The Poisoned Pen | Page 2

Lytton for looks, only
of a different style of beauty. Oh, well, we shall see. Vera decided to
spend the spring and summer at Danbridge in the bungalow of her
friend, Mrs. Boncour, the novelist. That's when things began to
happen."
"Yes," I put in, "when you come to know Danbridge as I did after that
summer when you were abroad, you'll understand, too. Everybody
knows everybody else's business. It is the main occupation of a certain
set, and the per-capita output of gossip is a record that would stagger
the census bureau. Still, you can't get away from the note, Craig. There
it is, in Dixon's own handwriting, even if he does deny it: 'This will
cure your headache. Dr. Dixon.' That's a damning piece of evidence."
"Quite right," he agreed hastily; "the note was queer, though, wasn't it?
They found it crumpled up in the jar of ammonia. Oh, there are lots of
problems the newspapers have failed to see the significance of, let
alone trying to follow up."
Our first visit in Danbridge was to the prosecuting attorney, whose
office was not far from the station on the main street. Craig had wired
him, and he had kindly waited to see us, for it was evident that
Danbridge respected Senator Willard and every one connected with
him.
"Would it be too much to ask just to see that note that was found in the
Boncour bungalow?" asked Craig.
The prosecutor, an energetic young man, pulled out of a document-case
a crumpled note which had been pressed flat again. On it in clear, deep
black letters were the words, just as reported:
This will cure your headache. DR. Dixon.

"How about the handwriting?" asked Kennedy.
The lawyer pulled out a number of letters. "I'm afraid they will have to
admit it," he said with reluctance, as if down in his heart he hated to
prosecute Dixon. "We have lots of these, and no handwriting expert
could successfully deny the identity of the writing."
He stowed away the letters without letting Kennedy get a hint as to
their contents. Kennedy was examining the note carefully.
"May I count on having this note for further examination, of course
always at such times and under such conditions as you agree to?"
The attorney nodded. "I am perfectly willing to do anything not illegal
to accommodate the senator," he said. "But, on the other hand, I am
here to do my duty for the state, cost whom it may."
The Willard house was in a virtual state of siege. Newspaper reporters
from Boston and New York were actually encamped at every gate,
terrible as an army, with cameras. It was with some difficulty that we
got in, even though we were expected, for some of the more
enterprising had already fooled the family by posing as officers of the
law and messengers from Dr. Dixon.
The house was a real, old colonial mansion with tall white pillars, a
door with a glittering brass knocker, which gleamed out severely at you
as you approached through a hedge of faultlessly trimmed boxwoods.
Senator, or rather former Senator, Willard met us in the library, and a
moment later his daughter Alma joined him. She was tall, like her
father, a girl of poise and self-control. Yet even the schooling of
twenty-two years in rigorous New England self-restraint could not hide
the very human pallor of her face after the sleepless nights and nervous
days since this trouble had broken on her placid existence. Yet there
was a mark of strength and determination on her face that was
fascinating. The man who would trifle with this girl, I felt, was playing
fast and loose with her very life. I thought then, and I said to Kennedy
afterward: "If this Dr. Dixon is guilty, you have no right to hide it from

that girl. Anything less than the truth will only blacken the hideousness
of the crime that has already been committed."
The senator greeted I us gravely, and I could not but take it as a good
omen when, in his pride of wealth and family and tradition, he laid bare
everything to us, for the sake of Alma Willard. It was clear that in this
family there was one word that stood above all others, "Duty."
As we were about to leave after an interview barren of new facts, a
young man was announced, Mr. Halsey Post. He bowed politely to us,
but it was evident why he had called, as his eye followed Alma about
the room.
"The son of the late Halsey Post, of Post & Vance, silversmiths, who
have the large factory in town, which you perhaps noticed," explained
the senator. "My daughter has known him all her life. A very fine
young man."