# The Marathon Mystery/Part 1/Chapter 6
### CHAPTER VI
#### Light from a New Angle

IT was long past midnight when Godfrey dropped from the top of the Record building in the express elevator and walked over to the station of the Elevated for the trip uptown. The story was written-it would be the feature of the morning’s paper, and it would be illustrated “exclusively”—but he was not wholly satisfied with it. He had accepted the explanation given by Miss Croydon, yet he felt instinctively that it did not explain—that there was much below the surface of which he had caught only the faintest glimpse and which he was utterly unable to decipher. He did not at all believe—and he took care that the readers of the Record should have no cause to believe—that Miss Croydon was in any way directly connected with the crime. Indeed, there was every evidence that she had, in that particular, spoken the truth.
And in the other particulars? Well, it was hard to separate the wheat from the chaff; hard to tell where truth left off and invention began. Some foundation of truth the story must have had, or it would not have been told so glibly nor appear so plausible. Indeed, in two details, it had been confirmed by other evidence—they had found the pipe with which the blow was struck and the bullet from her pistol embedded in the door.
Below it all, underlying it all, the foundation upon ​which the mystery rested was Miss Croydon’s motive in making such an appointment, and, above all, in keeping it. That was a thing utterly opposed to her social training, to her maidenly instinct—it was wild, foolish, questionable. She would feel this more acutely than a man could, and yet it had not been sufficient to deter her, to hold her back. What resistless motive was it that had urged her on? What was the secret contained in the papers she had hoped to get from Thompson? Godfrey caught a dim glimpse of something dark, repulsive, terrible. What was the secret? Ah, he would have known, if Goldberg had only been a moment later!
As to Jimmy the Dude, Godfrey had maintained a careful reticence, while commending Simmonds’s promptness in arresting him. Simmonds, no doubt, believed him guilty; but then Simmonds lacked imagination. It might be, Godfrey thought a little savagely, that he himself possessed too much of it, but the theory which that grizzled veteran had built up so adroitly did not in the least satisfy him. It was too prosaic, too matter-of-fact; reasonable, perhaps, but not convincing. It reduced the mystery to a mere sordid crime. Godfrey wanted colour in his mysteries—and right there, he reminded himself again, was his great weakness. Yet Jimmy’s manner had not been that of a guilty man; to be sure, it had changed at the last moment, at the mention of Miss Croydon’s name. Why? What was this wide-stretching net of intrigue, woven in the dark, involving alike Fifth Avenue and the “Tenderloin”—the Delroy mansion, the Marathon, Magraw’s gilded saloon?
​Pondering this puzzle, with an intensity that had something poignant and personal in it, he would have been carried past his station but for the guard, who knew him, and who touched him on the arm. He went mechanically down the stair and turned up toward the avenue. Still mechanically, he mounted to his rooms and opened the door. A man who had been sitting in a chair before the fire sprang up as he entered.
“Why, Jack!” cried Godfrey, waking suddenly, and he held out his hand with that fine heartiness of greeting which is sometimes seen between men. Then, as he caught the other’s eyes, his face changed. “Sit down,” he said gently, “till I get out of these damp togs. Then we’ll have a talk.”
He disappeared into the inner room, while the younger man sank back into his chair and gazed gloomily into the fire. Even strained by emotion as it was at this moment, his face was worth looking at—clear-cut, square-jawed, alert-such as one has come, of late years, to associate with the typical college-bred American. But the face was more than merely handsome—it was open, ingenuous, winning—and looking at it, one could understand without further explanation how it happened that John Tolbert Drysdale had so many friends and so few enemies.
Godfrey was back in a moment, drew up another chair, and got out tobacco and pipes—for Drysdale a glossy briar, consecrated to his service; for himself, a meerschaum of a deep and tender brown, bespeaking years of loving usage. Not until the pipes were going nicely did Godfrey speak.
​“You’ve heard about it, then?” he asked.
“I know that something terrible has happened,” said Drysdale, a little hoarsely. “I don’t know what—it’s beyond imagining, even—at least, beyond my poor brain. Miss Croydon told me to come to you——”
“Ah!” commented Godfrey. “Did she do that?”
“Yes—she said you could tell me all I wished to know.”
“Where did you see her?”
“At Mrs. Delroy’s. I came straight here from there.”
“So you were at Mrs. Delroy’s?” and Godfrey mused for a moment, with eyes intent on the fire. “But come, we’ll never get the thing straightened out this way. Let’s begin at the beginning. Tell me what happened at Mrs. Delroy’s and then I’ll fill out the story, if I can. Let me have every detail you can remember.”
Drysdale waited a moment to be sure of his self-control.
“I called at Mrs. Delroy’s about nine o’clock,” he began, “and asked for Miss Croydon——”
“Wait a minute,” Godfrey interrupted. “I want to ask you a question, which you mustn’t be offended at. I’m asking because I’ll have to know if I’m really to help you. Are you and Miss Croydon engaged to be married?”
Again a minute passed before the answer came.
“Yes,” said Drysdale huskily, at last.
Godfrey silently held out his hand and gave his companion’s fingers a warm pressure.
“Now go on,” he said.
“I was shown into the library,” continued the other, ​“while the maid took up my card. The room was in darkness, save for the light of the fire. The windows, you know, look out upon the street. Instead of sitting down, I wandered toward them and in a moment saw someone standing behind the curtains. My first thought—don’t laugh at me—was that it was Miss Croydon looking for me, for she knew that I was coming, and I strode to the curtains and threw them back, uttering I know not what nonsense. You can imagine how abashed I was when Mrs. Delroy wheeled around upon me with a face so white and distorted that I scarcely knew her.
“‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ I cried, seeing how I had startled her.
“For a moment she didn’t seem to know me.
“‘What is it?’ she asked in a hoarse whisper. ‘What has happened?’
“‘My dear Mrs. Delroy, you really must pardon me,’ I repeated. ‘I’m awfully sorry I frightened you. I took you for your sister.’
“She stared at me a minute longer in a queer way; then her face brightened and she smiled and held out her hand.
“‘Oh, how do you do, Mr. Drysdale?’ she said, but her voice was even yet a little tremulous. ‘Yes, you did startle me. Isn’t it a fearful night?’
“‘Indeed it is!’ I agreed. ‘I had quite a time getting here.’
“‘You came to see Grace?’ she asked, with a glance over her shoulder down into the street.
“‘Yes,’ I said; ‘she’s expecting me. I’ve sent up my card. I told my man not to wait,’ I added, think​ing it was for that she had looked out of the window. ‘It’s too bad a night to keep either man or beast outdoors. He’s to come back at eleven—I dare say Grace will put up with me till then.’
“She hesitated an instant, looking at me in a way I did not understand. Just then the maid came to the door, but seeing me with Mrs. Delroy, went away again.
“‘I fear she’ll not be able to see you tonight, Mr. Drysdale.’ she said, at last. ‘She’s not been feeling well since dinner. She’s lying down now, and I think she’s asleep.’
“‘Oh, well, then,’ I said, ‘I won’t disturb her. It’s nothing serious, I hope?’
“‘Not at all; merely a little indisposition. Shall I let you out?’
“There was something in the last words—a little too much eagerness, perhaps—which arrested my attention. They didn’t sound quite like Mrs. Delroy, for you know, Godfrey, she’s usually the sweetest, gentlest, most hospitable woman in the world—the very last person who would think of chasing a man out into a storm. I don’t know why it was, but somehow the thought flashed through my head that she was deceiving me, that she wasn’t telling the truth, that she wanted to get rid of me. I’ve got a streak of obstinacy in me that took fire in a moment.
“‘Isn’t there a chance that Miss Croydon may get better after a while and come down?’ I asked.
“Mrs. Delroy shook her head decidedly.
“‘I’m afraid not. It’s a nervous headache, you see. It will last all night, probably.’
​“‘Is she subject to nervous headaches?’ I asked, playing for time. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. She doesn’t in the least look it.’
“‘Oh, no,’ she answered quickly, ‘she’s not at all subject to them; but occasionally, when she’s overworked herself——’
“The sentence trailed off into nothingness. I saw that she wasn’t thinking of what she was saying, and when she glanced down into the street again, I began to get an inkling of the real state of affairs. I was a little ashamed of the part I was playing, but I determined to brazen it out. If Miss Croydon had gone out alone on a night like this, I had a right to know it. Why should she make a mystery of it? What was there in her errand that needed to be concealed from me?
“Mrs. Delroy was looking at me anxiously. Finally she took the bull by the horns.
“‘I really must be going upstairs,’ she said. ‘You’ll excuse me?’
“‘Certainly. Is Mr. Delroy here?’
“‘No; he’s out of town to-day,’ and she made another movement toward the door.
“I didn’t see how I was going to hang on any longer without being absolutely rude; I gave it up in despair. After all, I could wait outside the house. Then, suddenly, I realised that I was acting like a cad—I had no right to play the spy—but there was something back of it all—some mystery—which worried and puzzled me. But perhaps it was only my fancy—why should Mrs. Delroy deceive me? I was playing the fool—I had no right to suspect…
​“And just then, Godfrey, as I glanced out of the window, I saw a cab dash up to the house and a woman get out of it. I knew her on the instant, and I shouldn’t care to go through another such moment of doubt and suspicion and agony. For it was worse than I had thought. She had not used her sister’s carriage—then, at least, she would have been in the care of a trusted coachman—she had hired a cab——”
“Yes,” said Godfrey drily. “The Delroy carriage would have been too conspicuous; besides, she wanted to keep her errand a secret, even from the servants.”
“Do you mean——”
“No matter; go ahead with your story, then I’ll tell you mine.”
Drysdale was shaking convulsively, but he managed to go on.
“As I said, I saw a cab drive up and a woman get out She ran up the steps, the door opened, and Miss Croydon came into the room. Even in the dim light, I could see how white her face was.
“‘Grace!’ cried Mrs. Delroy, stepping forward at sight of her. ‘Grace!’
“Miss Croydon turned to her and held out her arms.
“‘Yes, I’ve seen him, Edith,’ she said, in a voice that I shall never forget. ‘I should have taken your advice. I should not have gone.’
“‘You shall not go again, dear!’
“‘No,’ agreed the other, ‘not again!’
“There was something in her tone that caught her sister’s ear.
“‘What is it, Grace?’ she demanded fiercely. ‘Tell me!’
​“‘It’s worse than either of us thought—he’s dead, Edith!’”
Drysdale paused a moment. His voice was shaking so that he could not go on. He wiped his forehead mechanically, with trembling hand.
“Godfrey,” he said, at last, “I tell you my own heart stood still at those words, uttered in such a tone—there was no mistaking her meaning—and it was a moment before I could see clearly enough to discern Mrs. Delroy’s look of horror as she stared up at her sister.
“‘Not that!’ she cried. ‘Not on your hands! Oh, why did you go? Why did you go? What have you done?’
“She swayed, clutched blindly at the air, and would have fallen had not her sister caught her in her arms. That brought my senses back, and I sprang out from the shadow of the curtains.
“‘Let me help you, Grace,’ I said, as calmly as I could.
“She turned upon me a face dead but for the awful horror of the eyes looking out from it.
“‘You!’ she whispered. ‘You! You here!’
“‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘Weren’t you expecting me, Grace?’
“She controlled herself by a mighty effort; I saw how much stronger she was than her sister.
“‘Oh, yes,’ she said, more quietly. ‘I’d forgotten. You see, Edith is ill. Will you ring?’
“I rang the bell and in a moment Mrs. Delroy was carried away. Miss Croydon lingered a moment.
“‘I must go, John,’ she said, with something like her ​old manner. ‘Come tomorrow—that is, if you care to come.’
“‘Care to come!’ I cried, but she held me away from her.
“‘Yes,’ she repeated steadily, ‘Care to come—perhaps you won’t, and I shan’t blame you. Go to Mr. Godfrey, John, and ask him—tell him that I sent you—then, afterwards, if you care to come, I shall be glad—glad.’
“I thought her self-control was going to fail her, but it was only for an instant.
“‘However, John’ she added more calmly, ‘If you do come, it must be with the understanding that I am to be asked no questions, be worried for no explanations. You must be content with what Mr. Godfrey can tell you, for I can tell you nothing more—at least, not now. You must trust me wholly. Good-night’ and she was gone.
“Then,” concluded Drysdale grimly, “I took a cab straight here, and here I am. Now, in God’s name, what does it mean? What has she done?”