“A cousin of Mr. Churchill, who lived in England, owned a fine ranch in Texas, and there the young couple went to pass their honeymoon. They were delighted with the ranch, and decided to make it a permanent home.
“Their little girl was born there, and was named for her mother. On account of some dainty little ways, and to avoid confusion, her father called her Lady Jane.
“In her frequent letters to me, my friend spoke of her as a remarkable child, and of course she was the idol of her parents. In spite of the trouble with her father, Jane never regretted her choice, and even her isolated life had many charms for her. She was of a quiet, domestic disposition, and loved the country. Indeed, I know her life there was one of idyllic happiness. When the child was three years old Jane sent me that picture; then about two more years passed, during which time I heard from her frequently, and after that suddenly the correspondence stopped. I was in Europe for a year, and when I returned I set to work to find out the cause. Many letters were returned from San Antonio, the nearest post-office; but finally we succeeded in communicating with the overseer on the ranch, who informed us that Mr. Churchill had died suddenly of a prevalent fever, the summer before,—more than two years ago now,—and that Mrs. Churchill with her little girl had left the ranch directly after her husband’s death to return to New York, since which time he had received no news of her; and the overseer also expressed surprise in his letter at her long silence, as he said she had left many valuable things that were to be sent to her when and where she should direct, after she reached New York; he had since received no instructions, and the property was still lying there.
“Then I wrote directly to New York to a friend who was very intimate at one time with the Chetwynds, for some information about Jane; but she could tell me nothing more than the newspapers told me, that Richard Chetwynd had gone abroad, to remain some years. Of Jane I could not hear a word.
“Sometimes I think she may have followed her father to Europe, and that they are reconciled and living there together. But why does she not write to me—to the friend whom she always loved so dearly?
“Then there is another thing that has worried me no little, although in itself it is a trifle. When we were at school together I had a little birthday gift made at Tiffany’s for Jane, a silver jewel-box, engraved with pansies and forget-me-nots, and a lot of school-girl nonsense. I made the design myself, and the design for the monogram also. About a year ago I found that very box for sale at Madame Hortense’s, on Canal Street. When I asked Hortense where she got it, she told me that it was left with her to sell by a woman who lived down town on Good Children Street, and she gave me the name and address; but when I went there a day or two afterwards the woman had gone,—left mysteriously in the night, and none of the neighbors could tell me where she went. Of course the woman’s sudden disappearance made me feel that there was something wrong about her, and I can’t help thinking that she got the little box dishonestly. It may have been stolen, either in Texas or in New York, and finally drifted here for sale. I got possession of it at once, very thankful that such a precious relic of my girlhood should have accidentally fallen into my hands; but every time I look at it I feel that it is a key which might unlock a mystery if only I knew how to use it.”
All the while Mrs. Lanier was speaking, Arthur Maynard followed every word with bright, questioning eyes and eager, intense interest. Sometimes he seemed about to interrupt her; then he closed his lips firmly and continued to listen.
Mrs. Lanier was looking at him inquiringly, and when he waited as if to hear more she said: “I have told you all. Now what have you to tell me?”
“Something quite as strange as anything you have told me,” replied Arthur Maynard, with an enigmatical air. “You must not think you’re the only one with a mystery worthy the skill of a Parisian detective. If I had any such talent I might make myself famous, with your clues and my clues together.”
“What in the world do you mean, Arthur? What do you know?—for pity’s sake, tell me! You can’t think how Jane Chetwynd’s long silence distresses me.”