By Elizabeth Kent G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS New York and London The Knickerbocker Press 1903 Copyright 1902 BY G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS Published, August, 1902 Reprinted, January, 1903; March, 1903; October, 1903 The Knickerbocker Press, New York THE HOUSE OPPOSITE THE HOUSE OPPOSITE...

What I am about to relate occurred but a few years ago—in the summer of ’99, in fact. You may remember that the heat that year was something fearful. Even old New Yorkers, inured by the sufferings of many summers, were overcome by it, and everyone who could, fled from the city. On the particular August day when this story begins, the temperature had been even more unbearable than usual, and approaching night brought no perceptible relief. After dining with Burton (a young doctor like myself), we

It seemed to me that I had only just got to sleep on my divan when I was awakened by a heavy truck lumbering by. The sun was already high in the heavens, but on consulting my watch I found that it was only ten minutes past six. Annoyed at having waked up so early I was just dozing off again when my sleepy eyes saw the side door leading to the back stairs of the Rosemere slowly open and a young man come out. Now I do not doubt that, except for what I had seen and heard the night before, I should

We took our places at the foot of the corpse, with our backs to the light and silently awaited developments. In a few minutes McGorry returned, followed by the electrician, and during the rest of the time remained in the room checking off the men as they came in. It is needless for me to repeat all the testimony, as a great deal of it was perfectly irrelevant; suffice it to say that the electrician, engineer, and janitress all passed the ordeal without adding an iota to our information. The watc

Not waiting for the elevator, we walked up the intervening flight and rang a bell on our right. The door was opened by a neat-looking maid, who showed some surprise at our early call. “Is Mr. Atkins at home?” inquired the detective. “Yes, sir; but he is having his breakfast.” “Ah, indeed; I am sorry to disturb him,” replied Mr. Merritt. “However, it can’t be helped. Will you please tell your master that two gentlemen must see him for a few moments on important business.” “Yes, sir,” and showing

“Is Mrs. Atkins ready?” I inquired of the pretty maid. Before she had time to answer, I heard the frou-frou of silk skirts advancing rapidly towards me. The perfume I had already noticed grew still more overpowering, and the lady herself appeared. And an exceedingly pretty little woman she proved to to be, too, with golden hair and cheeks that rivalled the roses. Her large blue eyes were as innocent and, it would be hypercritical to add, as expressionless as her sisters’ of the toy-shop. A white

When I got back to my diggings I was astonished to find that it was only ten o’clock. How little time it takes to change the whole world for one! All day long I forced myself to go about my usual work, but the thought of May Derwent never left me. It was the greatest relief to find that in none of the evening papers did her name appear. How McGorry managed to conceal from the reporters the fact that she had been in the building remains a mystery to this day—but how thankful I was that he was abl

Fred’s letter was a great relief to me. I had not dared to allow my thoughts to dwell on the man whom I had seen in May Derwent’s apartment on that eventful night. The supposition, however, that it was her brother, explained everything satisfactorily. Nothing could be more likely than that this angel of mercy should give shelter to this returned prodigal, and try to save him from the punishment he so richly deserved. But what cared I what he had done? She—she—was immaculate. At the hospital that

Telegram. Dr. Charles Fortescue, Madison Avenue, New York City. Saturday , August 12. Maurice Greywood. Can’t find his address. May be in Directory. Frederic Cowper. Clipping from the New York Bugle , Sunday, August 13. Landlady Identifies Body of the Rosemere Victim as that of her vanished lodger, artist Greywood. Police still Sceptical. Mr. Maurice Greywood, the talented young artist who returned from Paris the beginning of last winter, has disappeared, and grave fears for his safety are enter

While these things had been happening in the country, my Sunday in town had been almost equally eventful. I had not been surprised on receiving Fred’s telegram the evening before to find that the name it contained was that of the young artist. Had he not already told me that Greywood was supposed to have been the favoured suitor? And, knowing May Derwent as I did, I had felt sure from the very first that she must have entertained the liveliest feelings of trust and liking—to say the least—for th

That very evening, as I was sitting quietly in my office, trying to divert my mind from the murder by reading, my boy came in and told me that there was a lady in the waiting-room who wanted to see me. There was something so peculiar about the way he imparted this very commonplace information that my curiosity was aroused; but I refrained from questioning him, and curtly bade him show the lady in. When she appeared I was no longer surprised at his manner, for a more strange and melodramatic figu

After my interview with the detective, I went out to visit some patients, and on my way home I met young Atkins, whom I had not seen since the preceding Thursday. Although we had met but once, he recognised me immediately, and greeted me most cordially. I was, however, shocked to see what havoc a short week had wrought in his looks. His face was drawn and pale, and he appeared nervous and ill at ease. Notwithstanding he had been walking in the opposite direction, he at once turned back, and we s

Beverley, L. I., Monday, August 15. Dear Charley: My leg is worse. Won’t you run down here and have a look at it? I also want your advice about May Derwent. Aff. yours, Fred. When I received this note early on Tuesday morning, I at once made arrangements for a short absence. Now that duty, and not inclination alone, called me elsewhere, I had no scruples about leaving New York; and when, a few hours later, after visiting my most urgent cases, I found myself on a train bound for Beverley, I bless

An urgent case necessitated my leaving Beverley at such an early hour that the city was still half asleep when I reached it. After driving from florist to florist in search of an early riser amongst them, I at last found one. I selected the choicest of his flowers, and ordered them to be sent to Miss Derwent by special messenger, hoping they would arrive in time to greet her on her awakening, and cheerfully paid the price demanded for them. On reaching my office I was surprised to find a note fr

That night I could not sleep, and when on receiving my mail the next morning I found that it contained no line from Fred, my anxiety could no longer be kept within bounds, and I determined that, come what might, another day should not pass without my seeing May Derwent. I left the hospital as soon as I decently could, but, even so, it was almost one o’clock before I was once more on my way to Beverley. On arriving there, I found to my disgust that there were no cabs at the station. An obliging c

One of the many things and people which I am sorry to say my new occupation as Squire of Dames had caused me to neglect, was poor Madame Argot. On leaving the Derwents, I determined to call on her at once. To my surprise, I found Mrs. Atkins there before me. The poor Frenchwoman was crying bitterly. “Look here!” I said, after we had exchanged greetings; “this will never do. My patient must not be allowed to excite herself in this way.” “Ah, mais monsieur,” she cried, “what vill you? I mus’ veep;

Her visit to town had certainly done May no harm. On the day of their arrival, she and her mother dined with me at the newest thing in restaurants, and we went afterwards to a roof garden. I had provided a man of an age suitable to Mrs. Derwent to make up the party, and so the evening passed pleasantly for all—delightfully for me. For, to my great relief, May seemed really better. With flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, she flitted gaily from one topic to another, and only occasionally did she g

Atkins and I were still at breakfast when, to my surprise, the detective was announced. Atkins started to his feet. “Any news of my wife?” he inquired, anxiously. “None, I regret to say,” answered Merritt. I was still very much annoyed with him for having been so indiscreet and tactless in his interview with May Derwent, but he looked so dejected that my anger melted a little. Atkins left us almost immediately, and started on his weary search. When he was gone, I motioned Merritt to take his pla

The Atkinses had departed, and Merritt and I were again alone. “Well,” I exclaimed, “the Rosemere mystery doesn’t seem any nearer to being solved, does it?” “You ought to be satisfied with knowing that your friend, Mrs. Atkins, is exonerated.” “Of that I am heartily glad; but who can the criminal be?” The detective shrugged his shoulders. “You don’t know?” I asked. “Haven’t an idea,” he answered. “But what about that pretty criminal you’ve been talking so much about?” “Well, Doctor, to tell you