IN THE ONYX LOBBY (1920, a Pennington Wise mystery)

CHAPTER I

Such a Feud!

“Well, by the Great Catamaran! I think it’s the most footle business I ever heard of! A regulation, clinker-built, angle-iron, sunk-hinge family feud, carried on by two women! Women! conducting a feud! They might as well conduct a bakery!”

“I daresay they could do even that! Women have been known to bake—with a fair degree of success!”

“Of course, of course—but baking and conducting a bakery are not identical propositions. Women are all right, in their place—which, by the way, is not necessarily in the home—but a family feud, of all things, calls for masculine management and skill.”

Sir Herbert Binney stood by the massive mantelpiece in the ornate living-room of the Prall apartment. The Campanile Apartment House came into being with the century, and though its type was now superseded by the plain, flat stucco of the newer buildings, yet it haughtily flaunted its elaborate façade and its deeply embrasured windows with the pride of an elder day. Its onyx lobby, lined with massive pillars, had once been the talk of the neighborhood, and the black and white tessellated floor of the wide entrance hall was as black and as white as ever.

The location, between the Circle and the Square—which is to say, between Columbus Circle and Times Square, in the City of New York—had ceased to be regarded as the pick of the householders, though still called the heart of the city. People who lived there were continually explaining the reason for their stay, or moving across town.

But lots of worthwhile people yet tarried, and among them were none more so than certain dwellers in The Campanile.

Miss Letitia Prall, lessee of the mantelpiece already referred to, was a spinster, who, on dress parade, possessed dignity and poise quite commensurate with the quality of her home.

But in the shelter of her own fireside, she allowed herself latitude of speech and even loss of temper when she felt the occasion justified it. And any reference to or participation in the famous feud was such justification.

Her opponent in the deadly strife was one Mrs Everett, also an occupant of The Campanile, and equally earnest in prolonging the life and energy of the quarrel.

Sir Herbert Binney, an Englishman, knighted since the war, had come to America in the interests of its own business, no less an enterprise than the establishment of an American branch of the great and well-known “Binney’s Buns.”

Celebrated in England, he hoped and expected to make the admirable buns equally popular over here, and trusted to his engaging personality as well as his mercantile acumen to accomplish this purpose.

Not exactly related to Miss Prall, Sir Herbert was connected by the marriage of a relative. That is, his stepbrother’s son, one Richard Bates, was also the son of Miss Prall’s sister. This young gentleman, who, by the way, lived with his Aunt Letitia, was another reason for Sir Herbert’s presence in New York. He had thought that if this nephew showed the right sort of efficiency he could be set to manage the American branch, or, at least, have a hand in the management.

And so, Binney of “Binney’s Buns” had established himself in one of the smaller suites of The Campanile, had had his living-room repapered to his taste, had made arrangements for his proper service, and was comfortably domiciled.

The fly in his ointment was that young Bates didn’t take at all kindly to the Bun proposition. For the chap was of an inventive turn, and had already secured patents for some minor accessories and improvements connected with aëroplanes. Without parents or fortune of his own, Richard Bates was dependent, so far, on the generosity of his Aunt Prall, which, though judicious, was sufficient for his bodily welfare. But Bates was ambitious, and desired large sums with which to carry on his inventions, certain that they, in turn, would repay a thousandfold.

As the only legal heir of both aunt and uncle, and with utmost faith in his own powers of success, Richard requested, almost, indeed, demanded advance on his inheritance, sufficient at least to put over his present great piece of work, which was expected to prove of decided value in aëronautic plans.

But such advances were positively refused; by Miss Prall, because Richard declined to accede to an accompanying condition, and by Uncle Binney, because he wanted his nephew for his Buns.

The recipe for the famous buns was of an age and tradition that made it a historical document in England, and, as yet unattained in this country, it was sought for by bakers and bunners of repute. But it was not for sale. Sir Herbert Binney would establish Binney’s Buns in America, and all good Americans could eat thereof, but sell the recipe to some rival bakeshop he would not. This state of things had made necessary much parley and many important meetings of Baking Powers. Among these were the great Crippen’s Cake Company, the Vail Bread Concern, the Popular Popovers and others of sufficient importance to get a hearing.

Genial and good-natured, Sir Herbert met them all, discussed their offers and reserved decision. He did not say, even to himself, that he was waiting on the will of one young man—but, practically, that was the truth. If Bates would give up his fool inventing, and take hold of the Buns in earnest, Sir Herbert would put him through with bells on, would make him heir of the Buns and all the great English properties that the Buns possessed, and would do all in his power to make the life of young Bates a bed of choicest roses.

But Richard Bates had all the obstinacy and stubbornness of the born inventor. He knew he couldn’t devote to Bun business a brain teeming with new notions for the furtherance of scientific attainment. And he was too honest and honorable to accept the Bun proposition and then turn to aëronautics on the side. Nor was a side issue of sufficient importance to satisfy his hunger for his own chosen work. He knew he could put up the goods that he had in mind, if he could only get the presently needed money for his experiments and models. If he could but make either uncle or aunt agree to his views, he could, later, select his own roses for his bed of life.

But Sir Herbert was as obstinate as his nephew and Miss Letitia Prall more so than either of them.

Her unflinching and persistent adherence to her decisions was clearly shown in the matter of the long continued feud. Not every woman could meet an opponent frequently and casually for twenty years or so, and pursue an even tenor of enmity.

In the same social circles, Miss Prall and Mrs Everett attended the same teas, luncheons and bridge parties, yet never deviated one jot or one tittle from their original inimical attitude.

Never, or at least, very rarely, were there sharp words in the presence of others, but there were scathing silences, slighting inattentions and even venomous looks that could not pass unseen.

In fact, they carried on their feud after what would doubtless be conceded by connoisseurs the most approved methods.

And, indeed, after twenty years’ experience it would be strange if the two ladies had not attained proficiency in the pursuit of quarreling as a fine art. Not always had they lived under the same roof. The Feud had begun when they were denizens of a small country town, and, fostered in that nourishing atmosphere, had attained its proportions gradually but steadily.

When circumstances took them to the city to live, and, as if afraid the unsociability of town life might interfere with their hobby, the Feudists acquired homes in two of the most desirable apartments of The Campanile.

Miss Prall, tall, spare and with the unmistakable earmarks of spinsterhood, directed her menage with the efficiency and capability of a general. She was nicknamed among her friends, the Grenadier, and her strong character and aggressive manner made the description an apt one.

Her one weakness was her adored nephew. As an orphaned infant, left to Miss Letitia a bequest from the dying mother, he had been immediately adopted into the child-hungry heart of the old maid and had held and strengthened his position throughout the years until, at twenty-five, he was the apple of one of her eyes, even as her precious feud was the apple of the other.

But hers was no doting, misguided affection. Miss Prall had brought up her nephew, as she did everything else, with wisdom and sound judgment.

To her training the young Richard owed many of his most admirable traits and much of his force of character. No man could have more successfully instilled into a boy’s heart the fundamental requisites for true manliness, and only on rare occasions had his aunt’s doting heart triumphed over her wise head in the matter of reproof or punishment.

And now, this upstart uncle, as Miss Prall considered him, had come over here from England, with all sorts of plans to take her boy from his chosen and desirable life work and set him to making buns!

Buns—Binney’s Buns! for her gifted inventive genius!

This impending disaster together with a new and regrettable development affecting the Feud had thrown Miss Prall into a state of nervous agitation quite foreign to her usual condition of calm superiority.

“Masculine management and skill!” she repeated, with a fine scorn; “because not every woman is fitted by nature and circumstances to conduct affairs of importance it does not follow that there are not some feminine spirits with all the force and power of the other sex!”

“By gad, madam, that is true,” and Sir Herbert watched the Grenadier as she sat upright in her arm-chair, her fine head erect and her straight shoulders well back. “I apologize for my seeming slight to your quarrelsome abilities, and I concede your will and strength to fight your own battles. In fact, my sympathies are for your antagonist.”

“Huh!” and Miss Prall looked at him sharply; for he had been known to express satirical sentiments under guise of suavity. “Don’t waste your solicitude on her! She, too, is able to look out for herself.”

“It would seem so, since she has taken part for twenty years in what is still a drawn battle.”

“Let up, Oldsters,” laughed young Bates, coming breezily into the room. “You know the main facts of the historic Feud, Uncle Herbert, and, take it from me, sir, no amount of argument or advice on your part will help, or in any way affect it. Aunt Letty will eat up your talk, and then floor you with—”

“Floor me! I think not! Binney, of Binney’s Buns, is not of the floorable variety.”

“You say that because you haven’t yet really met Auntie Let in the arena. Binney’s Buns would cut no better figure than—let us say, Crippen’s Cakes.”

“Crippen’s Cakes! Do you know Crippen?”

“Does she!” and Richard Bates grinned; “why, the Cake Crippen is one of Aunt Letitia’s old beaux—might have been my uncle, if—”

“Hush, Richard!” said the aunt.

“If he hadn’t also shined up to Mrs Everett, the rival faction.” Richard went on, with open relish of his aunt’s discomfiture.

“Hush, Richard!” she said, again, and this time some veiled hint apparently was efficacious, for he changed the subject.

“I say, Uncle Herb, what about the Follies tonight? I’ve got a couple of seats—and I know your tastes—”

“Front row?”

“No; couldn’t corral those—but good ones, in the fourth.”

“Nay, nay, Pauline. I don’t see well enough to sit so far back. Use those yourself, Richard—take your aunt, here! But I’ll find a seat in the front row—in some front row, if I have to buy their bloomin’ theater to get it!”

“Good for you, Sir Herbert!” exclaimed Miss Prall, who admired determination wherever she met it. “I’ll go with you. I like the front row, too.”

“Sorry, madam, but I’m not taking guests.” He winked at Richard.

“Naturally not,” Miss Letitia sniffed. “I know why you want to go alone—I know why you want the front row! You’re going to attract a chorus girl, and invite her to supper with you.”

“Marvelous, Holmes, marvelous!” Sir Herbert exclaimed, with mock amazement. “I am surprised at your clairvoyance, ma’am, but deeply pained that you should know of and be so familiar with such goings on. Do you learn of that sort of thing from your nephew? Really, Richard, I’m amazed at you!”

“Nonsense, Uncle Bin, I passed through that stage long ago. I used to girl around in my callow days, but I got fed up with it, and now life holds more worthwhile temptations. It’s an old story to auntie, too. Why she used to chaperon my giddiest parties—bless her!”

Sir Herbert’s sharp eyes looked from one of his companions to the other.

“You’re a pair,” he opined, “both tarred with the same brush.”

“And the brush?” asked Miss Prall, belligerently.

“Modern sophistication and the present-day fad of belittling everything that is interesting or pleasurable.”

“That mental phase is the inevitable result of worldly experience,” said the lady, with a cynical smile. “How is it that you preserve such youthful interest?”

“Well—” and the Englishman looked a little quizzical, “you see, the girls are still young.”

“Very young,” assented Bates, gravely. “There’s a new bunch of Squabs at the Gaynight Revue that’ll do you up! Better buy that place out, Unkie!”

“Perhaps; but now, young Richard, let’s discuss some more imminent, if not more important, questions. Say, Buns, for instance.”

“Nothing doing. I’ve said my last word on the Bun subject, and if you persist in recurring to it, you’ll only get that last word over again—repeated, reiterated, recapitulated and—if necessary—reënforced!”

“With some good, strong epithets, I suppose,” remarked his uncle, calmly. “I don’t blame you, Rick, for being bored by my persistency, but you see I haven’t yet given up all hope of making you see reason. Why I do—”

“Well, when you do—what?”

“Time enough to answer that question when it’s time to ask it. Instead, let me recount the advantages I can offer you—”

“Oh, Lord!—pardon my interrupting—but that recounting is an old story, you know. Those advantages are as familiar to my wearied mind as my own name—or at least as yours—and your precious Buns—”

“Stop, sir! Don’t you speak slightingly of Binney’s Buns! They were eaten before you were born and will be eaten after you are dead and forgotten.”

“Not forgotten if I put my invention over!”

“You’ll never do it. Your success is problematical. The Buns are an assured fact. They were eaten before the war—they will be eaten again now that the war is over. They are eaten in England—they will be eaten in America. If not with the help of your interest and energy, then with that of some one else. Think well, my boy, before you throw away fame and fortune—”

“To acquire fame and fortune!”

“To strive for it and fail—for that is what you will do! You’re riding for a fall, and you’re going to get it!”

“Not if I can prevent it,” Miss Prall interposed, in her low yet incisive tones. “I’m ready to back Ricky’s prospects to the uttermost, if only—”

“If only what? What is this condition you impose on the lad? And why keep it so secret? Tell me, nephew, I’ll let you in on the Buns in spite of any blot on your scutcheon. What is it that troubles your aunt?”

“What always troubles her? What has spoiled and embittered her whole life? Hardened her heart? Corroded her soul? What, but her old ridiculous, absurd, contemptible, damnable Feud!”

“There, there, my boy, remember your aunt is a lady, and such expressions are not permissible before her—”

“Pish! Tush!” snorted Miss Prall, who would not have herself objected to that descriptive verb, since it gives the very impression she wanted to convey, “If I did not permit such expressions Richard would not use them, rest assured of that.”

Bates smiled and lighted a fresh cigarette. These tilts between his elders greatly amused him, they seemed so futile and inane, yet of such desperate interest to the participants.

“Then that’s all right,” Sir Herbert conceded. “Now, Richard, for the last time, I offer you the chance to fall in with my wishes, to consent to my fondest desire, and attach yourself to my great, my really stupendous enterprise. I want, with my whole soul, to keep Binney’s Buns in the family—I want a worthy partner and successor, and one of my own blood kin—but, I can’t force you into this agreement—I can only urge you, with all the powers of my persuasion, to see it rightly, and to realize that your refusal will harm you more than any one else.”

“I’ll take a chance on that, Uncle Bin.” Bates gave him a cheery smile that irritated by its very carelessness.

“You’ll lose, sir! You’ll see the day that you’ll wish you had taken up with my offers. You’ll regret, when it’s too late—”

“Why, what’s your alternative plan?”

“Aha! Interested, are you? Well, young sir, my alternative plan is to find somebody with more common sense and good judgment than your rattle-pated, pig-headed self! That’s my alternative plan.”

“Got anybody in view?”

“And if I have?”

“Go to it! Take my blessing, and stand not on the order of your going to it—but skittle! You can’t go too fast to suit me!”

“You’re an impudent and disrespectful young rascal! Your bringing-up is sadly at fault if it allows you to speak thus to your elders!”

“Oh, come off, Uncle Binney! You may be older than I in actual years, but you’ve got to hand it to me on the score of temperamental senescence! Why, you’re a very kid in your enthusiasm for the halls of dazzling light and all that in them is! So, and, by the way, old top, I mean no real disrespect, but I consider it a compliment to your youth and beauty to recognize it in a feeling of camaraderie and good-fellowship. Are we on?”

“Yes, that’s all right, son, but can’t your good-fellowship extend itself to the Buns?”

“Nixy. Nevaire! Cut out all Bun talk, and I’m your friend and pardner. Bun, and you Bun alone!”

A long, steady gaze between the eyes of the young man and the old seemed to convince each of the immutability of this decision, and, with a deep sigh, the Bun promoter changed the subject.

“This Gayheart Review, now, Richard—” he began.

“Don’t consider the question settled, Sir Herbert,” said Miss Letitia Prall, with a note of anxiety in her voice, quite unusual to it. “Give me a chance to talk to Ricky alone, and I feel almost certain I can influence his views.”

“A little late in the day, ma’am,” Binney returned, shortly. “I have an alternative plan, but if I wait much longer to make use of it, the opportunity may be lost. Unless Richard changes his mind today, he needn’t change it at all—so far as I am concerned.”

“Going to organize a Bakery of ex-chorus girls?” asked Bates, flippantly. “Going to persuade them to throw in their fortunes with yours?”

A merry, even affectionate smile robbed this speech of all unpleasant effect, and Sir Herbert smiled back.

“Not that,” he returned; “I’d be ill fitted to attend to a bakery business with a horde of enchanting damsels cavorting around the shop! No, chorus girls are all right in their place—which is not in the home, nor yet in a business office.”

“That’s true, and I take off my hat to you, Uncle, as a real live business man, with his undivided attention on his work—in business hours—and outside of those, his doings are nobody’s business.”

“With your leanings toward the fair sex, it’s a wonder you never married,” observed Miss Prall, inquisitively.

“My leanings toward them in no way implies their leanings toward me,” returned the bachelor, his eyes twinkling. “And, moreover, a regard for one of the fair sex that would imply a thought of marriage with her, would be another matter entirely from a liking for the little stars of the chorus. To me they are not even individuals, they are merely necessary parts of an entertaining picture. I care no more for them, personally, than for the orchestra that makes music for their dancing feet, or for the stage manager who produces the setting for their engaging gracefulness.”

“That’s so, Uncle,” Bates agreed; “you’re a stage Johnny, all right, but you’re no Lothario.”

“Thank you, Son, such discriminating praise from Sir Hubert Stanley, makes me more than ever regret not having his association in my business affairs.”

“Don’t be too sure that you won’t have him,” Miss Prall temporized; “when does his time for decision expire?”

“Tonight,” said Sir Herbert, briefly, and at that, with a gesture of bored impatience, Bates got up and went out.

CHAPTER II

A Tricky Game

The Prall apartment was on the eighth floor, but Richard Bates passed by the elevator and went down the stairs. Only one flight, however, and on the seventh floor, he walked along the hall, whistling in a subdued key. The air was an old song, a one-time favorite, “Won’t you come out and play wiz me?” and the faint notes grew stronger as he passed a certain door. Then he went on, but soon turned, retraced his steps, and went up again the one flight of stairs. Pausing at the elevator, he pushed the down button and was soon in the car and smiling on the demure young woman in uniform who ran it.

“This car of yours, Daisy,” he remarked, “is like the church of Saint Peter at Rome, it has an atmosphere of its own. But if the church had this atmosphere there’d be mighty few worshipers! How can you stand it? Doesn’t it make you ill?”

“Ill?” and the girl rolled weary eyes at him; “I’m dead! You can bring the flowers when you’re ready, Gridley!”

“Poor child,” and Bates looked compassionately at the white face, that even a vanity case failed to keep in blooming condition, so moisty warm was the stuffy elevator. “It’s wicked to shut you up in such a cage—”

“Oh, I’m all right,” she responded, hurriedly, as her bell sounded a sharp, impatient ring. “I’m not complaining. But people are so trying on a day like this. That’s Mr. Binney’s ring.”

“How do you know. Do you know everybody’s touch?”

“Not everybody’s—but lots of them. Mr. Binney, he hates elevator girls—”

“Oh, come now—my uncle is a great admirer of all women—”

“Not if they work. He talks a good deal, you know—talks all the time—and he’s everlastingly knocking girls who do the work he thinks men ought to do.”

“But it’s none of his business—in this house!”

“Mr. Binney is particularly and especially interested in what’s none of his business!”

The girl spoke so bitterly that Bates looked at her in surprise.

But he was at the ground floor, and as he left the elevator he forgot all else in anticipation of a certain coming delight.

He strolled the length of the great onyx lobby, its sides a succession of broad mirrors between enormous onyx columns with massive gilded capitals. Tall palms were at intervals, alternating with crimson velvet sofas and on one of these, near the vestibule, Bates sat down to wait for the delight.

And in the course of time, she came, tripping along the black and white diamonds of the marble floor, her high heels tapping quickly, her lithe gracefulness hurrying to keep the tryst.

Dorcas Everett was of the type oftenest seen among the well-to-do young girls of New York, but she was one of the best examples of that type.

Wise, sparkling eyes, soft, rounded chin held alertly up, dark, curly hair arranged in a pleasant modification of the latest fashion, her attire was of the most careful tailor-made variety, and her little feathered toque was put on at just the right angle and was most engagingly becoming.

She said no word but gave a happy smile as Bates rose and eagerly joined her and together they passed out through the imposing portal.

“It’s awful,” she murmured, as they walked across to Fifth Avenue. “I said I wouldn’t do it again, you know, and then—when I heard your whistle—I just couldn’t help it! But don’t do it any more—will you? You promised you wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I didn’t promise, dear; I said I’d try not to. And I did try, but—it seems I failed.”

“Bad boy! Very bad Rikki-tikki-tavi. But what are we going to do?”

“First of all, where are we going? Tea Room? Some place where I can talk to you.”

“No; it’s too stuffy today to be indoors. Let’s walk up to the Park and go in.”

“All right. Now, Dorrie, we trust face this thing. We can’t go on meeting secretly—neither of us likes it—”

“I should say not! I hate it a thousand times worse’n you do. But Rick, mother is more obstinate than ever. She says if I see you again, or speak to you, she’ll pack up and move out of New York. Think of that!”

“I can’t think of it! It is unthinkable! Now, Dorcas, darling, there’s only one thing to do. You must marry me—”

“Hush that nonsense! I don’t propose—”

“Naturally not! I’m doing the proposing—”

“Don’t think because you make me laugh you’re going to bamboozle me into consent! I decline, refuse and renounce you, if you’re going to take that tack. I shall never marry you without the consent of my mother and your aunt, and you know it!”

“I do know it, Dork, and that’s what breaks me all up. Confound that old Feud! But, I say, Uncle Binney is on our side. I sounded him and he approves of my marrying at once—doesn’t care who the girl is—and will make me his heir and all that—”

“If you give up your inventing and go into his Bunny business.”

“Yes; that’s his game. Shall I do it?”

“No! A thousand times no. I don’t want to marry a bakery!”

“And anyway, it wouldn’t help the Feud—”

“No; nothing will help that. It would seem that we could move the hearts of those two women, but my mother is hard as adamant.”

“And my aunt is hard as nails. After all these years they’re not going to be moved by a pair of broken young hearts.”

“No; mother says that because I’m so young, my heart will heal up in plenty of time to break over somebody else.”

“Pleasant thought!”

“Oh, mother doesn’t try to be pleasant about it. She makes my life a burden by harping on my undutifulness and all that—and when she isn’t bally-ragging me, Kate is.”

“Kate! A servant!”

“But Kate doesn’t look upon herself as a servant, exactly. She’s lady’s maid now—to mother and me—but she was my nurse, you know, and she thinks she sort of owns me. Anyway, she acts so.”

“And she stands for the feud?”

“Rath-er! She believes in the feud and all its works. And she’s a spy, too. If she hadn’t believed my yarn that I was headed for Janet’s today, she’d been downstairs trailing me!”

“Clever Dork, to outwit her!”

“That’s nothing—I’m clever enough to hoodwink her and mother, too, but I don’t want to. I hate it, Rick; I hate anything underhanded or deceitful. Only my love for you made me come out here today.”

The big, dark eyes looked wistfully into Bates’ blue ones. The troubled look on Dorcas’ dear little face stirred the depths of his soul, and his heart struggled between his appreciation of her high-mindedness and his yearning love.

“I want you, Dorrie,” he said, simply; “I want you terribly—desperately—and I—I admit it—would be willing to take you on any terms. I’d run away with you in a minute, if you’d go! To be sure, I honor your truthfulness and all that—but, oh, little girl, can’t you put me ahead of your mother?”

“I don’t know—”

“You’re hesitating! You’ve thought about it! Oh, Dork, will you?”

“There, there, don’t go so fast! No, I won’t! But, tell me this: Would your uncle stand for it—and let you go on with your own work?”

“Oh, no! It’s Buns or nothing with him and me. But I’m his heir, if he should drop off suddenly, I’d have his whole fortune—”

“Dead men’s shoes! Oh, Ricky, for shame?”

“Not at all. If he can make a will, I can talk about it. And he told me he has made a will in my favor—but he’s going to change it if I don’t adopt his Buns.”

“What nonsense—even to think about it. Let him change it, then, for you’ll never be a Bun man!”

“I wonder if it would help matters if you met Uncle Binney?”

“Let’s try it. Though I’m sure I should call him Uncle Bunny! Does he like girls?”

“Adores them—that is, some sorts. He likes nice girls properly. He likes naughty girls—perhaps improperly. But the girls in the house—the elevator kids and the telephone girls, he just hates.”

“Hates?”

“They irritate him somehow. He thinks all such positions should be filled by men or boys. He says the war is over, and he wants all the girls taken off those jobs.”

“How unjust and unreasonable.”

“Uncle Herbert has both of those admirable qualities. But he’d adore you—unless he found out you disapprove of the Buns, and then he’d turn and rend you!”

“I don’t disapprove of them—except for you.”

“That’s what I mean—for me.”

“Then I guess I’d better not meet Friend Bunny.”

“Oh, Dorcas, I don’t know what to do! There’s no light from any direction. There’s no hope from your mother, my aunt or Sir Herbert. If you won’t cut and run with me—and if you’re in earnest about not meeting me secretly any more—what can we do?”

“Nothing, Rick—nothing at all.”

Dorcas spoke very seriously—even sadly, and Bates realized how much in earnest she was. They were in the Park now, and by tacit consent they sat down on a bench near the Mall.

Their eyes met dumbly. Though Bates was only twenty-five and Dorcas twenty-two, they were both older than their years, and were of fine temper and innate strength of character.

They had known one another as children in their little home town, and later, as the feud developed and gained strength, the young people had been sent away to schools. Later, the war took Richard from home, and only very recently had propinquity brought about the interest that soon ripened to love. And a deeper, more lasting love than is often found between two young hearts. Both took it very seriously, and each thoroughly realized the tragedy of the attitude of their respective guardians.

“Good gracious, Richard, I shall go straight home and tell your aunt!”

This speech was from the stern-faced woman who paused in front of the pair on the bench.

“Good gracious, Eliza, go straight ahead and do so!”

Bates’ eyes shot fire and his face flushed with anger.

Eliza Gurney was his aunt’s companion, indeed, her tame cat, her chattel, and partly from charity, partly because of need of her services, Miss Prall kept Eliza with her constantly.

Of a fawning, parasitic nature, the companion made the best of her opportunities, and, without being an avowed spy, she kept watch on Richard’s movements as far as she conveniently could. And in this instance, suspecting his intent, she had followed the young couple at a discreet distance, and now faced them with an accusing eye.

“No, don’t,” pleaded Dorcas, as Miss Gurney turned to follow up Richard’s suggestion. “Oh, dear Miss Gurney, help us, won’t you? We’re in such a hopeless tangle. You were young once, and—”

Dorrie could scarcely have chosen a worse argument—for that her youth had slipped away from her, was Miss Gurney’s worst fear.

“I am forbidden to speak to this girl, Richard,” Miss Gurney said, with pursed lips and heightened color. She addressed herself carefully to Bates and ignored the presence of Dorcas. “You are, too, as you well know, and though you have so far forgotten yourself as to disobey your aunt, I’ve no intention of committing a like sin.”

“Fudge, Eliza, don’t go back on me like that. You used to be my friend—have you forsaken me entirely?”

“If you’ve forsaken your aunt—not unless. Leave this girl instantly and go home with me, and there’ll be no question of ‘forsaking.’”

“Forsake Miss Everett! Not while this machine is to me! Go home yourself, Eliza; be a tattletale, if you want to, but get out of here!”

Bates became furious because of a malevolent gleam in Miss Gurney’s eye as she looked at Dorcas.

“I’ll go, Richard—and I shall not only tell your aunt what I have seen, but I shall feel it my duty to acquaint Mrs Everett with the facts.”

“Don’t you dare!” cried Dorcas, springing up, and facing the unpleasant faced one with uncontrollable indignation. “What I do, I tell my mother myself—I don’t have the news carried to her by her enemy’s spy!”

“Hoity-toity, miss, you’re a chip off the old block, I see!”

“And you’re a trustworthy soul, to be talking to me when you’re forbidden to do so!”

The triumph in Dorcas’ tone was quite as galling to Eliza Gurney as her own chagrin at having broken her word. But, once in the moil, she saw no reason for backing out, and proceeded to pick an open quarrel.

“I can explain my speech with you to Miss Prall’s satisfaction,” she went on, acidly, “and I’ll inform you, Miss Everett, that you’ve spoiled Mr. Bates’ life by this clandestine affair of yours. I happen to know that his uncle, Sir Herbert Binney, was just about to make him his heir, but he will change his mind when he hears of this escapade.”

“Oh, clear out, Eliza,” stormed Bates; “you’ve given us enough of that drivel, now hook it! Hear me?”

Miss Gurney stared at him. “Your companionship with this young woman has corrupted your good manners,” she began, quite undeterred by his wrath.

Whereupon Bates took her firmly by the shoulder, spun her round, and said, “Go!” in such a tone that she fairly scurried away.

“I vanquished her,” he said, a little ruefully, “but I’m afraid it’s a frying pan and fire arrangement. She’ll tell Aunt Letitia, and either aunt or Eliza herself will go at once to your mother with the tale—”

“Well, I’d really rather they’d be told. I had to tell mother—for truly, Rick, I can’t live in an atmosphere of deceit. I may be a crank or a craven, but much as I love you, I can’t stand keeping it a secret.”

“I know it, dear, and I don’t like it a bit better than you do, only to tell is to be separated—at once, and maybe, forever.”

“No!” cried Dorcas, looking at his serious face. “Not forever!”

“Yes; even you don’t realize the lengths to which those two women will go. I hate to speak so of your mother, I hate to speak so of my aunt—but I know they’ll move out of town, one or both, and they’ll go to the ends of the earth to keep us apart.”

“But they’ve always lived near each other—for years, in the same building.”

“Yes; that was so they could quarrel and annoy and tantalize each other. But now the necessity of separating us two will be their paramount motive, and you’ll see—they’ll do it!”

“Then—then—”

“Then let’s get married, and go off by ourselves? Darling, if we only could! And I’ll go into the Buns, in a minute, if you say so. Much as I hate to give up my own work, I’d not hesitate, except for your sake—”

“No, I don’t want to marry a bakery man! And, I’ve too much ambition for you to let you throw your talent away! Yet, we couldn’t live on nothing a year! And, until your inventions are farther along, you can’t realize anything on them.”

“Bless me, what a little business woman it is! Well, we’ve both common sense enough not to make fools of ourselves—but oh, Dork, I do want you so! And if it were not for that foolish, ridiculous feud, we could be so happy!”

“It isn’t exactly the feud—I mean, of course it is that, but it’s back of that—it’s the determined, never-give-up natures of the two women. I don’t know which is more obstinate, mother or Miss Prall, but I know—oh, Ricky, I know neither of them will ever surrender!”

“Of course they won’t—I know that, too. So, must we give up?”

“What choice have we? What alternative?”

“None.” Bates’ face was blankly hopeless. “But, Dork, dear, I can’t live without you! Can’t you look ahead to—to something?”

“Don’t see anything to look ahead to. We might say we’ll wait for each other—I’m willing—and something tells me you are! But—that’s an unsatisfactory arrangement—”

“It’s all of that! Oh, hang it all, Dork, I’ll go into some respectable business and earn a living. I’ll give up my plans and—”

“If you do that, you may as well go in for Buns.”

“Buns! I thought you scorned the idea!”

“Principally because I want you to be an inventor. But if you give up your life work—oh, Rick, what could you do?”

“Nothing much at first. I’d have to take a clerk-ship or something and work up.”

“I’m willing to share poverty with you—in theory—but you don’t realize what the reality would mean to us. Not only because we’re both accustomed to having everything we want, but more especially because in these days it’s too dangerous. Suppose we lived on the tiniest possible income, and then you fell ill—or I did—or you lost your position—or anything that interrupted our livelihood—then, we’d have to go back to mother or to your aunt—and—dost like the picture?”

“I dost not! It’s out of the question. I love you too much, and too truly to take such desperate chances. I think, after all, Dork, the Buns are our one best bet!”

“Binny’s Buns! ‘Get a Bun!’ Oh, Rikki, couldn’t hold up my head!”

“I know it—you little inborn aristocrat! And I feel the same way about it. Well, we’ve got to go home and face the music, I suppose.”

“Yes, and we’ve got to go now. I’ll get more and worse scolding for every minute I stay here.”

“Also, if Eliza tells your mother, she’ll be sending Kate for you.”

“Yes, or coming herself. Come along, let’s start.”

The walk home was saddened by the thought that it was the last. Able to face the situation, both knew there was no hope that they should be allowed to continue their acquaintance, and knew that now it was discovered, they would very soon be as widely separated as the efforts of their elders could arrange.

Their pace slowed down as they neared The Campanile.

“Dear old place,” said Dorcas, as the house came into their ken.

“Dear old nothing,” returned Bates. “I think it’s an eyesore, don’t you? That bunch of Mexican onyx ought to be taken away to make kings’ sarcophagi!”

“What a thought! Yes, it’s hideous—but I didn’t mean its appearance. Its dear to me because we’ve lived here together, and I’ve a premonition that before long widely separated roofs will cover our heads.”

“I’ll conquer somehow!” Bates declared. “I haven’t made many protestations, but I tell you, Dork, I’m coming out on top of this heap!”

“What are you going to do? Something desperate?”

“Maybe so—maybe only something queer. But get you, I shall and I will! You’re intended for my mate by an Omniscient Fate, and I’m going to find some way to help said Fate along. She seems to be sidetracked for the moment.”

“I wish I had more faith in your Fate helping. Oh, don’t look like that! I’ve faith enough in you—but helping Fate is a tricky game.”

“All right, I’m willing to play a tricky game, then!”

“You are, son! Against whom?”

And the pair entering the wide doorway, met Sir Herbert Binney coming out.

“Oh, hello, Uncle,” cried Bates, grasping the situation with both hands. “Let me present you to Miss Everett; Dorcas, this is my uncle.”

“How do you do, Uncle Bunny?” said Dorcas, quite unwitting that, in her surprised embarrassment, she had used the very word she had feared she would utter!

And an unfortunate mistake it proved. The smiling face of the Englishman grew red and wrathful, assuming, as he did, and not without cause, that the young woman intended to guy him.

“Daughter of your own mother, hey?” he said to her. “Ready with a sharp tongue for any occasion!”

Apology was useless, all that quick-witted Dorcas could think of was to carry it off as a jest.

“No, sir,” she said, with an adorable glance of coquetry at the angry face, “but I have an unbreakable habit of using nicknames—and as I’ve heard of you from Ricky, and I almost feel as if I knew you—I, why, I just naturally called you Bunny for a pet name.”

“Oho, you did! Well, I can’t believe that. I think you’re making fun of my trade! And that’s the one thing I won’t stand! Perhaps when your precious Ricky depends on those same buns for his daily food, you won’t feel so scornful of them!”

“I never dreamed you were ashamed of them, sir,” and Dorcas gave up the idea of peacemaking and became irritating.

“Nor am I!” he blazed. “You are an impertinent chit, and I bid you good-day!”

“Now you have done it!” said Bates.

CHAPTER III

The Scrawled Message

But, as it turned out, Dorcas hadn’t “done it” at all. Bates on reaching his aunt’s apartment found no one at home. But very soon Sir Herbert Binney appeared.

“Look here, Richard,” he began, “I’ve taken a fancy to that little girl of yours—”

“She isn’t mine.”

“You’d like her to be?”

“Very much; in conditions that would please us both.”

“Meaning Bunless conditions. I can’t offer you those, but I do say now, and, for the last time, if you will take hold of my Bun proposition, I’ll give you any salary you want, any interest in the business you ask, and make you my sole heir. I’ve already done the last, but unless you fall in with my plans now, I’m going to make another will and your name will be among the missing.”

“But, Uncle Herbert—”

“I’ve no time for discussion, my boy; I’ve to dress for dinner—I’m going out—but this thing must be settled now, as far as you’re concerned. You’ve had time enough to think it over, you’ve had time to discuss it with that pretty little girl of yours—my, but her eyes flashed as she called me Uncle Bunny! It was a slip—I saw that, and I pretended to be annoyed, but I liked her all the better for her sauciness. Well, Richard—yes or no?”

“Can’t you give me another twenty-four hours?”

“Not twenty-four minutes! You’ve hemmed and hawed over this thing as long as I’ll stand it! No. You know all the details, all the advantages that I offer you. You know I mean what I say and I’ll stand by every word. I’m going to meet the head of a big American concern tonight, and if you turn me down, I shall probably make a deal with him. I’d rather keep my business and my fortune in the family, but if you say no, out you go! So, as a countryman of yours expressed it today, you can put up or shut up!”

“All right, sir—I’ll shut up!” and Richard Bates turned on his heel, while Sir Herbert Binney went out of the apartment and slammed the door behind him.

Almost immediately Miss Gurney came in.

“My stars, Ricky!” she exclaimed, “I met Sir Binney Bun in the hall and he looked as if somebody had broken his heart! Has his pet chorus girl given him the mitten?”

“No; I gave it to him. He wants me to sell his precious pies over a counter—and I can’t see myself doing it.”

“I should say not! It’s a mystery to me how the aristocracy of England go into trade, and if it’s a big enough deal, they think it’s all right. If it’s tea or bread or soap, it doesn’t matter, so they sell enough of it. Well, young man, what about your escapade in the Park? Shall I tell your aunt?”

“You said you intended to—do as you like.”

“I won’t tell her, if—”

“Oh, you’d better tell me—what is it?”

The cool, incisive tones of Miss Prall interrupted the speakers and Richard’s aunt calmly gazed at him and then at Miss Gurney, as she came into the room, seated herself, and began drawing off her gloves.

“I’ll tell you myself, Aunt Letitia,” said Bates. “I’m old enough not to be bossed and ballyragged by you two women! Forgive me, Aunt Letty, but, truly, Eliza makes me so mad—”

“Go out, Eliza,” said Miss Prall, and Eliza went.

“Now, Ricky boy, what is it? About Sir Herbert of course. And I’ll stand by you—if you don’t want to go into his business, you shan’t—”

“It isn’t that at all, Aunt Letitia. Or, at least, that is in the air, too—up in the air, in fact—but what Eliza is going to tell you—and I prefer to tell you myself—is that I’m in love with—”

“Oh, Richard, I am so glad! You dear boy. I’ve felt for a long time that if you were interested in one girl—some sweet young girl—you’d have a sort of anchor and—”

“Yes, but wait a minute—you don’t know who she is.”

“And I don’t care! I mean, I know you’d love only a dear, innocent nature—but tell me all about her.”

Miss Prall’s plain face was lighted with happy smiles of interest and eager anticipation, and she drew her chair nearer her nephew as she waited for him to speak.

Bates looked at her, dreading to shatter her hopes—as he knew his next words must do.

“Well, to begin with—she is Dorcas Everett.”

Miss Prall’s eyes opened in a wide, unbelieving stare, her face paled slowly, her very lips seemed to grow white, so intense and concentrated was her anger.

“No!” she said, at last, in a low tense voice, “you don’t mean that. Richard! you can’t mean it—after all I’ve done for you, after all I’ve hoped for you—and—I’ve loved you so—”

“Now, auntie, listen; just you forget and forgive all this old feud business—for my sake—and Dorcas’; be noble, rise above your old, petty quarrel with Mrs Everett, and give us your bond of peace as a wedding present.”

His pleading tones, his hopeful smile held Miss Prall’s attention for a moment, and then she blazed forth:

“Richard Bates, I cannot believe it. Ingrate! Snake in the grass! To deceive me—to carry on an affair like this, for you must have done so—under my very nose, and keep it all so sly! Dorcas Everett! daughter of my enemy—my long time foe—the most despicable woman in the world! And, knowing all about it, you deliberately cultivate the acquaintance of her daughter and secretly go on to the point of wanting to marry her! I can’t believe it! It’s too monstrous! Were there no other girls in the world—in your life—that you must choose that one? You can’t have been so diabolical as to have done it purposely to break my heart!”

“Oh, no, Auntie, I didn’t do that! I chanced to meet Dorcas—one day at Janet Fayre’s—and, somehow, we both fell in love at once!”

“Stop! don’t tell me another word! Get out, Eliza!” as Miss Gurney reappeared at the door. “I told you to get out! Now, stay out! Get away from me, Richard; you can’t help any by trying to fawn around me! You don’t know what you’ve done—I grant you that! You don’t know—you can’t know—how you’ve crucified me!”

Springing up from her chair, Miss Prall darted from the room, and out into the hall. Down one flight of stairs she ran, and furiously pealed the bell of Mrs Everett’s apartment on the floor below.

The maid who opened the door was startled at the visitor’s appearance, but the angry caller asked for no one; she pushed her way past the servant, and faced Mrs Everett in her own reception room.

“Do you know what’s going on, Adeline Everett? Do you know that your daughter is—is interested in my nephew? Answer me that!”

“I don’t know it, and I don’t believe it,” returned Mrs Everett, a plump, blonde matron, whose touched-up golden hair was allowed to show no gray, and whose faintly pink cheeks were solicitously cared for.

“Ask her!” quivered Letitia Prall’s angry voice, and she clenched her long thin fingers in ill-controlled rage.

“I will; she’s in the next room. Come in here, Dorcas. Tell Miss Prall she is mistaken—presumptuously mistaken.”

The haughty stare with which the hostess regarded her guest continued until Dorcas, coming in, said, with a pretty blush and smile, “I’m afraid she isn’t mistaken, Mother.”

“Just what do you mean?” Mrs Everett asked, icily, transferring her gaze to her daughter.

Very sweet and appealing Dorcas looked as she realized the crucial moment had arrived. Now she must take her stand for all time. Her big, dark eyes turned from one furious face to the other as the two women waited her response. Her face paled a little as she saw their attitude, their implacable wrath, their hatred of each other, and their momentarily suspended judgment of herself. Yet she stood her ground. With a pretty dignity, she spoke quietly and in a calm, steady voice:

“I heard what Miss Prall said,” she began, “I couldn’t help it, as I was so near, and all I can say is, that it is true. I am not only interested in Richard Bates, but I love him. He loves me—and we hope—oh, mumsie—be kind!—we hope you two will make up your quarrel for our sakes!”

“Go to your room, Dorcas,” her mother said, and in those words the girl read her doom. She knew her mother well, and she saw beyond all shadow of doubt that there was no leniency to be hoped for. She sensed in her mother’s expression as she pronounced the short sentence, an absolute and immutable decision. She might as well plead for the moon, as for her mother’s permission to be interested in Letitia Prall’s nephew.

“Wait a minute,” countermanded Miss Prall. “Answer me this, Dorcas. Are you and my nephew engaged? Has it come to that?”

“Yes,” the girl answered, thinking quickly, and deciding it best to force the issue.

“Hush!” commanded her mother; “go to your room!”

Mrs Everett fairly pushed her daughter through the door, closed it, and then said: “There is little need of further remark on this subject. We might have known it would come—at least we might have feared it. One of us must leave this house. Will you go or shall I?”

“You take no thought of the young people’s heart-break?”

“I do not! Dorcas will get over it; I don’t care whether your nephew does or not. I can take care of my child, and that’s all that interests me.”

“You think you can—but perhaps you do not know the depth of their attachment or the strength of their wills.”

“It is not for you, an unmarried woman, to instruct me in the ways of young lovers! I repeat, Letitia Prall, I can take care of my daughter. Her welfare in no way concerns you. I am only thankful we discovered this state of things before it is too late. Good Heavens! You don’t suppose it is too late, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t suppose those young idiots are—married!”

“Of course not! My Richard is above such clandestine ways!”

“Your Richard isn’t above anything! My Dorcas is, but—he might have persuaded her—oh, well, I’ll attend to Dorcas. There is no need for you to tarry longer.”

The exaggerated courtesy of her manner goaded Miss Prall to rudeness.

“I shall stay as long as I like,” she returned, stubbornly sitting still. “There is more to be said, Adeline Everett. There is more to be done. I want your assurance that you will move away—it doesn’t suit my plans to leave this house—and that you will take your forward and designing daughter far enough to keep her from maneuvering to ensnare my nephew.”

“I shall be only too glad to take my daughter away from the vicinity of your crack-brained charge! What has Dick Bates ever done? He has never earned a dollar for himself!”

“He doesn’t need to. He is a genius; he will yet astonish the world with his inventions. You know me well enough to know that I speak truth. Moreover, he is his uncle’s sole heir!”

“Binney, the Bun man!”

“Yes, Sir Herbert Binney, proprietor of the famous Binney’s Buns. But, look here, Adeline,” the absorption in her nephew’s interest blotted out for the moment her scorn of the other woman, “Uncle Binney favors the match.”

“What match?” Mrs Everett was honestly blank.

“Between Richard and Dorcas.”

“Why, he doesn’t know Dorcas.”

“He has seen her, and anyway, he’d approve of any nice girl that Rick cared for. You see, Sir Herbert wanted the boy to marry and settle down and become the American branch of Binney’s Buns.”

“My daughter the wife of a baker! No, thank you! You know me, Letitia Prall, well enough to know my ambitions for Dorcas. She shall marry the man I choose for her—and he will not be a baker! Nor,” and her face was drawn with sudden anger, “nor will he be Richard Bates!”

“Indeed he will not!” and Miss Prall rose and flounced out of the place.

In his own small but attractive apartment, Sir Herbert Binney was dressing for dinner. Always a careful dresser, he was unusually particular this evening. His man, Peters, thought he had never seen his master so fussed over the minor details of his apparel. Also, Sir Herbert was preoccupied. Usually he chatted cheerily, but tonight he was thoughtful, almost moody.

“A cab, sir?” said Peters, half afraid that he’d be snapped at for asking an unnecessary question, yet not quite certain that a cab was desired.

“Yes,” was the absent-minded response, and Peters passed on the word by telephone to the doorman below.

Then, satisfactorily turned out, Sir Herbert left his rooms and touched the elevator bell.

Once in the car, and seeing the pretty elevator girl, his mood brightened.

“Good evening, Daisy,” he said, “give me one kiss for good luck. This is my busy day.”

He carelessly put an arm round her, and kissed her lightly on the lips, even as he spoke. The girl was taken by surprise, and anger surged up in her soul.

“You coward!” she cried, wrenching herself free with difficulty and mindful of her elevator gear. “Take shame to yourself, sir, for insulting a defenseless girl!”

“Oh, come now, chicken, that didn’t hurt you! I’m only a jollier. Forget it, and I’ll give you a big box of candy.”

“I’ll never forget it, sir, and if you try that again—”

The dire threat was not pronounced, for just then the car reached the ground floor, and the girl flung the door open.

Nearby at the telephone switchboard was another girl, who looked up curiously as the Bun man came out of the elevator. She had overheard the angry voice that seemed to be threatening him, and she was not without knowledge of his ways herself.

But Sir Herbert waved his hand gayly at the telephone girl and also at the news stand girl. Indeed all girls were, in Binney’s estimation, born to be waved at.

He had recovered his good nature, and he went along the onyx lobby with a quick stride, looking at his watch as he walked.

“Taxi ready?” he said to the obsequious doorman.

“Yes, sir—yes, Sir Herbert. Here you are.”

“And here you are,” the Englishman returned, with a generous bestowal of silver.

“To the Hotel Magnifique,” he said, and his cab rolled away.

During the evening hours the attendants of The Campanile shifted. The elevator girls were replaced by young men, and the telephone operator was changed. The doorman, too, was another individual, and by midnight no one was on duty who had been on at dusk.

After midnight, the attendants were fewer still, and after two o’clock Bob Moore, the capable and efficient night porter, was covering the door, telephone and elevator all by himself.

This arrangement was always sufficient, as most of the occupants of The Campanile were average citizens, who, if at theater or party, were rarely out later than one or two in the morning.

On this particular night, Moore welcomed four or five theater-goers back home, took them up to their suites and then sat for a long time uninterruptedly reading a detective story, which was his favorite brand of fiction.

At two o’clock Mr Goodwin came in, and Moore took him up to the twelfth floor.

Returning to his post and to his engrossing book, the next arrival was Mr Vail. He belonged on the tenth floor and as they ascended, Moore, full of his story, said:

“Ever read detective stories, Mr Vail?”

“Occasionally; but I haven’t much time for reading. Business men like more active recreation.”

“Likely so, sir. But I tell you this yarn I’m swallowing is a corker!”

“What’s it called?”

“Murder Will Out, by Joe Jarvis. It’s great! Why, Mr Vail, the victim was killed—killed, mind you—in a room that was all locked up—”

“How did the murderer get in?”

“That’s just it! How did he? And he left his revolver—”

“Left his revolver? Then he did get in and get out! Must have been a secret passage—”

“No, sir, there wasn’t! That is, the author says so, and all the people—the characters, you know, try to find one, and they can’t! Oh, it’s exciting, I’ll say! I can’t guess how it’s coming out.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t peek over to the last page?”

“No, that spoils a story for me. The fun I get out of it is the trying to ferret out the solution, on my own. That’s sport for me. Why, you see, Mr Vail—but, excuse me, sir, I’m keeping you.”

The elevator had stopped at the tenth floor, and Vail had left the car, but he stood waiting till the enthusiastic Moore should pause.

“Oh, well, go on—what were you saying?”

“Only this, sir. To me, a good detective story is not the one that keeps you guessing—nor the one that keeps you in fearful suspense as to the outcome, but the one that gives you a chance to solve the riddle yourself. The one that puts all the cards on the table, and gives you a chance at it.”

“And you can usually work it out?”

“Sometimes—not always. But the fun is in trying.”

“You ought to have been a detective, Moore. You’ve the taste for it evidently. Well, good-night; hope you discover the clue and solve the mystery. Shall you finish your book tonight?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I’m more than half way through it.”

“Well, tell me in the morning if you guessed right. Good-night, Moore.”

“Good-night, Mr. Vail.”

The elevator went down, and Bob Moore left the car to return to his book.

But he did not return to the story. A more engrossing one was opened to him at that moment. A glance toward the front doorway showed him a figure of a man, lying in a contorted heap on the floor, about half way between himself and the entrance.

He went wonderingly toward it, his heart beating faster as he drew near.

“Dead!” he breathed softly, to himself, “no, not dead!—oh, my God, it’s Sir Herbert Binney!”

In the onyx lobby, at the very foot of one of the tall ornate capitaled columns was the prostrate Binney. Apparently he was a dying man; blood was flowing from some wound, his face was drawn in convulsive agony, from his stiffening fingers he let fall a pencil, but his lips were framing inarticulate words.

Bob Moore’s wits did not desert him. Instead, his thoughts seemed to flash with uncanny quickness.

“Binney’s dying,” he told himself, “he’s been murdered! Gee! what an excitement there will be! He’s babbling—he’s going to tell who killed him! If I scoot for Doctor Pagett, this chap’ll be dead before I get back—if I wait—I’ll be called down for not going—but I must get it out of him—if I can—what is that, Sir, try to tell me—”

Bending over the stricken man, Moore listened intently, and caught the words—or words which sounded like—“Get—them—get J—J—anyway—get—J—”

With a sudden gasping gurgle, the man was dead.

Bewildered, but striving hard to grasp the situation and do his exact duty, Moore looked about, and quickly concluded his next move was to call the doctor.

Pagett, on the second floor, was the physician of the house, and Moore raced up the stairs to his apartment.

Ringing the bell continuously brought the doctor to the door.

“What’s happened?” he said, sleepily.

“Murder!” answered Moore, briefly. “Hike into some clothes and get downstairs. Sir Herbert Binney’s been done for!”

Not waiting, Moore ran back down the stairs, and took his station guarding the dead man. He resolved to touch nothing, but his attention at once fell on a bit of paper, on which Binney had evidently been scrawling some message, with the pencil that had at last fallen from his nerveless fingers.

Careful not to touch the paper, Moore devoured it with his eyes.

It was a rough scrawl that said: “women did this get”...and then something unreadable.

CHAPTER IV

The Busy Police

But even the astonishing disclosure of the scrawled statement did not cause Bob Moore to lose his head. Excited and startled though he was, he was also alertly conscious that he must conduct himself with care. He had a vague fear that he might be connected with the case and weirdly enough he had a secret fear that he might not!

Already in fancy he saw himself doing marvelously clever detective work that should result in getting the criminal of whom the dying efforts of the victim strove to tell him. But he must be careful not to put himself forward, not to overstep his privileges, and, above all, not to seem too eager to help in the search for the murderer, for he felt sure his offers of assistance would be deemed presumptuous.

Doctor Pagett came running down the stairs, knotting his necktie as he descended.

“Binney!” he exclaimed; “the Englishman who makes Buns. What’s this paper?”

“I haven’t touched it, Doctor; I haven’t touched anything. You can see for yourself what the paper says.”

“Women did this,” said the doctor, his eyes fairly bulging; “what—what does it mean? Where were you?”

“Up at the tenth floor, taking Mr Vail up. He came in—there was no Binney about then!—and I took him up in the elevator to his floor, and when I came down, Mr Binney was there just as you see him now—only, he was still alive.”

“Alive!”

“Yes, sir—just dying. He mumbled a word or two—”

“What did he say?”

“He said—‘Get—get—’ but he couldn’t say who. That’s all—then he drew a long breath and died.”

“You came straight to me?”

“Yes, sir. I flew! I thought it my duty to hesitate that moment, in case he might get out the name of the murderer.”

“I think you did all right, Moore. He’s surely dead—and, just as surely, he was murdered. And by women! But how is it possible? However, that’s not my province. We must get the police, and also, notify his people. He lived in the Prall apartment, didn’t he?”

“No; he was there a lot; they’re his relatives, I believe, but he had his own apartment, a small one on the eighth floor. Miss Prall, she’s on the eighth, too, shall I call her up?”

“Oh, that’s pretty awful. Call the nephew, young Bates, first.”

“Shall I telephone or go up there—?”

“Go up—no, telephone—somebody might come in, and want you.”

“Hello,” Richard Bates responded to Moore’s telephone call.

“Mr. Bates?”

“Yes.”

“Will you come downstairs, sir, right away? There’s been a—an accident. Mr. Binney—that is, Sir Binney, you know—he’s—he’s—”

“Well, he’s what?”

“He’s—oh, come down, sir, please!”

Moore hung up his receiver, for his nerve suddenly deserted him when it came to telling the dreadful fact of the tragedy.

In a few moments the elevator bell sounded and Moore went up to bring Bates down.

“What is it?” Bates asked. “Is my uncle—er—lit up?”

“Oh, no, sir,” and Bob Moore looked shocked, “it isn’t that, at all. It’s worse than that—it’s an accident.”

“What sort of an accident? Taxi smash-up? Any kind of a stroke?”

But by this time they were down to the street floor, and the two men stepped out of the car.

Seeing the doctor, who was still bending over the inert figure on the floor, Bates hurried along the onyx lobby till he reached the scene, and could see, without being told, what had happened.

A moment he gazed in silence at his uncle’s face, and then said, excitedly, “Who did this? How was he killed? Why should anybody—”

Silently the doctor pointed to the paper on the floor at the dead man’s side.

Bates read it, and looked up wonderingly.

“Don’t touch it,” warned the physician as the young man stretched out his hand. “It’s a clue—the police must take charge of it.”

“The police! Oh, yes—of course—it’s a murder, isn’t it?”

“You bet it’s a murder!” exclaimed Moore. “And done by women! Oh, gee! what a case it will be!”

“Hush up!” Bates cried, angrily. “Don’t talk like that in the presence of the dead! We must send for an undertaker.”

“Not yet,” demurred Doctor Pagett. “In a case like this, the police must be notified first of all.”

“Not first of all,” said Bates, slowly, as his mind began to work; “we must tell my aunt, Miss Prall.”

“Yes, of course, but the police must be sent for.”

“Sure,” put in Bob Moore, who was gaining confidence in his own importance, “I must get this matter hushed up before people begin to get around. Lucky it happened in the night! It’s none too good an advertisement for the house!”

“I think I’ll go up and tell my aunt myself,” said Bates, thoughtfully. “You stay here by—by the body, Doctor. And, I say—what—how was he killed?”

“Stabbed,” said the doctor, shortly.

“What with?”

“I don’t know—except that it was with a sharp blade of some sort. There’s no weapon in sight.”

“No weapon! How queer!”

“Queer or not, I can’t find any. It’s a pretty strange affair, to my mind. Yes, I’ll stay here, you go and tell your aunt’s people, and—Moore, you come right back after you take Mr Bates up.”

In silence the return trip was made in the elevator, for Bates was thinking how he should break the news to the two excitable women upstairs, and Bob Moore’s thoughts were in such a riot, that he was trying hard to straighten them out.

In front of Miss Prall’s bedroom door, her nephew hesitated for some time before knocking. Not only was his courage weak but his brain was receiving so many sudden jolts that he could scarcely control his voice. Why, now, he was his uncle’s heir. Unless he had already changed that will! Had he?

At last, with a gentle knock, repeated more loudly, and finally with a fusillade of raps, he succeeded in rousing Miss Prall, who demanded, with asperity, “Who’s there?”

“Me; Rick. Open the door, please.”

“What’s the matter? You sick?” his aunt exclaimed, as she unlocked her door.

“No; now, listen, Aunt Letitia, and don’t faint—for anything. Uncle Binney is—has been—why, somebody killed him!”

“Killed him! Is he dead?”

“Yes, ma’am”; both were unaware of the absurdity of the words, “he’s downstairs—in the lobby—and he’s been stabbed.”

Richard’s teeth were chattering from the tension of his nerves, and the horror of the situation, but Miss Prall’s nerves were strong ones, and she said, “I’ll dress and go right down. And I’ll tell Eliza—you needn’t. Go in the living-room and wait for me there.”

Rather relieved at not being sent back downstairs and decidedly willing to let his aunt break the news to Miss Gurney, Bates went to his own room and added some finishing touches to the hasty toilet he had made. Then he awaited his aunt, as directed, and in an incredibly short time she appeared, all dressed and impatient to go downstairs.

“We won’t wait for Eliza,” she said; “come along. Oh, no, wait a minute!” She returned to her bedroom, and shortly reappeared.

Her vigorous push of the elevator button brought Moore quickly, and he took them down.

Miss Prall strode rapidly along the lobby and spoke brusquely to the doctor.

“What are you doing? Why do you touch him before the police arrive?”

“Good Lord, how you startled me!” exclaimed Doctor Pagett, who in his absorption had not heard her approach. “I have a perfect right to examine the body, ma’am,” he went on indignantly. “Do you suppose I don’t know my business?”

“I’ve always heard no one must touch a murdered man until—”

“Then how are we to know it is a murder?” he countered, looking at her keenly. “Will you read that paper, Miss Prall? Don’t touch it!”

“Women did this,” she read, aloud. “Well, I’m not surprised. If ever a man was mixed up with women—of all sorts, it was Sir Herbert! But what women did it? Where are they?”

She looked about, as if expecting to see the criminals cowering in the shadows or behind the great columns of the lobby.

“They have disappeared—not an uncommon procedure,” returned the doctor, dryly. “And they have taken with them the weapon with which the crime was committed, thus removing a most important clue! Have you any suspicion—in any direction?”

Doctor Pagett shot this query at her with such sharp suddenness that Miss Prall almost jumped.

“I!” she exclaimed loudly. “How could I know anything about this man or his women? He’s nothing to me!”

“He is your nephew’s uncle.”

“Well, that makes him no kin of mine, does it? Don’t you dare mix me up in this thing!”

“Nobody’s mixing you up in it, ma’am,” and, indifferently, the physician returned his attention to the dead man, and became engrossed in studying the writing on the paper.

And then, as three men from Police Headquarters appeared at the front end of the long lobby, Eliza Gurney stepped from the elevator at the other end. Apparently she was holding herself well in hand, for, though her face was white and drawn with fear, her firm set lips and clenched hands betokened a resolve not to give way to nerves in any fashion.

“Let me see him,” she said, in steady tones.

“Who are you, madam?” said Officer Kelsey, resenting her determined push forward.

“I’m Miss Gurney, the companion of Miss Prall,” and the air with which she made the announcement would have fitted a grand duchess.

Impressed, the policeman made way for her, and then continued his questioning.

“Who’s in command here?” he said. “Who’s nearest of kin?”

At the first question, Miss Prall stepped forward, but at the second, she fell back in favor of Richard Bates.

“I am,” Bates said, quietly. “He is my uncle, Sir Herbert Binney.”

Further statistics were ascertained and then the police began actual investigation. The detective was the smallest and least conspicuous man of the three, and his unassuming air and somewhat stupid-looking face would have carried a conviction of his utter incompetency, save for his alert, darting black eyes, that seemed to look in several directions at once, so rapidly did they roll about.

Corson was his name, and he asked questions so quickly and so continuously that he scarce waited for answers.

“Where had he been?” he flung out. “Who saw him come in? Who was on door duty? What’s your name? Moore? Well, did you admit this man?”

“No,” said Bob Moore, “I was up in the elevator taking one of the tenants to his floor. There’s only me on, late at night.”

But Corson seemed unheeding. Already he had turned to Miss Prall.

“Does this man live with you? Did he, I mean. Where did he set out for when he left home? What time did he go?”

“Now you look here!” said Miss Letitia, angrily. “I can’t answer forty-seven questions at once! Nor other people can’t, either. You talk more slowly, sir, and more rationally.”

But Corson heeded her not at all. He turned to Bates.

“Your uncle, eh? You his heir?”

“Yes, he is!” Miss Prall answered for him, and Corson’s roving glance took her in and returned to Bates. “Where were you when he was killed?”

“In bed,” replied Richard, shortly.

“Oh; all right. Now, I’ll take charge of this paper, for there’s little doubt but it’s mighty important.” He folded it carefully into his pocket-book. “Was this gentleman—er, addicted to ladies’ society?”

“That he was,” Moore spoke up, involuntarily.

“I didn’t ask you,” said Corson. “I asked Mr. Bates.”

“Why, yes,” said Richard, “he did like the society of ladies—but most men do.”

“We’re not discussing the matter, Mr. Bates,” and for once Corson looked steadily at him, “we’re just looking into it. And—” he paused, impressively, “and these immediate, right-away-quick questions are pretty good first aid, as a rule.”

“Go ahead, then,” and Richard folded his arms, in a resigned manner.

Doctor Pagett motioned the two ladies to take seats on the red velvet sofa and seated himself also.

“There’s no doubt,” Corson went on, “that this writing is the true explanation. Dying men don’t leave anything but truth as a last message. It seems pretty steep to believe that women managed this affair, but that’s the very reason he made such a desperate effort to let it be known.”

“And he tried to tell me who it was,” broke in Moore, irrepressibly.

“He did?” and Corson’s eyes flashed toward the speaker. “What did he say? Did he mention any names? How did you come to be listening? Were you here when—”

Miss Prall interrupted. “If you’d listen a minute, and not talk all the time, you might learn something, Mister Detective!”

“Thank you, ma’am. Answer me, Moore. Just what did this man say after he was hurt—that you heard?”

“He said ‘Get—get—’ and that was all, except that he tried hard to say a name—or it seemed like that—and he said something like something beginning with a J.”

“Well, you’re guarded in your statements. But I understand. I suppose he was struggling for breath, really—”

“He could just speak and that’s all. He kept saying ‘J—J—’ and then he gave a gasp and died.”

“How do you know he died?”

“Why, he sort of relaxed—limp like—and stopped trying to speak.”

“And he seemed to be after some name beginning with J—say James or John.”

“That’s the way it sounded.”

“All right. Now, how long had you been absent from this place when you returned and found him?”

“Just long enough to take Mr Vail up to his floor—the tenth.”

“Vail? Who’s he?”

“One of our tenants. He lives on the tenth floor. He came in and I took him up—”

“And came right down again?”

“Yes; and when I got down, I saw the—the heap in the lobby.”

“You knew at once who it was?”

“Not who it was, but I saw it was a man, evidently knocked down, or fallen in a fit—as I thought. So I ran to see, and—I’ve told you the rest.”

“What time was all this?”

“It was twenty minutes after two.”

“When you found him?”

“When I found him.”

“How do you know so certainly?”

“I’m—I’m fond of detective work, and I thought there’d be some in this matter, and so, I did everything I could think of to help along.”

“Oho, fond of detective work, are you? What have you done in that line?”

“Nothing! I didn’t mean practically. But, well, theoretically. You see, I’ve read a great many detective stories—”

“Yes; you were reading one this evening? Where is it? Let me see it.”

Slightly embarrassed at Corson’s manner, Bob got the book and passed it over.

“Murder Will Out. H’m— Say, Mr. Bates, do you know where your uncle spent the evening?”

“I do not.” Richard was not at all pleased with Corson’s way, and he had turned sullen.

“No idea? Have you, Miss Prall?”

“I’ve an idea, but I suppose you want only definite statements. Such I cannot give.”

“Well, well, what do you know about it? Remember, evasion or refusal to answer is by no means a point in your favor.”

“What! Are you implying there’s anything in my disfavor? Am I being questioned as a possible suspect?”

“Lord, no, madam! Don’t jump at conclusions.”

“She didn’t!” put in Eliza Gurney. “Seems to me you’re an addlepated young fellow for a detective.”

“Yes? Does any one present know where Mr Binney—is that the name?—spent this evening? Or any way to learn of his whereabouts?”

“He went out about before I came on,” volunteered Moore. “The day doorman will know, or the elevator girl who brought him down.”

“All right. That’s keep. Now, I want to get at the actual facts of his discovery here. It would seem, Moore, that you’re the only one who can give any information in that respect.”

“I’ve already told you all I know.”

“And this Mr Vail you took upstairs—he wouldn’t know anything?”

“I can’t answer for that, but when Mr Vail came in, and I took him up in the elevator, there wasn’t any sign of Sir Herbert Binney about, dead or alive!”

“No; that’s so. Well, then, when you came down, and found the wounded man, you went at once for the doctor?”

“Almost at once. I paused a moment, because he was trying so hard to speak, and I reasoned that if he succeeded it would be of utmost importance that some one should hear his words.”

“H’m—yes, that’s so. Well, and then, he gave over trying and died, you say; and then?”

“Then I ran up at once to Doctor Pagett’s apartment, it is only one flight up, and he came down as soon as he could.”

“Go on from there, Doctor.”

“I came right down, as soon as I could hurry on some clothes. I found Sir Binney dead, and can asseverate that he had been dead but a few moments.”

“He was stabbed?”

“Yes, and the weapon used was removed and must have been taken away by the murderer, as it cannot be found.”

“H’m there are other explanations. But never mind that. The wound was such as to cause almost instantaneous death?”

“Apparently it did do so. Death was, of course, hastened by the immediate removal of the knife. Had that remained in the wound, the victim would doubtless have lived long enough to make a clear dying statement.”

“What was the weapon? Can you divine?”

“A sharp knife, dagger, or some such implement.”

“A paper-cutter, say?”

“Not likely. Unless it was an unusually sharp one. The cut is so cleanly made that it presupposes a very sharp blade.”

“And your diagnosis of the killing corresponds in all points with this night porter’s story?”

“So far as I can judge, there is no discrepancy in his narrative.”

Dr Pagett was of the pompous school, and dearly loved to be in an important rôle. But he was evidently a learned and skilled physician and his words were spoken with a positive air that carried conviction.

“There is little more to be learned from viewing the scene,” the detective said, at last, after he had put a few more direct questions to Bob Moore and had advised some with his companion policemen.

“Nope; might as well let in the undertakers,” agreed Kelsey.

“Oh, do,” urged Moore. “It’s really imperative that we get all traces of the tragedy away before daylight. And it’s almost four o’clock now!”

“Good gracious, so it is!” exclaimed Miss Prall. “Well, I suppose I shall be consulted as to the funeral, at least! I seem to be of little importance here!”

“Don’t talk like that, Aunt,” urged Bates. “These inquiries are necessary. The funeral services and all that, will of course be under our control.”

“I should hope so,” the lady sniffed; “I shall stay here until the undertaker arrives. I want some say in these matters.”

“I think, Letitia,” suggested Miss Gurney, “you’d better go to your room and tidy up a bit. You dressed very hastily.”

“What matter! Such things are unimportant in a crisis of this sort! Oh, I can’t realize it! The awful circumstances almost make one forget the sadness of death! Poor Sir Herbert! He enjoyed life so much!”

Miss Prall buried her face in her handkerchief, and so was unable to see the quizzical glances given her by Detective Corson.

CHAPTER V

Who Were the Women?

The usual and necessary routine was followed out. The Medical Examiner came and did his part; the undertakers came and did theirs; and at last Bob Moore’s nervous restlessness was calmed, somewhat, by a hope of getting all signs of the tragedy obliterated before the morning’s stir began in the house.

“I’ll wash up these blood stains, myself,” Moore volunteered—speaking to Corson, after the body had been taken away to a mortuary establishment and the Prall family had gone up to their rooms.

“Oh, I don’t know,” demurred Corson. “It’s evidence, you know—”

“For whom? Can’t you get all the deductions you want, and let me clean up? We can’t have the tenants coming down to a hall like this! If there’s any evidence in these blood spots, make a note of it. You know yourself they can’t be left here all day!”

This was reasonable talk, and Corson agreed. “All right,” he said. “I’ll make pencil marks around where the spots are—pencil won’t wash off, you know—and as I can’t see any trace of footprints, I suppose there isn’t anything further to be learned from the condition of the floor.”

“Thought you Tecs got a lot from looking at the scene of the crime,” Moore jeered. “You haven’t deduced a thing but that the man was stabbed—and Dr. Pagett told you that.”

Corson took the taunt seriously.

“That finding of tiny clues, such as shreds of clothing, part of a broken cuff-link, a dropped handkerchief, all those things, are just story-book stuff—they cut no ice in real cases.”

“I’ll bet Sherlock Holmes could find a lot of data just by going over the floor with a lens.”

“He could in a story book—and do you know why? Because the clues and things, in a story, are all put there for him by the property man. Like a salted mine. But in real life, there’s nothing doing of that sort. Take a good squint at the floor, though, before you remove those stains. You don’t see anything, do you?”

Elated at being thus appealed to by a real, live detective, Moore got down on hands and knees and scrutinized the floor all about where the body of Sir Herbert had lain.

There was nothing indicative to be seen. The floor of the lobby was always kept in proper condition and beyond the slight trace of dust that naturally accumulated between the diurnal washings, the floor gave up no information.

So the gruesome red stains were washed away, and once again the onyx lobby took on its normal atmosphere.

“How you going to work on the case?” asked Moore, eagerly interested.

“I’m going to get the truth out of you!” declared Corson, so suddenly and brusquely that Moore turned white.

“What!” he cried.

“Yes, just that. You know a lot about the matter that you haven’t told—so you can just out with it!”

“Me? I don’t know anything.”

“Now, now, the thing is too thin. How could Binney get in here, and then his murderer come in and have the whole shooting-match pulled off in the short time it would take you to run Vail up to the tenth floor and drop your car down again?”

“But—but, you see, I—I stood quite a while talking to Mr Vail after we stopped at his floor.”

“What’d you do that for?”

“Why, we were talking about the book I was reading—”

“You were both talking—or you were talking to him?”

“I guess that’s it. I was so crazy about the book I’d talk to anybody who’d listen, and Mr Vail was real good-natured, and I guess I let myself go—”

“And babbled on, till he was bored to death and sent you away.”

“Just about that,” and Moore grinned, sheepishly. “I’m terribly fond of detective stories.”

“Yes, so you’ve said. Well, your book is called, I believe, ‘Murder Will Out,’ so, as that’s pretty true, you might as well own up first as last.”

“Own up to what?”

“That you killed Sir Binney! Where’s the knife? What did you do it for? Don’t you know you’ll be arrested, tried, convicted and sentenced? Yes—sentenced!”

Corson’s habit of flinging out rapid-fire questions took on new terror from the fierce frown with which he accompanied his speech, and Bob Moore’s knees trembled beneath him.

“W—what are you talking about? I—I didn’t k—kill him!”

“Yes, you did! You got all wrought up over those fool story books of yours and you went bug, and killed him in a frenzy of imagination!”

“Oh, oh! I didn’t—I—”

“Then explain your movements! You came down from your talk with Vail, full of murder thoughts. You saw Binney come in, and, moved by the opportunity and obsessed with the murder game, you let drive and killed him, in a sort of mania!”

“Oh, no! no!” and Moore fell limply into a seat and began to sob wildly.

“Stop that!” Corson ordered. “I’ve got to find out about this. I believe you did it—I believe I’ve struck the truth, for the simple reason that there’s no other suspect. This man Binney had no enemies. Why, he’s a peaceable Englishman, in trade—and a big trade. I know all about him. He wanted to place his Bun business over here. He’d confabbed with several Bakery men in this city, and was about to make a deal. He was on good terms with his people here—sort of relatives, they are—and he was a gay old boy in his social tastes. Now, who’s going to stick up a man like that? There was no robbery—his watch and kale were all right there. So there’s no way to look, but toward you! You!” A pointed forefinger emphasized Corson’s words and Moore broke into fresh sobs.

“I tell you I didn’t! Why, it’s too absurd—too—”

“Not absurd at all. I know something of psychology, and I know how those murder yarns, read late at nights—when you’re here alone, get into your blood, and—well, it’s a wonder you didn’t stick Vail! But I suppose his indulgent listening to your ravings helped along your murder instinct, and you—”

“Oh, hush! If you keep on you’ll make me think I did do it!”

“Of course—you can’t think anything else. Now, here’s another thing. You say you went up for Dr Pagett at twenty past two.”

“Or a few minutes later.”

“Well, Pagett said—I asked him privately—that it was at least quarter to three! What were you doing all that time?”

“It wasn’t—I didn’t—oh, Mr Corson, I told you the truth. I waited to catch the last words of—”

“Yes, of your own victim! And then, frightened, you hung around twenty minutes or so before calling the doctor.”

“I did not! But,” and Moore pulled himself together, “I’m not going to say another word! You’ve doped out this cock-and-bull story because you don’t know which way to look for the real murderer. And you think you can work a third degree on me—and railroad me to the chair, do you? Well, you can’t do it!”

Moore’s eyes were glittering, his cheeks were flushed and his voice rose to a shrill shriek as he glared wildly at his tormentor.

“Shut up on that!” Corson flung at him. “Calm yourself down, now. If you’re innocent, it’s all right. But I’ll keep my eye on you, my boy. Now, tell me any theory you have or can invent that will fit the facts of the case.”

Corson asked this in the honest hope that Moore could give him a hint. The detective was a good plodding sleuth when it came to tracking down a clue, but he was not fertile of imagination and had little or no initiative. He really believed it might have been Moore’s work, but he thought so, principally, because he could think of no other way to look.

“The facts are not so very strange,” began Moore, looking at the detective uncertainly. He didn’t want to give any unnecessary help, for he had a half-formed theory that he wanted to think out for himself, and he had no intention of sharing it with an avowed enemy. But he saw, too, that a few words of suggestion of any sort might lead Corson’s suspicions away from himself and might make for leniency.

“Wait a minute,” he said, on a sudden thought. “The writing the dying man managed to scribble said that women did the murder.”

“That’s my best bet!” cried Corson; “I’ve been waiting for you to mention that! You wrote that paper! That’s what occupied you all that time. Of course women didn’t do a deed like that. You conceived the fiendishly clever idea of writing such a message to mislead the police!”

“You—you—” but words failed Bob Moore. He reverted to his plan of silence and sat, moodily staring in front of him, as the dawn broke and the time drew near for the day shift of workers to come on.

“Don’t you think so?” and Corson now spoke almost ingratiatingly. “I mean don’t you think it pretty impossible for women to put over such a crime?”

“No, I don’t,” Bob blurted out. “Nor you wouldn’t either, if you knew Binney! Why, his life just one—h’m—one woman after another! And they were all after him!”

“What do you mean?”

“Why he was a regular feller, you know. He took the chorus girls—or some of their sort—out to dinners and all that, and, here in the house, he jollied the elevator girls and the telephone and news-stand Janes—and yet he detested girls’ service. Many a time he’d blow out to the manager about how he’d ought to fire all the girls and put back men or boys—like we had before the war.”

“Your story doesn’t hang together. Binney seemed to adore and hate the girls, both.”

“That’s just it, he did. He’d storm and rail at Daisy—she’s on his elevator, and then he’d turn around and chuck her under the chin, and like as not bring her home a big box of chocolates.”

“Oh, well, I’ve heard of men like that before.”

“But not so much so. I don’t believe anybody ever went for the girls rough-shod as bad as he did. He called them down for the least thing—and then, sometimes he’d make it up to them and sometimes he wouldn’t.”

“And the chorus ladies? But I suppose you don’t know much about them.”

“Don’t I? Well, I guess I do! Why, Mr Binney—Sir Binney, I mean—he used to tell me the tallest yarns I ever heard, about his little suppers—as he called ’em. He’d come ’long about two G. M. pretty mellow, and in an expansive mood, and he’d pour out his heart to old Bob—meaning me. Yes, sir, I know a thing or two about Binney’s lady friends, and there’s a few of them that wouldn’t mind knifing him a bit—if they were sure they wouldn’t be found out. And—if you ask me, that’s just what happened.”

“H’m; you mean they followed him home, and slipped in after him—”

“Yep.”

“But how did they know they’d find the coast clear—that you’d so very conveniently be up in the elevator, and would stay up there such an unusually long time? You’d better shut up, Moore. Everything you say gets you deeper in the net. If your chorus girl theory is the right dope, you were in on it, too. Otherwise it couldn’t have been worked!”

“All right, Mr Corson, I’ll shut up. You’ll see the time when you’ll be mighty glad to turn to me for help. Till then, work on your own; but you needn’t aim this way, it won’t get you anywhere.”

Meantime there was consternation among the nearest of kin to the dead man.

In the Prall apartment, Miss Letitia was conducting conversation ably aided and abetted by Eliza Gurney, while young Bates sat listening and joining in when there was opportunity.

“Worst of all is the disgrace,” Miss Prall was saying. “There’s no use my pretending I’m over-come with grief—personal grief, I mean, for I never cared two straws for the man, and I’m not going to make believe I did. But the publicity and newspaper talk is terrible. Once it blows over and is forgotten we’ll be able to hold up our heads again, but just now, we’re in the public eye—and it’s an awful place to be!”

“But who did it, Aunt Letitia,” said Bates. “We’ve got to get the murderer—”

“I don’t mind so much about that,” his aunt returned, with a sharp sniff. “All I want is to get the thing hushed up. Of course, you’re the heir now, Ricky, so you must put on suitable mourning and all that, but those things can be attended to in due course.”

“Where you going to have the funeral and when?” asked Eliza. “I don’t think I’ll go.”

“You needn’t, if you don’t want to,” Miss Prall agreed. “I don’t blame you—I don’t want to attend it myself, but I suppose I ought to. It will be in the undertaker’s chapel, and it will soon be over. Let’s have it just as quickly as possible, Rick. Tomorrow, say.”

“Oh, Aunt Letitia! Do observe the rules of common decency! We can’t hurry the poor man into his grave like that. And I shouldn’t wonder if there’ll be a lot of red tape and inquiry before we can bury him at all.”

“Maybe the body’ll have to be sent back to England,” suggested Eliza, and Richard was just about to say he supposed it would, when the doorbell of the apartment rang.

As Miss Prall’s maids did not sleep in the house, Bates opened the door and found Corson there, with a bland but determined look on his face.

“Sorry to trouble you people,” he said, stepping inside without being asked, “but I’ve some talking to do, and the sooner the quicker.”

He smiled, importantly, and, selecting a comfortable chair, seated himself deliberately and looked in silence from one to another.

“Well,” said Miss Prall, stiffly, “what do you want to know?”

The angular, spare figure of the spinster, upright in a straight-backed chair, was not of a demeanor to put a man at ease, but Corson showed no uneasiness, and almost lolled in his seat as he cast a slow glance at her.

“Naturally,” he began, “what I want to know is, and what I propose to find out is, who killed Sir Herbert Binney. And what I want to know here is, anything any of you can tell me that will throw any light, side light, or full glare, on the question.”

“We don’t know anything that is illuminating in any way,” Miss Prall informed him.

“I will be the judge of the powers of illumination if you will tell me what you know,” was the suave retort. “Will you make a statement or shall I ask questions?”

“Neither,” and Letitia Prall rose. “You may bid us good-night, sir. This is no time to intrude upon the ladies of a family—especially a family in deep and sudden mourning.”

“You weren’t mourning very deeply as I entered.” Corson made no move to get up, although Bates rose as his aunt did. “I think, Miss Prall, you’d better sit down again, and you, too, Mr Bates. This may be a lengthy confab.”

“I think you’d better listen to this man, Letitia,” advised Eliza. “He’s got a right to be heard, and I, for one, want to know how matters stand.”

Whereupon Letitia sat down and Bates came and stood behind her chair.

“First, Mr Corson,” Richard said, “let me understand just how far your authority goes—”

“All the way,” returned Corson, promptly. “I’m the police detective on this case. I shall have a helper—a colleague, undoubtedly, but for the moment I’m working alone. However, I’ve all the authority in the world. I represent law and justice, I represent the government, I represent the United States!”

“The United States is honored, I’m sure,” said Miss Prall with unconcealed sarcasm.

Such things never ruffled Corson, and he went calmly on.

“This man’s relation to you?” he said, interrogatively, looking at Letitia.

“He was no kin of mine,” she snapped; “he was the uncle of my nephew, Mr Bates, and Mr Bates is the sole heir.”

“Indeed; he is to be congratulated. Now, this man—Sir Binney—”

“Don’t call him that!” put in Eliza. “It does annoy me so! Say Sir Herbert Binney or Sir Herbert. Have you never known a knight?”

“No, ma’am, I never have. Well, Sir Herbert, then—did he live here?”

“In this building—not in this apartment,” Richard answered, as the two haughty ladies seemed disinclined to accommodate their inquisitor.

And then, by dint of slow and persistent questioning, Detective Corson drew out the vital statistics of the deceased gentleman and of the members of the Prall household.

“Now as to the ‘women,’” Corson went on. “You know Sir Herbert left a paper stating that women killed him. This is a most peculiar message for a dying man to leave.”

“Why so, if it is true?” and Letitia Prall’s eyes gave him a curious look.

“Yes—that’s just it—if it is true.”

“It’s got to be true,” burst out Bates, impulsively. “No man is going to write a thing like that with his last ounce of dying strength unless it’s true!”

“I agree to that,” and Corson nodded, “if he did write it.”

“What?” Miss Prall started up in amazement. “Who says he didn’t write it?”

“Nobody says so, I only say it might be so. Suppose the murderer himself wrote it to turn suspicion toward some one else—some woman.”

“I never thought of that!” and Miss Prall fell into a brown study, as if the new thought moved her profoundly.

“Nor I,” said Bates, looking intently at the detective. “But, I say, that writing looked to me amazingly like my uncle’s.”

“And the porter—Bob Moore, you know,” broke in Eliza—“he said, the pencil dropped from Sir Herbert’s fingers just as he fell back dead—”

“Oh, no, he didn’t say that! That’s the way stories get repeated. There’s no such thing as direct, undistorted evidence! Moore didn’t see the pencil in Sir Herbert’s fingers at all. He saw it lying on the floor beside the dead man’s hand—or, he says he did.”

“Good Heavens! You don’t suspect Moore!” cried Richard. “Why, he’s the best chap going!”

“I don’t say he isn’t, and I don’t say I suspect him, but I want you people to understand that he might have done it all—might have committed the murder and might have written the scribbled paper to turn suspicion away from himself. As for the handwriting, that trembling, shaky scrawl can’t be identified with anybody’s ordinary writing.”

“Oh, I can’t think it,” Richard objected. “Why, Bob Moore couldn’t do such a thing, and, besides, what would be his motive?”

“We haven’t come to motive yet. We’re finding out who had opportunity.”

“Any passer-by had that,” Miss Prall said, positively; “while Moore was up in the elevator, what was to prevent any pedestrian going by from stepping in and killing Sir Herbert?”

“Nothing; but there are few pedestrians at two o’clock in the morning, and fewer still who have a reason for a murder.”

“Oh, it must have been prearranged,” said Bates, thoughtfully. “There’s not the slightest doubt,” he went on hurriedly, “that whoever killed him—man, woman or child!—came in from the street to do the deed.”

“Why, of course,” agreed Miss Prall; “where else could they have come from? Nobody in the house would do it!”

“No; I suppose not,” admitted Corson. “Well, then, ma’am, we have the assassin coming in from the street, while Moore is upstairs. And, according to the victim’s own statement, the assassin was feminine and there were two, at least, of them. For I’ve studied that paper, and it says, clearly, ‘women did this.’ Want to see it?” his hand went toward his breast pocket.

“No—oh, no,” and Miss Prall shuddered.

“Well, supposing a couple of women came in, having, we’ll say, watched their chance, what more likely than that it was two chickens—beg pardon, ma’am, that means gay young ladies—with whom Sir Herbert had been dining? Why, like as not they came in with him. They didn’t hang round outside waiting for him. You see, they’d been with him, and he had in some way offended them, let us say, and they wanted to kill him—”

“Seems to me you’re drawing a long bow,” and Bates almost smiled at the mental picture of two gay chorus girls committing the gruesome deed.

Corson spoke seriously. “No, Mr Bates, I’m not. If we take this written paper at its face value, and I don’t know why we shouldn’t, it means that women killed that man. And if women, who more likely than the chorus girls? Unless you people up here can suggest some other women—some, any women in the man’s private life who wished to do him harm or who wished him out of the way. That’s why I’m here, to learn anything and all things you may know that might aid me in a search for the right women—the women who really killed him. Chorus girls are wholly supposititious. But the real women, the women who are the criminals, must and shall be found!”

CHAPTER VI

The Little Dinner

The next morning at eight o’clock, Morton, the day doorman, came on duty.

Corson eagerly began at once to question him, and he told the story of Sir Herbert Binney’s departure from the house, but there his information ended.

“All I know is, Mr Binney went away from here in a taxicab, ’long about half-past six, I think it was. And he went to the Hotel Magnifique—at least, that’s what he told the driver. And that’s the last I saw of him. But his man, Peters, is due any minute—maybe he’ll know more.”

“Peters? A valet?”

“Yes, and general factotum. He comes every morning at eight, and takes care of his boss.”

And in a few moments Peters arrived. His shocked astonishment at the news was too patently real to give the slightest grounds of suspicion that he had any knowledge of it before his arrival.

“Poor old duffer!” he said, earnestly, “he was awful fond of life. Now, who would kill him, I’d like to know!”

“That’s what we all want to know, Peters,” said Corson. “Come, I’ll go up to his rooms with you, and we can look things over.”

Up they went, and the detective looked about the apartment of the dead man with interest. There were but two rooms, a bedroom and bath and a good-sized sitting-room. The furniture was the usual type of hotel appointments and there were so few individual belongings that the place gave small indication of the habits or tastes of its late occupant.

“Nothing of a sybarite,” commented Corson, glancing at the few and simple toilet appurtenances.

“No,” returned Peters, “but he was accustomed to finer living in his English home. He’s no brag, but I gathered that from things he let drop now and then. But when he was on a business trip, he didn’t seem to care how things were. He was a good dresser, but not much for little comforts or luxuries.”

“What about his friendships with ladies?”

“Aha, that was his strong point! As a ladies’ man he was there with the goods! He liked ’em all—from chorus girls to duchesses—and he knew English ladies of high life, I can tell you.”

“But over here he preferred the chorus girls?”

“I don’t say he preferred them. He went out a lot to fine homes and hobnobbed with some big people. But he was in his gayest mood when he was getting off for a frolic with the girls.”

“As he was last night?”

“Yes; he didn’t say much about it, but he did tell me that he was to take a couple of peaches to dinner, and afterwards see them in a Review or something they dance in.”

“Can’t you be more definite? Don’t you know what revue? Or the girls’ names?”

“No; I’ve no idea. Sir Herbert didn’t mention any names, and of course I didn’t ask him anything.”

“Then, I’ll have to go to the Magnifique to get on with this. First, I’ll take a look around here.”

But a careful investigation of the late Sir Herbert’s papers and personal effects cast no light on the mystery of his death. There were several photographs of young women, quite likely theatrical people, but none had a signature. However, Corson took these in charge as well as some few notes and letters that seemed significant of friendships with women.

“As young Bates is, I believe, the heir to Sir Herbert’s estate, I suppose he’ll take charge of these rooms, but, meanwhile, I’ll lock up as I want to go downstairs again now. You’re out of a job, my man!”

“Yes—why, so I am! It’s the first I’ve realized that!”

“Maybe Mr Bates will keep you on.”

“Not he! Those young chaps don’t want valets. He doesn’t, anyhow. No, I’ll be looking for a new berth. Oh, it’ll be easy enough found, but I liked Sir Herbert mighty well. He was a queer dick, but a kind and easy-going man to live with.”

“And he never chatted with you about his young lady friends?”

“Never. He was a reserved sort, as far as his own affairs were concerned. You could go just so far and no farther with Sir Herbert Binney.”

“Well, he left a paper stating that his death was brought about by women.”

“He did? Why, how could that be?”

“That’s what I’ve got to find out. He tried to write a message, and died in the very act. But he wrote clearly and distinctly the words, ‘Women did this,’ and we’ve got to believe it.”

“Oh, yes; if it was the other way, now, if women did it, he might try to put it up to a man, to shield the girls. But if he wrote that, it’s so, of course. Must have been some of those skylarking kids, and yet, it ain’t likely, is it now? Some vamp, I should say.”

“That’s it! Not a young chorus chicken, but an older woman, or women. Adventuresses, you know.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean. I suppose your first move is to trail his steps of last evening.”

“Yes, and I must get about it before the trail gets cold. I’ve so many ways to look. You know, Peters, he wasn’t liked by the girls of this house.”

“Well do I know that—and small wonder. The girls in this house are as nice a bunch of young ladies as ever lived. And the tenants are decent men—they don’t chuck an elevator girl under the chin or try to kiss her every time they ride up or down in her car alone with her!”

“And Sir Herbert did?”

“That he did! I heard it time and again. All the girls were right down mad about it. They’re not that sort of girls.”

“But I suppose they’re not the sort of girls to stab him in their righteous wrath?”

“Oh, good Lord, no! Though there’s one of ’em, now—”

“Which one?”

“No, I’ll mention no names. Why, I’ve no right to hint at such a thing.”

“But if you know anything—”

“I don’t. Go ahead with your investigations. If there’s anything to start your suspicions, let me know which way you’re looking.”

Corson went downstairs again, and rounded up all the girls employed in the house who might be apt to come in contact with the tenants.

Daisy Lee, an elevator girl, and Julie Baxter, a telephone girl, were the only ones who seemed to have rancorous or vindictive feelings toward the dead man.

Daisy, a frail, pale girl with a soft pretty face and lovely eyes, said frankly she was glad he was dead, for he bothered the life out of her with his attentions.

“He’d wait till I took other people up or down,” she said, angrily, “so’s he could ride with me alone, and then he’d kiss me.”

“Why didn’t you report his actions to the management?” Corson said, sharply.

“Well,” Daisy blushed and hesitated.

“Speak up, Day!” said Julie. “I’ll tell you, sir. She didn’t tell ’cause he brought her candy and flowers if she wouldn’t.”

“That’s so,” Daisy admitted, pouting. “I like flowers and candies as well as anybody, and they’re scarce nowadays.”

“Where were you last night?” Corson inquired, suddenly.

“Home and in bed,” declared Daisy, and when Julie gave her a quick, surprised look she said, defiantly, “Well, I was!”

“And where were you?” The detective turned to Julie.

“Home and in bed,” she said also, but her tone was not convincing.

Corson was about to ask further questions of them, but just then Mr Vail came down in the elevator, and the detective turned to him.

“What!” Vail exclaimed, as the news was told him. “Binney! Why, who did it?”

“Women,” said Corson, succinctly, and Vail looked mystified.

“Women! What women? And how do you know?”

He was enlightened as to the written message, and he looked utterly amazed.

“I never heard of such a thing! How could he write all that after he was stabbed with a stroke that killed him?”

“Well, he did! He was just dying when Bob Moore came down from taking you up.”

“Oh, then? Yes, Moore and I chatted a few moments about detective stories, and do you mean to say that at that very moment poor old Binney was being murdered a few floors beneath us?”

“Just that, sir.”

“What an awful thing! Have you any idea of the identity of the women? How could women do it?”

“That’s what everybody says! To me it’s just as easy to think women did it as men—and a heap more logical! Why, a man wouldn’t have dared to come into a brightly lighted place like this and stab somebody and get away again! But an angry woman—that’s just what she would do!”

“That’s true: I mean it’s true no man would take a chance like that—no sane man. But a woman, in a towering rage or insanely jealous or something—well, anyway, it’s the most astonishing case I ever heard of!”

“It’s all of that! You knew Sir Herbert Binney pretty well, didn’t you, Mr Vail?”

“In a business way; not socially. We had several conferences as to his Bun bakery. I’ve a Bread business of my own, and we talked about a combine, but we finally gave up the plan and Sir Herbert took his offers to the Crippen concern—or, said he was going to do so.”

“You and he friendly?”

“Oh, yes; the affair was entirely amicable. The whole thing resolved itself into the fact that his Buns were really more cake than bread—at least, from the American point of view—and so better adapted to Crippen’s use than to ours.”

“And you came in last night just before Sir Herbert came?”

“So you tell me now. Naturally, I didn’t know he followed me in.”

“Where’d you spend the evening?”

“With a friend, Dr Weldon, in Fifty-first Street.”

“Mind if I call him up and ask him?”

Vail stared at the detective.

“Meaning you’re questioning my veracity, or connecting me with the crime?”

Corson reddened, but stuck to his suggestion. “No, sir, but—well, you’re the nearest I’ve found to a material witness, and—”

“Well, do you know, it strikes me you don’t know what a material witness is! However, I’ve not the least objection to your calling up my friend—go to it! Here’s his number.”

A little sheepishly, Corson took the number and called up Dr Weldon. The hearty response of a genial voice assured the inquirer that Mr Vail had spent the evening before with the doctor, that he had arrived late, having been to a theater, and that the two had played chess until nearly two o’clock, when Mr Vail, surprised at the lateness of the hour, had started for home. That was the extent of Dr Weldon’s information.

“And quite satisfactory,” Corson said, with a relieved air. “I had to know, sir, that you weren’t with Sir Herbert. Now, I must find out who was with him—of either sex.”

“You’re all right, Corson,” Vail said; “I think you see your duty clearly, and if I can help you in any way, call on me. And, look here, don’t you let any suspicion fasten itself on Bob Moore. That chap’s all right. He’s everlastingly reading murder yarns, but he’s interested in the detective side of them, not the crime side. I wouldn’t say this, but I heard something about his being questioned and I want to stand up for him. In a general way, I mean. And as to this case, it’s very strange, I know, but don’t let its strangeness lead you into impossible theories. You know, already, that at the time of Sir Herbert Binney’s murder, Bob Moore was up at the tenth floor—I can testify to that—”

“Now, I don’t know, Mr Vail,” and Corson looked deeply perplexed. “What you say’s true enough, but look here, we’ve only Moore’s word that he found that man dying when he came down. Suppose Sir Herbert came in and Moore stabbed him—”

“And Sir Herbert wrote a paper saying it was women?”

“Well, no—but maybe Bob wrote that paper himself—”

“You’re getting pretty well tangled up, Corson. Why don’t you put a handwriting expert on that paper, and see if it’s in the dead man’s fist or not?”

“Good idea, Mr Vail! I never thought of it!”

“Try it, and, excuse me, Corson, but I say this in all honesty, I think you’d better get some help. I believe this is a big case and a mysterious one, and it wouldn’t do you any harm to have a colleague to advise with. Do as you like, or as you’re told, but that’s how it looks to me. Now I must be off, but I’ll come home early, for I’m interested to know how things go.”

“Hold on a minute, Mr Vail; you know Moore pretty well. Do you think it’s possible that he knows who did it, knows who the women are, even perhaps saw the thing done, and then helped them to get away and disposed of the weapon?”

“Anything is possible, Corson, but I think what you suggest is exceedingly improbable. I know Moore only from my chats with him now and then in the elevator, and that’s all I can say. To me, anything crooked in that young man seems decidedly unlikely.”

Vail went off leaving a sadly perplexed detective behind him, who felt that he didn’t know which way to turn, and was inclined to follow the advice he had received regarding a colleague.

Corson was anxious for further talk with the members of the Prall household, but they had not made appearance yet and he hesitated to call them.

He decided to run down to the Magnifique at once, when he received unexpected help from the telephone operator, Julie Baxter.

“Sir Herbert has a lot of telephone calls from ladies,” she said, with a meaning glance.

“Is that so? Did he have any yesterday?”

“Yes, he did. About five o’clock, a skirt called him up and they had a merry confab.”

“Who was she?”

“Dunno; but he called her ‘Babe.’”

“Not very definite! Most girls get called that! What did she say?”

“How should I know that?” and Julie’s big eyes stared haughtily at him.

“By the not unheard of method of using your ears. What did she say?”

Really eager to tell, Julie admitted that she listened in, and that an appointment was made for dinner at the Magnifique. Further details she could not supply.

Whereupon Corson carried out his plan of going to the big hotel at once.

He hunted down the head waiter of the grill room of the night before, and, having found him asleep in his room, waked him up and proceeded to interrogate him.

“You bet Sir Herbert Binney was here,” the man declared, when he got himself fully awake; “he had two of the prettiest little squabs I ever saw, along, and they had a jolly dinner.”

“And then?”

“Then they all went off to the theater, and after the show he brought them back, also two more—four of ’em in all—and they had supper.”

“All amicable?”

“Oh, yes—that is, at first. Later on, the girls got jealous of each other, and—well, the old chap’s a softy, you know, and they pretty much cleaned him out.”

“Just what do you mean?”

“Well, he made them presents, or promised them presents—he’s terribly rich—and each of those girls was afraid somebody else would get more than she did. So, they squabbled quite a lot.”

“Sir Herbert was good natured?”

“Yep; he just laughed and let ’em fight it out among themselves.”

“Now, look here, did any of those four girls get angry enough to wish Sir Herbert any harm?”

“Did they? Why, I heard Babe Russell say she was going to kill him, and Viola Mersereau, she said, if she was sure it would never be discovered, she’d shoot him herself.”

“Are you sure of these things? Because—somebody did kill Sir Herbert Binney about two o’clock this morning.”

“What! Who did it?”

“We don’t know, but we’ve reason to suspect women.”

“That’s the bunch, then! Lord, I didn’t think they’d go so far as that! But that Viola is a ring-leader—she’s a vamp, if there ever was one! And little Russell! Well, she’s soft and babyish looking but she’s got the temper of a wildcat! And they were out for the goods, those young she’s! They’re all straight, you know, but they’re just little greedies. And that man was their natural prey. Why, they could get anything out of him! Not pearl necklaces and diamonds—I don’t mean that—but fans and vanity-cases and silk stockings and lockets and such trifles. Not trifles in the aggregate, though. That man must have spent a good big roll on ’em last night.”

“How do you mean, spent it?”

“Why, he’d give this one or that one a yellowback to buy a new hat, say—and then the others would tease for new hats. And maybe, if he didn’t have the kale, he’d give ’em checks, or he’d tell ’em they could have the hat or the scarf or whatever charged to him. But he was strict. He told each one the limit she should pay, and if she paid more, they couldn’t be friends any more. It was a queer mix-up, but all friendly and decent. He was just like a big frolicsome boy, and the girlies were like soft little kittens, playful—but, kittens can scratch.”

“And they did?”

“Yes, there was more real ill nature shown last night than ever before. Sir Herbert wasn’t as generous as usual; I daresay he’s tired of the game—anyway, they couldn’t bamboozle him to more than little trinkets, and I think Viola was out for furs. And furs mean money. But he only smiled when she hinted and she spoke more plainly, and then when he didn’t agree she got mad.”

“You seem to know all about it.”

“Couldn’t help knowing. They took no pains to be quiet, and I was around most of the time, and finally I became interested to see how it would come out.”

“And how did it?”

“They all went off together—I mean the girls did. He bundled ’em into a taxicab, gave the driver a bill and said good-night. That’s the way he always does. He never escorts ’em home. Then he came back in here, settled his account, lit a cigar and strolled off by himself.”

“At what time was this?”

“Abut one, or a little before. Not very late. Sir Herbert’s no villain. I read him like a book. He just liked to see those girls enjoy a good supper, same’s he liked to see ’em dance on the stage. Anyway, there’s the history of the evening, so far as I know anything about it.”

Corson went away, went to the theater where the girls belonged—found out where they lived and went there.

The four lived in the same boarding house, and one and all refused to appear at any such unearthly hour as ten A. M.

But the strong arm of the law was used as an argument, and, after a time, four kimonoed and petulant-faced maidens put in an appearance.

Corson meant to be very intimidating, but he found himself wax in their hands. One and all they denied knowing anything of Sir Herbert Binney after he had entertained them at supper and sent them home in a cab.

They expressed mild surprise at his tragic fate, but no real regret. They seemed to Corson like four heartless, brainless dolls who had no thought, no interest outside their silly selves.

But in the dark eyes of Viola Mersereau and in the blonde, rosy face of Babe Russell he saw unmistakable signs of fear—and, working on this, he blustered and accused and threatened until he had them all in hysteria.

“You’ve not got a chance!” he declared. “You’re caught red-handed! You two said in so many words that you wished the old chap was dead, and after you got home, you sneaked out—whether there were others to know it, or not, I can’t say—but you two sneaked out, went to The Campanile, waited your chance, dashed in and stabbed the man and dashed away again. And you’d been safe, but for his living long enough to tell on you! ‘Women did this!’ Of course they did! And you’re the women! Who else could it be? What other women—what other sort of women would commit such a deed? Come now, are you going to own up?”

CHAPTER VII

Enlightening Interviews

The avalanche of denial, the flood of vituperation and the general hullabaloo that was set up by the four girls at Corson’s accusation reduced the detective to a pulp of bewilderment. The girls saw this and pursued their advantage. They stormed and raged, and then, becoming less frightened they guyed and jollied the poor man until he determined that he must have help of some sort.

Moreover, he felt sure now that these youngsters never committed murder. Even the Mersereau girl, the vamp, as she had been called, was a young thing of nineteen, and her vampire effect was only put on when occasion demanded.

“S’posen I did say I’d like to kill him!” she exclaimed, “that don’t mean anything! S’posen I said I died o’ laughin’, would you think I was dead? Those things are figgers of speech—that’s what they are!”

She paraded up and down the room with a tragedy-queen air, and rolled her practiced eyeballs at Corson.

And Babe Russell was equally scornful, though her soft, gentle effects were the opposite of Viola’s ways.

“Silly!” she said, shaking her pinkened finger at the detective. “To think us nice, pretty little girls would kill a big grown-up man! First off, we couldn’t do it—we wouldn’t have the noive! And we’d be too ’fraid of getting caught. And we, wouldn’t do it anyway—it isn’t in the picture!”

They seemed so straightforward and so sensible that Corson began to think it was absurd to suspect them, and yet the two he watched most closely were surely afraid of something. They talked gayly, and babbled on smilingly, but they glanced at each other with anxious looks when they thought the detective wasn’t looking.

Whatever troubled them concerned them anxiously, for beneath their gayety they were distinctly nervous.

Corson convinced himself that they had no intention of running away and could always be found if wanted, so he left, with immediate intention of following the advice of Mr Vail and attaching an assistant.

“Not in a thousand years!” was the opinion of the assistant, one Gibbs, after he heard Corson’s tale of the chorus girls. “Those little chippies might be quite willing to kill a man, theoretically, but as for the deed itself, they couldn’t put it over. Still, they must be remembered. You know, the statement that women did it, is surely the truth. Dying messages are invariably true. But it may mean that women caused it to be done—that it was the work of women, even though the actual stab thrust may have been the deed of a man.”

“I don’t think so,” mused Corson. “You haven’t seen the paper. It said, not only, ‘Women did this,’ but it said afterward, ‘Get—’ and then there were two letters that looked like b-o—”

“No; I hadn’t heard that! Why, it might have been Ba—and might have meant Babe Russell, after all!”

“No; it’s bo—but it isn’t a capital B. I studied it closely, and I have it put away. I’ll show it to you.”

“But the capital doesn’t matter. A man writing, in those circumstances, with his last effort of fading strength, might easily use a small letter instead of a capital. Know anybody beginning with Bo?”

“No—why, oh, my goodness! Bob Moore!”

“Well, there’s a chance. You’ve had your eyes on Moore, haven’t you?”

“Only because he was right there. But Mr Vail—George Vail, of the Vail Bread Company—stands up for Moore. To be sure, it was only in a general way—we only talked a few moments—but he seemed to think Moore is on the detective order—not of a criminal sort.”

“Why must Moore necessarily be either?”

“Only because he’s a detective story shark. Reads murder yarns all the time, and goes to detective story movies.”

“That proves just nothing at all. But the ‘Get Bo—’ is important. Anybody else around, beginning with Bo—or Ba? You see, he naturally wouldn’t form the letters perfectly.”

“Ba? There’s Julie Baxter, the telephone girl.”

“He’d hardly speak of her as Baxter.”

“But—oh, I say, Gibbs, Moore testifies that, as the man died, he tried to say something and it sounded like ‘Get J—J—’ some name beginning with J!”

“Hello! We must inquire as to the fair Julie. Any one else?”

“No; no women, that I know of. Young Bates, the heir, begins his name with Ba, but he’s not a woman.”

“Have you looked up his record for last evening? What was he doing?”

“No, I haven’t. A man can’t do everything at once!”

“This thing seems to have a dozen different handles. First of all, I think we want to see the family.

“But he hadn’t any family.”

“Well, relatives, connections, anybody most interested. Especially the heir.”

So the two went to the apartment of Letitia Prall, and there found the family connections of Sir Herbert Binney in a high state of excitement.

It was nearly noon, and Richard Bates was impatiently waiting the arrival of the detective, whom he had been expecting all the morning.

“Look here,” he said to the two men when they came in, “I want you to take hold of this case with me—if you can’t do it, I’ll get somebody who can. I don’t want you to be off skylarking on a wild goose chase, while I sit here waiting for you—”

“One moment, Mr Bates,” said Corson, sharply; “we’re not detectives in your employ; we’re police officers, and we’re conducting this case in accordance with orders.”

“Well, well, let’s get at it, and see where we stand. What do you know?”

“Only the message on the paper left by your uncle, and such testimony as we could gather from the employees downstairs. Now, we want to interview you.”

“And I want to be interviewed. Go ahead.”

“Interview all of us,” put in Eliza Gurney, who with Miss Prall had sat silent during the men’s colloquy, but was quite ready to talk.

“One at a time,” and Gibbs took up the conversation. “Mr Bates, where were you last evening?”

“That,” said Richard, “I decline to state, on the grounds that it has no bearing on the question of my uncle’s death. If you ask me where I was at the time of the tragedy, or shortly before, I will tell you. But last evening or yesterday afternoon or morning are not pertinent.”

“You refuse to state where you spent last evening?”

“I do.”

“Not a good thing for you to do,” Gibbs shook his head, “but let it pass for the moment. Where were you at two o’clock this morning?”

“In bed and asleep.”

“You can prove this?”

“By me!” spoke up Letitia Prall. “I heard him come in about twelve and go to his room.”

“H’m. Proof to a degree. How do you know he didn’t leave the apartment later?”

“Because I didn’t hear him do so.”

“Where is his room, and where is your own?”

After being shown the respective bedrooms, Gibbs remarked that in his opinion Bates could easily have left his room without Miss Prall’s knowledge, if she were asleep at the time.

“Unless you are unusually acute of hearing, are you?”

Now this was a sensitive point with the spinster. Her hearing was not what it had once been, but she never acknowledged it. She greatly resented the busy finger of time as it touched her here and there, and often pretended she heard when she did not. Both her nephew and her companion good-naturedly humored her in this little foible, and at Gibbs’ question they looked up, uncertainly.

“Of course I am!” was Miss Prall’s indignant reply to the detective’s question. “I hear perfectly.”

“Are you sure?” said Gibbs, mildly; “for I have noticed several times when you have seemed not to hear a side remark.”

“Inattention, then,” snapped Letitia. “I am a thoughtful person, and I often take little notice of others’ chatter.”

“But you are sure you could have heard your nephew if he had gone out of his place last night after—”

“But I didn’t go out!” declared Bates. “You’re absurd to imply that I did, unless you have some reason on which to base your accusation!”

“We have to locate you before we can go further, Mr Bates,” insisted Gibbs, who had assumed leadership, while Corson sat, with folded arms, taking in anything he found to notice.

And Corson, though lacking in initiative, was a close observer, and he saw a lot that would have escaped his notice had he been obliged to carry on the inquiry.

“Let’s try it,” Corson said, suddenly. “Go into your room, please, Miss Prall, and shut the door, and see if you can hear me go out.”

“Of course I can!” and with a determined air, Miss Prall went into her room and closed the door quite audibly.

Lifting his finger with a gesture of admonition, Corson made every one sit perfectly still and without speaking for about two minutes.

Then, rising himself, he opened Miss Prall’s door and bade her come out.

“Now,” he said, “I admit I made as little noise as possible, but did you hear me go out of the front door?”

“Of course I did!” declared the spinster, haughtily. “I heard you tiptoe to the door, open it stealthily and close it the same way.”

She looked calmly about, and then seeing the consternation on the faces of Richard and Eliza and the amused satisfaction on the countenances of the detectives, she saw she had made a false step, and became irate.

“What is it?” she began, but Richard interrupted her.

“Don’t say a word, Auntie,” he begged; “you see gentlemen, Miss Prall is a little sensitive about her slight deafness, and sometimes she imagines sounds that are not real.”

“I’m not deaf!” Letitia cried, but Eliza interposed:

“Do hush, Letitia. You only make matters worse! Will you be quiet?”

The tone more than the words caused Miss Prall to drop the subject, and Gibbs proceeded.

“Now, you see, Mr. Bates, we can’t accept your aunt’s testimony that you didn’t leave your room last night.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” retorted Richard; “nor do I need it. I tell you I was in bed by or before midnight, and did not leave my bed until I was summoned by Bob Moore after the tragedy had occurred. Now, unless you have some definite and sufficient reason to suspect me of falsehood, I have no need to bring any proof of my assertion.”

“That’s so, Gibbs,” said Corson, meditatively. “There’s no reason, I know of, to inquire into Mr Bates’ doings.”

“There’s reason to inquire into the doings of everybody who had the slightest connection with this matter,” said Gibbs severely. “But unless there’s a doubt, we needn’t yet ask for proof of their words.”

He glared at Miss Prall, with the evident implication that he might feel a doubt of her word.

However, when she and Miss Gurney stated that they had retired at about eleven and had not left their rooms until called up by Richard to hear the tragic news, no comment was made by Gibbs and Corson merely looked at them abstractedly with the air of a preoccupied owl.

“Then,” resumed Corson, “now that we’ve placed your whereabouts and occupations, will you state, any or all of you, what opinion you hold as to the identity of the women who are responsible for the death of Sir Herbert Binney?”

“Those chorus girls,” said Miss Letitia, promptly. “I always told him he’d get into a moil with them, and they’d fleece him. They are a smart lot, and Sir Herbert, though a shrewd business man, was putty in the hands of a clever or designing woman!”

“But these girls are mere children—”

“In years, perhaps,” Miss Prall broke in, “but not in iniquity. A gentleman of Sir Herbert’s mild and generous nature could be bamboozled by these wise and wicked little vampires until they’d stripped him of his last cent!”

“You seem to know a lot about them, Madam.”

“Because Sir Herbert has told me. He often described the cleverness with which they wheedled and coerced him into undue generosity, and though he laughed about it, it was with an undercurrent of chagrin and vexation. And so, the time came, I feel certain, when Sir Herbert, like the worm in the proverb, turned, and what he did or said, I don’t know, but I haven’t the slightest doubt that it led, in some way, to such hard feeling and such a deep and desperate quarrel, that the affair resulted in tragedy.”

Gibbs looked at the speaker.

The Grenadier, as some people called her, sat upright, and her fine head nodded with stern denunciation of the young women she accused.

Her tight-set lips and glittering eyes showed hatred and scorn, yet her fingers nervously interlaced and her voice shook a little as if from over-strained nerves.

Even more nervous was Miss Gurney. Unable to sit still, she moved restlessly from one chair to another—even now and then left the room, hurrying back, as if afraid of missing something.

“Do sit still, Eliza,” said Miss Prall, at last; “you’re enough to drive any one distracted with your running about like a hen with its head off!”

“I feel like one! Here’s poor Sir Herbert dead, and nobody paying any attention to it—except to find out who killed him! I think our duty is first to the dead, and after that—”

“Keep still, Eliza,” ordered Bates, who was never very patient with his aunt’s irritating and irritable companion. “Sir Herbert’s body and his affairs will be duly taken care of. It’s necessary now to discover his murderer, of course, and the sooner investigation is made the more hope of finding the criminal.”

“Or criminals,” put in Gibbs. “Since seeing that paper, I feel convinced that the dying man tried to write ‘get both,’ meaning to insure punishing to the women who killed him.”

“Then you think women really did the deed?” asked Bates, a strange fear in his blue eyes.

“Yes, I do;” Gibbs stated, “but Corson thinks women were merely at the root of the trouble. However, that isn’t the point just now. That will all be learned later. First, we must get an idea of which way to look. And, too, I may be wrong. The illegible word on that paper may mean, as Corson thinks, the beginning of some name. The fact that the B is not a capital doesn’t count for much when we realize the circumstances of the writing.”

“I should say not!” and Miss Prall looked straight at him. “Think of that poor dying man trying to write, while his life blood ebbed away! And can you fail to heed his dying message? Can you fail to get those wicked, vicious little wretches who heartlessly lured him on and on in their wild orgies, until it all resulted in his fearful end! I, for one, shall never be satisfied until those foolish, flippant little things are punished—”

“Oh, Letitia,” wailed Miss Gurney, “bad as they are, you wouldn’t want to see them all stuffed into an electric chair, would you, now?”

The mental picture of the chorus girls crowded into a single electric chair was almost too much for Richard’s sense of humor, and he smiled, but Miss Gurney went on:

“But, anyway, if a pack of girls did do it, don’t think it was the chorus girls. They’re too frivolous and light hearted. I think you’d better look nearer home. The girls in this house were all down on Sir Herbert. None of them liked him, and he was always berating them, both to us, and to their very faces. That telephone girl, now—”

“Eliza, will you keep still?” fumed Miss Prall. “Why do you suggest anybody? These detectives are here to find out the murderers and they not only need no help from you, but they are held back and bothered by your interference. Please remain quiet!”

“I’ll talk all I like, Letitia Prall; I guess I know what’s best for your interests as well as my own.”

“You haven’t any interests separate from mine, and I can look after myself! Now, you do as I tell you, and say nothing more on this subject at all. If Sir Herbert was the victim of his foolish penchant for those light young women, I’m not sure it doesn’t serve him right—”

“Oh, Auntie!” exclaimed Bates, truly pained at this. “Don’t talk so!”

“What right have you got to dictate to me? You keep still, too, Rick—in fact, the least we any of us say, the better.”

“Oh, no, Miss Prall,” said Gibbs, suavely, “if there’s anything you know, it will really be better for all concerned that you should tell it. As to your opinions or ideas or theories, I hold you quite excusable if you keep those to yourselves.”

“And you’d prefer I should do so, I suppose! Well, I will. And as to facts, I know of none that could help you, so I will say nothing.”

“Miss Gurney,” and Gibbs turned toward her with a determined glance, “you spoke of the young women employed in the house; had you any one in mind?”

“Eliza—” began Miss Prall, but Gibbs stopped her.

“Beg pardon, ma’am, but I must request that you let Miss Gurney speak for herself. You have no right to forbid her, and I insist upon my right to ask.”

“Nobody in particular,” Miss Gurney asserted, as she looked timidly at Letitia. “But Sir Herbert’s chambermaid—”

“Yes, go on.”

“Well, she refused to take care of his room, he was so cross to her. But I don’t suppose she’d kill him just for that.”

“I’ll look up the matter. Glad you mentioned it. Andy they gave him another maid?”

“Yes, the same one we have.”

“I must have a talk with her. Much may be learned from a room servant. That’s what I want, facts—not theories. We’ve got the big primal fact—‘women did it.’ We’ve got a possible fact—an uncertain statement—‘get both’—or, maybe, get some particular person. Now any side lights we can get that may throw illumination on that uncertain bit of writing is what is needed to show us which way to look. Isn’t that right, Mr. Bates?”

“Why, yes, I suppose so. Personally, I can’t seem to see women doing such a deed—”

“That, sir, is the result of your own manly outlook and your lack of experience with a desperate woman. You know, ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ and we can readily imagine a woman scorned by this Sir Herbert.”

“He could do the scorning, all right—”

“And they could do the rest! Oh, yes, sir, it isn’t a pleasant thing to believe, but it is a fact that women can be just as revengeful, just as vindictive, just as cruel as men—and can commit just as great crimes, though as we all know, such women are the exception. But they are in existence and that fact must be recognized and remembered.”

“But the circumstances—” demurred Bates, “the time—”

“My dear sir, it seems to me the circumstances and time were most favorable for the work of women. Granting some women wanted to kill that man, or had determined to kill him—or even, killed him on a sudden irresistible impulse, what more conducive to an opportunity than this house late at night? The great lobby, guarded, as it is at that hour, by only one man and he often up in the ascending elevator car. You see, the women could easily have been in hiding in that onyx lobby. The great pillars give most convenient and unobservable places of concealment, and they could have been tucked away there for a long time, waiting.”

“Oh, ridiculous! Supposing my uncle hadn’t come in?”

“Then they could have slipped out again. They may have been hidden there night after night, waiting for just the chance that came last night.”

“But, suppose Moore had been downstairs when Sir Herbert entered—”

“Just the same,” Gibbs explained, wearily. “Then they would have gone away and tried again the next night. A woman’s perseverance and patience is beyond all words!”

“It’s all beyond all words,” and Richard folded his arms despondently. “I can’t get a line on it.”

“Well, I can,” asserted Gibbs; “they came, no doubt, prepared. Else, where’d they get the knife? Now, naturally one criminal would be assumed—that’s why women was written so clearly. Several who know, have agreed the handwriting is positively that of Sir Herbert Binney—so, there’s nothing left to do but cherchez les femmes.”

CHAPTER VIII

Julie Baxter

Richard Bates and the two detectives stood waiting for the already summoned elevator to take them downstairs.

“You see,” Gibbs was saying, “in nearly every investigation there’s somebody who won’t tell where he was at the time of the crime.”

“I will tell that,” exploded Bates, “only I won’t tell where I was through the evening, and, you know yourself, that has nothing to do with the case.”

“I know, and, nine times out of ten, it doesn’t matter what the people were doing who refuse to tell. But it might make a difference, and it’s always a bother to be worrying about it.”

“Why worry?”

“Because it may pay. According to Corson’s hunch, two of those chorus chicks don’t want to tell where they were at the time of the crime—”

“Oh, well, they wouldn’t—”

“I know; but it’s an uncertainty. Now, take your aunt. She falsified about hearing your front door close just now. I’ve a full belief that was merely because of a piffling vanity about her deafness—a thing nobody wants to admit—but, I wish she hadn’t, for it proves that she is not above prevarication.”

“I don’t think she would fib in any serious matter,” vouchsafed Richard.

“You don’t think so because you don’t want to think so. That can’t cut any ice with me, you know.”

The elevator stopped and the three went down.

In a business-like way, Gibbs rounded up all the girl employees available and put them through a rigid investigation.

They were a voluble lot, and it was easier to get information than to prevent it.

Daisy Lee was among the most vindictive. Although a frail, pale little thing, she was full of indignation at the late Sir Herbert’s ways, and expressed herself without reserve.

“He was an old nuisance!” she averred; “he was free with his presents and he was a gentleman—I’ll say that for him—but he thought he could pat any girl on her shoulder or even snatch a kiss, without making her mad. He made me so mad I wanted to kill him—and I told him so, lots of times. I didn’t, and there’s no way I could have done it, so I am not afraid to say that I would have stabbed him myself if I’d had a good chance!”

“You don’t mean that, Miss Lee,” said Gibbs, coolly, “and you’re only saying it to make a sensation.”

“Why, what a story!” and Daisy turned on him. “Well, that is, I don’t suppose I really would have done the actual killing, but I’d have the will to.”

“Quite a different matter,” said the detective, “and your will would have fizzled out at the critical moment.”

“Of course it would,” put in Julie Baxter, the telephone girl. “Daisy’s an awful bluffer. None of us girls would kill anybody. But one and all we are glad to be rid of Sir Herbert, though I can’t help being sorry he’s killed.”

“You mean you’d have been glad to be rid of him in some more peaceable fashion?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. He was insufferable—”

“In what way?”

“Not only, as Daisy says, because he had free manners, but he was silly, beside. Always saying, ‘Well, little one, how do you like my new necktie?’ or some foolishness like that.”

Richard Bates looked uncomfortable. “Need I stay?” he inquired. “You must realize I dislike to hear this talk about my uncle.”

“Stay, please,” returned Corson, briefly; “and, young ladies, don’t give us any more of your opinions of Sir Herbert, but tell, if you know, of any circumstance bearing on his death.”

Apparently none knew of any such, and the girls looked at each other in silence.

“And now, tell me where you were at two A. M., each of you, and then you may be excused.”

Every one declared that she had been home and in bed at that hour, except Julie Baxter. She, with a fine show of independence, refused to disclose her whereabouts at that time.

“There it is again,” said Corson in despair. “Now, Miss Baxter, I don’t think that your reticence necessarily incriminates you at all, but it leaves room for doubt. Take my word for it, it would be wiser and far better for you to tell frankly where you were, even if it calls for criticism from your mates.”

“But I won’t tell,” and Julie looked very stubborn.

“You’d rather be arrested and held on suspicion?”

“You can’t arrest me without a speck of evidence! Nor you can’t scare me by such threats.”

“It isn’t an idle threat, and you can be held for further inquiry, if I say so.”

“You won’t say so, and anyway I won’t say where I was last night. But I will say I was up to no harm, and had no hand in the death of Sir Herbert Binney.”

“I don’t, as yet, think you did; but let me remark that if you were implicated in the matter you would act and speak just as you do now. You would, of course, asseverate your innocence—”

“Of course I should. So, now, Mr Smarty-Cat, what are you going to do about it?”

Julie’s eyes snapped with anger that seemed almost vicious, and she tossed her head independently, while the other girls showed little or no sympathy. She was not a favorite with her fellow-workers; they called her stuck-up, and she not only refused to take them into her confidence as to her amusements and entertainments, but she often whetted their curiosity by mysterious hints of grand doings of which she never told them definitely.

She lived in herself during her hours on duty, and even in the rest room she was never chummy or chatty like the rest.

Wherefore, there were surprised glances and nodding heads in her direction, and Daisy Lee sniffed openly.

“Huh,” she said, “Julie Baxter, you’re too smart. You were more friendly with Sir Binney than any of us. He gave you twice the candy he did any one else, and I know you’ve been out to dinner with him!”

“I have not!” declared Julie, but a flush on her cheeks and a quiver of her eyelids left room for doubt as to her truthfulness.

“Also,” and Corson flung this at her, “also, on the paper was written ‘get B-a-’ and also, we’ve been told that the dying man tried to articulate a name beginning with J!”

“Now, Miss Baxter, do you still deny all implication in the affair?” Gibbs leaned forward and stared into her eyes.

“I do!” she cried, but her voice was hysterical and her manner agitated. Vainly she strove to keep her self-control, but, unable to do so and broke into a fit of uncontrollable weeping.

“Oh, I say, Corson,” said tender-hearted Bates, “you oughtn’t to bully her! That’s nothing short of third degree!”

“Well, I’ll put it through, if I can get the truth that way. Now, Miss Baxter, if you’ll tell us, in your own self-defense where you were that night, you may go. If not, I think we’ll have to ask you to go away with us to—”

“Don’t take me away!” moaned Julie, “and don’t ask me about last night! I didn’t kill him—truly, I didn’t!”

“But you know something about it—you must be detained as a material witness—”

“Wait till I talk to somebody—ask somebody’s advice—”

“She means Bob Moore,” Daisy informed them; “they’re engaged, and Julie’ll say just what Bob tells her to.”

“Oho! You’re engaged to Moore, eh?” and Gibbs gazed at her with fresh interest.

And then, stepping from the door of the elevator, came Dorcas Everett, and Richard Bates lost all desire to hear further evidence from the questioned girls.

With a brief but determined apology, he left the alcove, where they had been talking, and hurried to Dorcas’ side.

“Have you heard?” he said, as he fell into step and walked with her toward the door.

“Yes; I can’t talk here—I can’t breathe! Can we go for a walk?”

“Of course, why not?”

“I thought you were busy with those—people.”

“Perhaps they think so, too, but I don’t care! Come on; hasten your steps just a little and don’t look back.”

Apparently carelessly, but really with a feeling of stealth, the pair made their way to the street, Bates feeling guiltily conscious of the detectives’ disapproval, and Dorcas afraid of her action being reported to her mother.

“I’ve been waiting so to see you,” she exclaimed, as soon as they were at a safe distance from The Campanile. “Do tell me all about it! My mother has gone to call on your aunt—and I thought I’d come down and see if I could run across you. Mother’ll be there some time, I’ve no doubt, and I took a chance.”

“Bless you! But, tell me, how did your mother hear? What do you know? I mean, what’s the general report?”

“Nothing definite, but all sorts of rumors—which mother tried to keep from me. But she and Kate were talking, and I found out that the chambermaid told them that woman had killed Sir Herbert. Mother told me he had died suddenly, but she didn’t know I overheard about the murder.”

“Yes; it’s true. He was murdered and he left a dying statement that women did it. It’s a horrible affair, and I wish you needn’t know the details. Can’t you go away or something till it is all past history?”

“Oh, I don’t want to. I’m no child to be put to bed like that! But Mother has been urging me to go away—and yesterday she said she’s going to move anyway. If she should send me to Auntie Fayre’s—but she won’t—”

“If she should, what?” cried Richard, eagerly; “Do you mean that in that case, we might meet now and then?”

“Yes, that’s what I meant—but, we couldn’t if this matter is public property, and I suppose it is, or will be?”

“Yes, of course; but it can’t last long. You see, dear, there’s bound to be an awful disclosure of some sort. Women don’t kill a man without some big reason—at least big to them.”

“But who did it? What women?”

“We don’t know. The probabilities are that it was some girls he had flirted with. Oh, Dork, don’t ask questions; it’s a disgraceful affair, I fear. I don’t know—if a man had done it, I should think it merely the result of Uncle’s wild temper. He was awful when in a rage. But the feminine element makes only unpleasant theories possible. And yet, Uncle was a gentleman and a decent one. I believe it was the work of some women who had a fancied grievance and who were jealous or revengeful for some foolish reason. But, of course, there’s no telling what evidence will turn up. And I must be prepared for embarrassing disclosures.”

“You’re the heir, aren’t you, Rick?”

“So far as I know. Uncle made me that, but he may have changed his mind. His lawyers have his will, and I’ve made no inquiries as yet. You see, Dork, there’s so much to see to. Why, I’ve got to take care of Aunt Letty and Eliza—I mean, shield them from publicity and reporters and all that. I’ve no business to sneak off here with you, but I couldn’t help it!”

“But tell me this; what women are suspected? What ones are possible suspects?”

“Some chorus girls and the house girls, so far.”

“House girls? You mean the elevator girls—”

“Yes, and telephone operators and perhaps chambermaids—oh, Dorrie, Uncle Bin was the sort of a man who is jolly with any woman. I’m willing to bet there was never a really wrong idea in his head, but he was so carelessly gay and chummy with them all, that a vicious or wicked woman could play the devil with him!”

“Poor Sir Herbert—I rather liked him.”

“He liked you—he said so. And he was in favor of our marriage, which is more than we can say for any of our nearer relatives.”

“Yes, indeed! Mother gets more and more wrathy about Miss Letty every day of her life—and I expect this matter will just about finish her!”

“I suppose so. Now, we must get back, for my reasons and your own good. When can I see you again?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It all depends on the outcome of the present meeting of the two. If your aunt seems to want sympathy or help I daresay Mother would feel kindly toward her in this trouble. But if Miss Letty is uppish and reserved—as I fear she will be—then Mother will go for her! I’m only imagining all this; I’ve no idea what will really happen.”

Poor little Dorcas, it was well for her present peace of mind that she hadn’t!

The two walked slowly back to The Campanile, almost forgetting the tragedy that had come so close to them, in the content of being together.

Corson met them at the door.

“Been looking for you,” he said to Bates. “And, Miss Everett, your mother is inquiring where you are. She left word for you to go to her the moment you appeared.”

“Yes,” Dorcas returned, and then, shyly, “Please don’t say I was with Mr Bates, will you?”

Corson looked at her, with interest. Pretty Dorcas, her shy, brown eyes falling at the idea of asking for secrecy, but her judgment, already trained in diplomacy, telling her it was necessary.

“I won’t,” and Corson smiled at her, “if, you’ll answer a question or two. Where were you last night at two o’clock?”

“In bed and asleep,” said the girl simply.

“Thank goodness you don’t refuse to tell! And at what time did you retire?”

“About eleven.”

“And where had you spent the evening?”

“Oh, I say, Corson,” and Bates interrupted, “that’s in the class with your grilling of me. You know Miss Everett isn’t implicated, you know you’re asking her that because you’ve got the habit. Run along, Dorcas, you don’t have to be quizzed any more.”

Dorcas turned quickly, and just managed to catch an up-bound elevator as its door was about to close.

“Now, you let her alone, Corson,” said Bates, sharply. “I don’t mind telling you she’s the girl I intend to marry, but we’re not really engaged. That is, it isn’t announced. And I ask you, as man to man, to say nothing of it, to say nothing to her, and to keep her out of it all you can. Lord knows, you’ve no reason to think of her in connection with the horrible affair!”

“No; except as she’s interested in you, and you’re the heir.”

“Forget it. Who told you I was the heir?”

“Everybody knows it—it’s in all the papers.”

“I haven’t looked at a paper! Lord, I don’t think I can!”

“Better not; they’re not pretty reading.”

“What do you mean? Any aspersions against my uncle’s character?”

“No, not that. But when the word women occurs in connection with the murder of a rich and influential man, there’s bound to be surmise—at least.”

“Oh, I suppose so. Well, do you want me down here? I’d like to go up to see my aunt.”

“Wait a minute. Have you ever thought, Mr Bates, that the feud between your aunt and Mrs Everett is a mighty queer affair?”

“I’ve often thought that, but—pardon me—don’t get outside your own proper boundaries!”

“Oh, I’m not. Now, a queer thing, like that feud, has to be taken into consideration.”

“Not in connection with the murder of my Uncle Binney.”

“Maybe not in direct connection, but as a side light. You know the feud has a decided bearing on your affair with Miss Everett.”

“I object to your use of the word ‘affair.’ My friendship with Miss Everett is in spite of, even in defiance of, the feud between her mother and my aunt. I make no secret of it to you, but as I advise you, the matter is confidential. I’m treating you as a fellow-man, Corson, and I don’t want you to abuse my confidence in your fellowship, or your—manliness.”

Corson fidgeted a little and returned, “I’ve got to do my duty, Mr Bates, and part of my duty seems to me to be to tell you that I’m not allowed to observe confidences if they affect my orders.”

“They don’t! How can your investigations of this murder case be affected by my friendship for Miss Everett?”

“They can—in a way. You see, I know a lot about this feud business. I know how inimical, how full of vicious hatred those two women are, and have been for years. And I know how your recent special interest in Miss Everett has roused the renewed anger of not only your aunt, but her mother—”

“Phew! You do know it all, don’t you?”

“I do. Therefore, I felt I must inform you of the extent of my knowledge, so you and I can understand each other. Now, drop the subject for the moment, for I’ve other matters to speak of. Where do you suppose the weapon is?”

“I’ve not the slightest idea! How could I have?”

“Do you know what the weapon was?”

“Only what the doctor said, a very sharp knife of some sort.”

“Yes; now did you know that the doctor has also said that the stroke delivered by that same sharp knife was so well planted, so skillfully driven home, that it implies the work of some one with a knowledge of anatomy?”

“A doctor?”

“Not necessarily—unless a woman doctor. But, what other idea suggests itself?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Don’t ask me riddles.”

“A nurse, then. Can’t you see the reasonableness of suspecting a trained nurse, after Dr Pagett’s opinions?”

“All right; where’s your trained nurse in Sir Herbert’s bright galaxy of beauty?”

“That’s a point to be looked up. But, I may tell you that Julie Baxter studied nursing before she took up telephone work.”

“H’m. Might be coincidence.”

“Of course it might. But we have to investigate coincidences. You don’t know of any nurse or ex-nurse in your uncle’s circle of friends?”

“Friends seems to me an inappropriate word.”

“Look here, Mr Bates, you let my choice of words alone, and answer my questions.”

“All right, I will. I don’t know of any nurse at all and I shouldn’t tell you if I did!”

“Not a very wise remark on your part, Mr Bates,” and Corson looked at him meaningly.

“I don’t care whether it’s wise or not. You make me disgusted with detective work! Why do you go around sneaking up on any woman you can hear of? Why don’t you go about it from the other side? Find a motive for the murder and then find the criminal who had the motive! Don’t suspect this one because she studied nursing and that one because the old gentleman kissed her! It isn’t a unique case, my uncle’s fancy for chorus girls—but it by no means indicates the result of murder! Get the weapon, then find its owner. Get a clue—a real, material clue, and then trace the criminal. Get some evidence—actual, spoken or circumstantial—and deduce your facts from it. For heaven’s sake, do some real detective work, and not just dance around questioning any kiddy-girl you happen to see!”

“Your words are not without reason,” and Corson gave Bates a peculiar smile. “Indeed, I had some idea of doing just what you suggest. But one of the first things to do in the hunt for evidence is to find out where your uncle was last night between twelve and two. You see, the people at the Magnifique say he sent the girls home by themselves and then soon after went off himself in the neighborhood of midnight. Next he’s heard of at two A. M. dying on the floor of the onyx lobby! Where was he in the meantime?”

“That’s truly a most important question to be answered,” said Richard, very seriously. “On that depends far more than on the frightened admissions or denials of a lot of excited young women.”

“I quite agree with you,” said the detective.