I left New York." She dropped into a chair by the fire, and pointed⁶ me to one near-by at the table. "Sit down and let me tell it to you as it happened to me, my side of it. When you've heard that, you can read the statement he gave, then you'll see it all. Straight from its beginning to its awful end here last night."
 
Before she began I told her of our interview with Mrs. Whitehall and that we knew her true relationship to Barker.
 
She seemed relieved and asked if her mother had also told us of her position with regard to Harland. When she saw how fully⁷ we'd been informed she gave a deep sigh and said:
 
"Now you can understand why I prevaricated⁸ that day in Mr. Whitney's office. I was trying to shield my father, to help him any way I could. Oh, if I'd known the truth then or you had—the truth you don't know even yet! It was Johnston Barker that was murdered and Hollings Harland who murdered him!"
 
I started forward, but she raised a silencing hand, her voice shaken and pleading:
 
"Don't, please, say anything. Let me go on in my own way. It's so hard to tell." She dropped the hand to its fellow and holding them tight-clenched in her lap, said slowly: "If my mother told you of that conversation I had with Mr. Harland you know what I discovered then—that he loved me. I never suspected it before, but when he pressed me with questions about Johnston Barker, so unlike himself, vehement¹⁰ and excited, I understood and was sorry for him. I told him as much as I could then, explained my feeling for the man he was jealous of without telling my relationship, said how I respected and trusted him, what any girl might say of her father. He seemed relieved but went on to ask if Mr. Barker and I were not interested in some scheme, some undertaking¹¹ of a secret nature. That frightened me, it sounded as if he had found out about us, had been told something by someone. Taken by surprise, I answered with a half truth, that Mr. Barker had a plan on foot for my welfare, that he wanted to help me and my mother to a better financial position, but that I was not yet at liberty to tell what it was. I saw he thought I meant business, and as I go on, you'll see how that information gave him the confidence to do what he did later.
 
"I know now that the Whitney office discovered I had had a letter from Mr. Barker mailed from Toronto asking me to join him there and that I agreed to do so in a phone message that same day. That letter, directed to my office, was in typewriting and was signed with my father's initials. It was short, merely telling me that there was a reason for his disappearance¹² which he would explain to me, that his whereabouts must be kept secret, and that he wanted me to come to him to make arrangements for a new business venture in which he hoped to set me up. As you know I attempted to do what he asked, and was followed by two men from the Whitney office."
 
"How do you know all this?" I couldn't help butting¹⁴ in.
 
She gave a slight smile, the first I had seen on her face:
 
"I'll tell you that later—it's not the least curious part of my story. Realizing by the papers that there was a general hue¹⁶ and cry for him I was very cautious, much more so than your detectives thought. I saw them, decided¹⁷ the move was too dangerous, and came back. At that time, and for some time afterward¹⁸, I believed that letter was from my father."
 
"Wasn't it?"
 
She shook her head:
 
"No—but wait. I had no other letter and no other communication of any sort. I searched the papers for any news of him, thinking he might put something for me in the personal columns, but there was not a sign. Days passed that way, my business was closed and I had time to think, and the more I thought the more strange and inexplicable¹⁹ it seemed. Why, in the letter, had he made no reference to the broken engagement, so vital to both of us, that night in the church. Why had he said nothing about my mother whose state of mind he would have guessed?
 
"From the first I had suspicions that something was wrong. I could not believe he would have done what they said he had. Even after I read in the papers of his carefully planned get-away I was not convinced. After that scene in the Whitney office, when I saw you were all watching me, eager to trip me into any admission, my suspicions grew stronger. There was more than showed on the surface. I sensed it, an instinct warned me.
 
"As days passed and I heard nothing more from him, the conviction grew that something had happened to him. If it was accident I was certain it would have been known; if, as many thought, he'd lost his memory and strayed away, I was equally certain he'd have been seen and recognized. What else could it be? Can you picture me, shut up with my poor distracted mother, ravaged²⁰ by fear and anxiety? Those waiting days—how terrible they were—with that sense of dread²¹ always growing, growing. Finally it came to a climax²². If my father was dead as I thought, there was only one explanation—foul play. On Friday, when you came to see me, I was at the breaking point, afraid to speak, desperate for help and unable to ask for it.
 
"Now I come to the day when I learned everything, when all these broken forebodings of disaster fell together like the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope and took a definite shape. It was Sunday, can it be only two days ago? My mother had moved to the cottage and I was alone in the apartment packing up to follow her. About the middle of the afternoon while I was hard at work the telephone rang. I answered it and was told by the operator Long Distance was calling me, Quebec. At that my heart gave a great jump of joy and relief—my father was alive and sending for me again. It was like the wireless²³ answer of help to a foundering²⁴ vessel²⁵.
 
"You know how often the Long Distance connection varies—one day you can recognize a voice a thousand miles off that on the next you can't make out at a hundred? The voice that had spoken to me from Toronto was no more than a vibration²⁷ of the wire, thin and toneless. The one that spoke²⁶ from Quebec was distinct and colored with a personality.
 
"The first words were that it was J. W. B. and at these words, as if the receiver had shot an electric current into me, I started and grew tense, for it did not sound like the voice of J. W. B. It went on, explaining why he had not communicated with me, and how he now again wanted me to come to him. I, listening, became more and more sure that the person speaking was not my father, but that, whoever he was, his voice stirred a faint memory, was dimly suggestive of a voice I did know.
 
"I was confused and agitated²⁸, standing there with the receiver at my ear, while those sentences ran over the wire, every syllable²⁹ clear and distinct. Then, suddenly, I thought of a way I could find out. My father was the only man in the world who knew of our secret, of the plan for our reunion. A simple question would test the knowledge of the person talking to me. When he had finished I said:
 
"'I've been longing³⁰ to hear from you, not only for myself but for my mother—she's been in despair.'
 
"There was a slight pause before the voice answered:
 
"'Why should Mrs. Whitehall be so disturbed?'
 
"Then I knew it wasn't Johnston Barker. The reason for Mrs. Whitehall's disturbance³¹ was as well known to him as it was to me. Besides in our talks together he had never alluded³² to her as 'Mrs. Whitehall' but always as 'your mother' or by her Christian³³ name, Serena.
 
"I said the mystery of his disappearance had upset her, she was afraid something had happened to him. A faint laugh—with again that curiously³⁴ familiar echo in it—came along the wire:
 
"'You can set her mind at rest after you've seen me.'
 
"There was something ghastly about it—talking to this unknown being, listening to that whispering voice that called me to come and wasn't the voice I knew. It was like an evil spirit, close to me but invisible, and that I had no power to lay hold of.
 
"While I was thinking this he was telling me that he had a safe hiding place and that I must join him at once, the plans were now perfected for the new enterprise in which he was to launch me. I demurred³⁵ and to gain time told him how I'd tried to go before and been followed. That caught his attention at once, his questions came quick and eager. Perhaps before that he had tried to disguise his voice, anyway now the familiar note in it grew stronger. I began to catch at something—inflexions, accent—till suddenly, like a runner who rounds a corner and sees his goal unexpectedly before him, my memory saw a name—Harland!
 
"I was so amazed, so staggered that for a moment I couldn't speak. The voice brought me back, saying sharply, 'Are you there?' I stammered³⁶ a reply and said I couldn't make up my mind to come. He urged, but I wouldn't promise, till at length, feeling I might betray myself, I said I'd think it over and let him know later. He had to be satisfied with that and gave me his telephone number telling me to call him up as soon as I decided.
 
"What did I feel as I sat alone in that dismantled³⁷ place? Can you realize the state of my thoughts? What did it mean—what was going on? The man was not Johnston Barker, but how could he be Harland, who was dead and buried? Ah, if you had come then instead of Friday I'd have told you for I was in waters too deep for me. All that I could grasp was that I was in the midst of something incomprehensible and terrible, from the darkness of which one thought stood out—my father had never sent for me, I had never heard from him—it had been this other man all along! I was then as certain as if his spirit had appeared before me that Johnston Barker was dead.
 
"And now I come to one of the strangest and finest things that ever happened to me in my life. Late on Sunday night a girl—unknown to me and refusing to give her name—came and told me of the murder, the whole of it, the evidence against me, and that I stood in danger of immediate³⁸ arrest."
 
I jumped to my feet—I couldn't believe it:
 
"A girl—what kind of a girl?"
 
"Young and pretty, with dark brown eyes and brown curly hair. Oh, I can place her for you. She said she had been employed to help get the information against me and my father, and was the only woman acting³⁹ in that capacity."
 
"Molly!" I gasped⁴⁰, falling back into my chair. "Molly Babbitts! What in Heaven's name—"
 
"You're right to invoke⁴¹ Heaven's name, for it was Heaven that sent her. She wouldn't tell me who she was or why she came, but I could see. What reason could there have been except that she believed me innocent and wanted to help me escape?"
 
For a moment I couldn't speak. I dropped my head and a silent oath went up from me to hold Molly sacred forever more. I could see it all—she'd found her heart, realized the cruelty of what was to be done, discovered in some way she'd given me wrong information, and done the thing herself. The gallant⁴², noble little soul! God bless her! God bless her!
 
Carol went on:
 
"I wonder now what she thought of me. I must have appeared utterly⁴³ extraordinary to her. She thought she was telling me what I already knew, or at least knew something of. But as I sat there listening to her I was piecing together in my mind what she was saying with what I myself had found out. I was building up a complete story, fitting new and old together, and it held me dumb, motionless, as if I didn't care. It would take too long to tell you how I got at the main facts—the smaller points I didn't think of. It was as if what she said and what I knew jumped toward each other like the flame and the igniting gas, connecting the broken bits into a continuous line of fire. I knew that murder had been committed. I knew that the body was unrecognizable. I knew that had my father been living I would have heard from him. I knew that the voice on the phone was Harland's. Without all the details she gave me it would have been enough. Before she had finished my mind had grasped the truth. It was Johnston Barker who had been murdered and Harland—trying now to draw me to him—was the murderer.
 
"Do you guess what a flame of rage burst up in me—what a passion to trap and bring to justice the man who could conceive and execute such a devilish thing? I could hardly wait to go. I was too wrought⁴⁴ up to think out a reasonable course. Looking back on it today it seems like an act of madness, but I suppose a person in that state is half mad. I never thought of getting anybody to go with me, of applying to the police. I only saw myself finding Harland and accusing him. It's inconceivable—the irrational⁴⁵ action of a woman beside herself with grief and fury.
 
"I called up the number he'd given me and told him I was coming on the first train I could catch. He told me at what hour that morning it would leave New York and when it would reach Quebec. He said he would send his servant, a French woman, to meet me at the depot⁴⁶ as he didn't like to risk going himself. Then I left the house and went to the Grand Central Station, where I sat in the women's waiting room for the rest of the night.
 
"I did not get to Quebec till after midnight. The servant met me, put me in a sleigh that was waiting for us, and together we drove here.
 
"The house was lit up, every lower window bright. As we walked up the path from the gate I saw a man moving behind the shrubbery and called her attention to him. While she was opening the door with her key I noticed another loitering along the footpath⁴⁷ by the gate, obviously watching us. This time I asked her why there should be men about at such an hour and on such a freezing night. She seemed bewildered and frightened, muttering something in French about having noticed them when she went out. In the hallway she directed me to a room on the upper floor, telling me, when I was ready, to go down to the dining-room where supper was waiting.
 
"I went upstairs and she followed, showing me where I was to go and then walking down the passage to another room. As I took off my wraps and hat I could hear her voice, loud and excited, telling someone of the two men we had seen. Another voice answered it—a man's—but pitched too low for me to make out the words.
 
"When I was ready I went downstairs and into the room. No one was about, there was not a sound. The fire was burning as it is now, the curtains drawn⁴⁸, and the table, set out with a supper, was brightly lit with candles and decorated with flowers. I stood here by the fire waiting, white, I suppose, as the tablecloth⁴⁹, for I was at the highest climax of excitement a human being can reach and keep her senses.
 
"Suddenly I heard steps on the stairs. I turned and made ready, moistening my lips which were stiff and felt like leather. The steps came down the passage—the door opened. There he was!
 
"That first second, when he entered as the lover and conqueror⁵⁰, he looked splendid. The worn and harassed⁵¹ air he had the last time I'd seen him was gone. He was at the highest pinnacle⁵² of his life, 'the very butt¹⁵ and sea mark of his sail,' and it was as if his spirit recognized it and flashed up in a last illuminating⁵³ glow of fire and force.
 
"He was prepared for amazement⁵⁴, horror, probably fear from me. The first shock he received was my face, showing none of these, quiet, and, I suppose, fierce with the hatred⁵⁵ I felt. He stopped dead in the doorway⁵⁶, the confidence stricken out of him—just staring. Then he stammered:
 
"'Carol—you—you—'
 
"He was too astounded⁵⁷ to say any more. I finished for him, my voice low and hoarse⁵⁸:
 
"'You think I didn't expect to see you. I did. I knew you were here—I came to find you. I came to tell you that............