Chapter XXIII Confession
Though Campbell Crosby’s face was white and set, it was with rage, not fear.
“How dare you!” he exclaimed, as he fairly glared at Fleming Stone. “It is impossible to ignore the fact that your dastardly accusations are directed toward me! And I would deny them, but for the fact that they are so ridiculously absurd as to need no denial! I am disinclined even to take up the subject with you. But I will tell you, what every one else present knows, that my connection with this case in any way is an utter impossibility! The night it occurred I was in Philadelphia. I left White Birches at noon the day before my cousin disappeared, and I returned in the evening of the day after he disappeared.”
“And you can give an account of yourself, Mr. Crosby, during that interval of absence?” Fleming Stone’s eyes had lost all their softness now. They gleamed with stern justice as he looked at Campbell Crosby, and they glittered ominously as Crosby replied:
“Every moment of it! My partner, Mr. Gale, is present and he will vouch for the truth of my statements. Though the audacity of your accusation makes me wish to treat it with the silent contempt it deserves!”
Emory Gale looked bewildered. “I cannot understand it at all, Mr. Stone,” he said. “Mr. Crosby was in my company almost continuously from the time we left White Birches until we returned here together.”
“Almost continuously, Mr. Gale,” repeated Fleming Stone gravely. “What were the hours that Mr. Crosby was not in your company?”
“Why, let me see. Only during the night, I think. We reached Philadelphia about six, dined separately, and were to meet later, but Crosby concluded to go to a concert, so I didn’t see him again until he came to the office next morning at the usual time.”
“Then you saw him, let us say, at six o’clock Monday night, and next at nine o’clock Tuesday morning?”
“Approximately that.”
“And between those hours, Mr. Gale, Mr. Crosby returned to White Birches, accomplished what he came for, and went back again to Philadelphia, in time to reach the office as usual.”
“You lie!” exclaimed Campbell Crosby, springing from his seat.
“No, I speak the truth, Mr. Crosby, and I must ask you to discuss the matter more quietly.”
“But, Mr. Stone,” went on Emory Gale, looking puzzled, “there must be a mistake somewhere, for Cam telephoned me two or three times Monday evening; the last time just as I was retiring, at about eleven-thirty o’clock. It would be a physical impossibility for him to make the trip from Philadelphia to New York, visit White Birches, and get back again to Philadelphia between eleven-thirty at night and seven in the morning, for he telephoned me at seven o’clock in the morning regarding a bit of special business.”
“Yes, that’s what it would be, a physical impossibility!” agreed Mr. Wheeler, counting the hours on his fingers.
“Mr. Crosby did not accomplish a physical impossibility,” said Fleming Stone. “Where was he when he telephoned you at eleven-thirty o’clock, Mr. Gale?”
“At his hotel.”
“How do you know he was there?”
“He said so.”
“Ah, he was not quite truthful. As a matter of fact, he telephoned you at eleven o’clock on Monday night from Newark, New Jersey. I know, for I have verified the long-distance call.”
Perhaps not so much because of what Fleming Stone said, as because of the calm certainty with which he said it, Campbell Crosby gave up.
“You have beaten me,” he said to Mr. Stone.
“I did concoct and carry out a plan exactly as you have described it. But I am too clever not to realize when I am cornered. My dear friends”—and Crosby glanced round the room—”Mr. Fleming Stone is right. I could supply to his story a few missing details concerning that midnight trip, in a high-powered runabout. I could tell you of the annoying delays in getting long-distance telephone connections, and waiting for infrequent subway trains. But Mr. Stone has given you the main truths of what happened. He cannot know, nor can anyone who did not hear it, the provocation I received from Justin Arnold that night. I came here intending to kill him, if he would not give up to me the girl who had promised to marry him, although she did not love him. He told me that he had about decided himself, that he would allow her to break the engagement, as she had very shortly before told him she wanted to, but, since my request, he had changed his mind and should hold her to her promise. That enraged me, and I told him just what I thought of him. Also he told me what he thought of me, and they were not, either of them, beautiful thoughts. I had in my coat a sprig of scarlet sage which Dorothy had placed there when I went away at noon. It was faded, but I cherished it. Justin knew where I got it, and took it from me. That was the last straw! I fought him for it, but he held it tight in his hand, where it was,—at last,—found. In a blind fury I grabbed up the dagger, intending merely to threaten him, but he taunted me too far,—and the thing happened. I don’t attempt to justify my deed, but neither do I regret it. Justin Arnold was not a good man and could never have made any woman happy. He was—”
Suddenly Crosby’s bravado broke down. With a pathetic gesture of utter despair, he looked straight at Dorothy, and said, “But, Dorothy, I did it all for you. Perhaps you other men cannot understand what it means to love a girl enough to commit a crime for her. Perhaps your finer natures would not feel that crime could result from intense and passionate love. But in my case it did. Ever since Dorothy became engaged to Justin Arnold, I’ve wanted to kill Justin Arnold. I’ve lived for it, and toward it. He had everything, and I nothing. He had fortune, home, leisure, and added to those he had the promise of the girl I love! I tried not to do this thing; I had long talks with Justin, begging him to give up Dorothy, who never loved him. Had he spoken kindly to me, or even frankly, as man to man, it might have been different. But he taunted me with my poverty, with laziness, and with general undesirableness. He even dared me to go ahead and win Dorothy from him if I could, saying he knew I could not, because I had no money. With his death, his money would all be mine, also his home, and also—as I firmly believed—the girl that we both wanted. The consequences you know. The further consequences you will now learn. I have made a will—for I suppose that at the present moment the estate of the late Justin Arnold is legally mine. At my death it will revert to Dorothy Duncan. You probably think that my death in the near future is probable. That is true, but the future is nearer than you think. While making this confession to you I have, perhaps unnoticed, taken a deadly poison which will inevitably accomplish its end in a short time. I have made my confession, but I ask no forgiveness—I ask no pity or sympathy. But, Dorothy, remember I did it all for you. For you, darling—but I have failed.”
With a last despairing look of love and longing at Dorothy, Crosby folded his arms on the table before him, and dropped his head upon them.
-End-