A CHAIN OF EVIDENCE (Part 2)

XV

WHO IS J. S.?

Whatever the cause, Janet’s spirits were undeniably lightened.

“I wish I could help,” she said. “Here is our problem: to find somebody who wanted to kill Uncle Robert, and who was able to get into the apartment and do so.”

“That’s the case in a nutshell,” declared George; “but I confess I don’t know which way to start.”

Although I had made up my mind not to refer to the letter from Jonathan Scudder, which Crawford had shown me, yet I thought I would introduce the subject of J. S. and see if Janet would volunteer any information regarding the letter.

So, since both cousins had declared their willingness to consider the problem, I said: “As you say you don’t know which way to start, Mr. Lawrence, suppose we take up the clue of the torn telegram. Do you think that J. S. who sent that message might have kept his appointment, and come last night, although no one knew it?”

“How could he get in?” asked Lawrence.

“That remains to be explained; but just granting for a moment that he did get in, why not turn our attention to discovering who he is and what his errand was?”

“All right,” agreed Lawrence, “but how shall we set about it? We know nothing of the man, not even his real name.”

“What do you think, Miss Pembroke?” I asked, turning to Janet; “do you think it would be possible for us to learn the real name of J. S.?”

The girl looked at me with troubled eyes, but the expression of her mouth denoted determination. Even before she spoke, I knew that she was not going to tell of the letter she had read that morning. The letter was addressed to her uncle, but it had been opened. The reasonable explanation of this was that it had come in that morning’s mail, as indeed its postmark proved, and that Janet had opened and read it; this latter supposition being probable, because the letter had been found in her room. To be sure after the death of her uncle, she was next in charge of the household affairs, but it would have been more commendable of her to have given her uncle’s unopened mail to his lawyer or to some one in charge of his estate.

When she spoke, as I had fully expected, she made no reference to the letter.

“As I have told you,” she said slowly, “my uncle often used to speak of J. S., and when we asked him who it was, he said John Strong.”

“But we know he didn’t mean it,” said Lawrence; “and also, Mr. Landon, although I do not know his real name, I’m positive that J. S. is the man who was my uncle’s business partner many years ago. In fact my uncle has said to me that this partner thought that half of Uncle Robert’s fortune should be given to him, or bequeathed to him by will. My uncle said he had no intention of doing this, but I gathered from his remarks on the subject, that his partner was continually making fresh efforts to obtain some of my uncle’s money.”

“Then, in view of all this,” I said, “is there not at least reason to look up this J. S. who sent the telegram, and see if he might not be the man whom your uncle called John Strong?”

I looked directly at Janet as I said this, and though she returned my gaze at first, her eyes fell before my questioning glance, and her voice trembled ever so little as she said; “yes, let us do that.”

“It is a very good idea,” broke in sister Laura, who was quick of decision and who rarely hesitated to express her opinions. “This John Strong may have been delayed, and reached the apartment very late at night. Then there may have been a stormy interview, and, unable to get what he wanted from Mr. Pembroke, John Strong may have killed the old gentleman, taken the money that is missing from the desk and gone away.”

“Sister dear,” I said, “your theory is fairly plausible. If you don’t mind I’ll ask you to elucidate it a little further. Just how did John Strong get into Mr. Pembroke’s apartment?”

“Why,” returned Laura, “Mr. Pembroke was expecting him, and as it was late, and the others were in bed, he got up and let the man in himself.”

“Yes; I understand,” I went on; “and now, then, after this wicked Mr. Strong had committed his dreadful deed, who let him out, and put the chain on the door?”

There was a dead silence. I had chosen my words most unfortunately. I had spoken rather quizzically, only with the intention of showing Laura how absurd her idea was; but my final question, instead of merely confuting her theory, had also suggested a dreadful possibility! For if anybody had put the chain on after the departure of the mythical Mr. Strong, it must necessarily have been one of the two living occupants of the apartment!

Janet turned white to her very lips, and as a consequence, even more dreadful thoughts flashed into my mind. She had read a letter that day from the man who had sent the telegram. There was practically no doubt of that. When I had asked her concerning this man just now, though she had not denied, yet she had not admitted the knowledge which she must have possessed. And now when the faintest hint was breathed of a possible complicity of some one in the apartment with this mysterious J. S., Janet was so agitated as to turn pale and almost quiver with apprehension!

I was strongly tempted to tell of the letter the Inspector had shown me, but I could not bring myself to do so, for far deeper than my interest in the case was my interest in this girl; and if that letter must be brought forward against her, it would have to be done by some one else and not by me. My evidence about the chain on the door had already wrought irremediable damage, and hereafter my efforts should be devoted to showing evidence that should prove Janet Pembroke innocent, and not of a sort which should make her seem to be guilty!

“How would you advise trying to find this man?” asked George Lawrence, after a somewhat awkward pause; “the address on the telegram was East Lynnwood, but it would be difficult, even with a directory or census report to find a name of which we know only the initials.”

“Yes,” agreed Laura, “there are doubtless men in East Lynnwood whose initials are J. S. Indeed, I should say those are perhaps the most common initials of all. You see, so many men’s names begin with J.”

“And it may not be a man at all,” suggested Lawrence. “Women’s names often begin with J—like Janet for instance.”

“But my initials are not J. S.,” returned his cousin, “and besides, I didn’t telegraph to uncle Robert.”

Again the girl surprised me, for she spoke in a light tone, as if almost amused at the idea.

“But it might have been a woman,” she went on, “which would explain the hat-pin.”

I was thoroughly perplexed at Miss Pembroke’s words. She knew the J. S. of the telegram was the Jonathan Scudder of the letter. She knew therefore that J. S. was not a woman. Why was she so disingenuous? Was she shielding J. S., and did she know far more about the tragedy than I had supposed? At any rate, I could see she was determined not to tell of the letter she had read, and I was determined that if I should ask her concerning it, it would be when alone with her, for I would not subject her to possible humiliation before others.

“We certainly can do nothing in the matter without knowing more of J. S. than we do now,” I said, with an air of dropping the subject; “and I doubt, even if we should find him, that it would help us to discover the mystery.”

“I don’t believe it will ever be discovered,” said Laura. “It looks to me like one of those mysteries that are never solved. For whoever it was that was clever enough to get into that house, when there wasn’t any way to get in, would also be clever enough to evade detection.”

George and Janet both looked at Laura as if startled by her remark. The fact that they were startled startled me. If they had known the clever individual whom Laura merely imagined, they couldn’t have acted differently. But all this muddle of impressions on my mind really led to nothing. “If I’m going to do any detecting,” I said to myself severely, “it’s time I set about it, and not depend on guessing what people may mean by the expressions on their faces—especially faces capable of such ambiguous expressions as the two before me.”

Determined, therefore, to lead the conversation into channels that would at least put me in the way of learning some facts about the previous life of the Pembrokes and of George Lawrence, I spoke generally of ways and means of living in New York. I learned that Janet had the tastes and inclinations of a society girl, but that, owing to her uncle’s restrictions, she had been able only slightly to gratify these inclinations. She was fond of concerts and theatres, of going shopping and calling, and yet had never been allowed the money or the freedom to pursue these pleasures. My heart sank as I realized how everything the girl said would tell against her should she ever be called to the witness box.

Young Lawrence, it seemed, had similar social tastes, but even when he lived with the Pembrokes had been more free to go and come than his cousin. And, of course, since he had lived alone he was entirely his own master. He was a member of various clubs, and seemed to be fond of card-playing and billiards, in moderation. I also learned, though, I think, through an inadvertence, that he dabbled a little in Wall Street. It seemed surprising that a young artist could support himself in comfortable bachelor quarters and still have money left with which to speculate. This would not be in his favor, had there been a shadow of suspicion against him; but there could be no such suspicion, for even with his latch-key he could not get in at the door. He could hardly be taken for a professional housebreaker; and, besides, he was prepared to prove an alibi. I had little faith in this mythical personage we had built up with a motive and an opportunity, and as I reasoned round and round in a circle I was always confronted by the terrifying fact that a disinterested judge would suspect Janet and that, were I disinterested, I should suspect her myself. And so the reasoning went on in my excited brain, till I felt that I must go for a long walk in the cool night air as the only means of regaining my own clearness of vision.

Soon after dinner, then, I announced my intention of going out.

Lawrence said that he would spend some hours looking over his late uncle’s papers, and Laura declared that she would tuck Miss Pembroke in bed early for a good night’s rest.

I started out by myself, and, swinging into Broadway, I turned and walked rapidly downtown. This was my custom when I had serious matters to think of. The crowded brightness of the street always seemed to stimulate my brain, while it quieted my nerves. I hadn’t gone a dozen blocks before I had come to two or three different conclusions, right or wrong though they may have been.

The first of these was a conviction that Janet felt more than a cousinly interest in George Lawrence. But this I also concluded might be caused by one of two things; it might be either a romantic attachment or Janet might suspect her cousin to be guilty of her uncle’s death. If the first were true, Janet might have been in league with George and might have opened the door for him the night before. I was facing the thing squarely now, and laying aside any of my own prejudices or beliefs, while I considered mere possibilities.

If, on the other hand, Janet suspected George, without real knowledge, this fact of course left Janet herself free of all suspicion. While I couldn’t believe that the two had connived at their uncle’s death, still less could I believe that Janet had done the deed herself. Therefore, I must face all the possibilities, and even endeavor to imagine more than I had yet thought of.

But the more I considered imaginary conditions, the more they seemed to me ridiculous and untenable. George was not in the apartment; Janet was. George was not at the mercy of his uncle’s brutal temper; Janet was. George did not want money and freedom to pursue his chosen ways of life; Janet did.

Much as I liked George, I would gladly have cast the weight of suspicion on him instead of on Janet, had I but been able to do so.

I had never before felt so utterly at the end of my resources. There was no one to suspect, other than those already mentioned, and no place to look for new evidence. Either the talent I had always thought I possessed for detective work was non-existent, or else there was not enough for me to work upon.

But I had traced two clues. The telegram, though it had not implicated J. S. had pointed, indirectly, in Janet’s direction. The key, though still mysterious, at least gave a hint of Leroy, and perhaps, in complicity, Janet.

I made these statements frankly to myself, because since I was going to fight her battle, I wanted to know at the outset what I had to fight against.

Having started on my investigation, I was eager to continue the quest I felt, if damaging evidence must be found, I would rather find it myself, than be told of it by some conceited, unsympathetic detective.

But there was little I could do by way of investigation in the evening. However, as I passed through the theatre district, I bethought me of the ticket stubs. Though well aware it was but a wild goose chase, I turned my steps toward the National Theatre. As the program was fairly well along, there was not a crowd at the box office, and I had no difficulty in engaging the blithe young man at the window in conversation. I had not the ticket stubs with me, but I had a memorandum of their dates, and though it sounded absurd even to myself, I made inquiry concerning them.

“House sold out, I suppose?” I said, carelessly, to the face at the window.

“Just about. Want a poor seat?”

“No; I’ll wait till some other night. Is it sold out every night?”

“Just about.”

“Was it sold out the night of October sixteenth?”

“Sure! that was in one of our big weeks! Great program on then. Why?”

“I don’t suppose you could tell me who bought seats one and three in row G, that night?”

“I should say not! do you s’pose I’m a human chart? What’s the game?”

“Detective work,” I said, casually, thinking he would be less impressed if I did not seem too much interested. “I suppose you can’t think of any way that I could find out who bought those seats for that night?”

“Well, no, I can’t; unless you might advertise.”

“Advertise! how?”

“Why put in a personal, asking for the fellows that had those seats.”

“But they wouldn’t reply; they don’t want to be caught.”

“Sure, that’s so! well, I’ll tell you. Put your personal in and ask the fellows who sat behind those seats to communicate with you. Then you can find out something about your party, may be.”

“Young man,” I said, heartily, “that’s a really brilliant idea! I shall act upon it, and I’m much obliged to you.”

I offered him a material proof of my gratitude for his suggestion, which he accepted with pleasure, and I went straight away to a newspaper office. This scheme might amount to nothing at all, but on the other hand, it certainly could do no harm.

I inserted a personal notice in the paper, asking that the holders of the seats near one and three G on the night of October sixteenth should communicate with me. I mentioned the numbers of the seats not only behind the mysterious numbers, but in front of them as well, and also at the side. I had little hope that this venture would bring any worth-while result, but there was a chance that it might, and action of any sort was better than doing nothing.

After leaving the newspaper office, I continued my walk, hoping, by deep thought to arrive at some conclusion, or at least to think of some new direction in which to look. But the farther I walked, and the more I thought, the more desperate the situation became. Clear thought and logical inference led only in one direction; and that was toward Janet Pembroke. To lead suspicion away from her, could only be done by dwelling on the thought of my love for her. In spite of her mysterious ways, perhaps because of them, my love for her was fast developing into a mad infatuation, beyond logic and beyond reason. But it was a power, and a power, I vowed, that should yet conquer logic and reason—aye, even evidence and proof of any wrong-doing on the part of my goddess!

Notwithstanding appearances, notwithstanding Janet’s own inexplicable words and deeds, I believed her entirely innocent, and I would prove it to the world.

Yet I knew that I based my belief in her innocence on that one fleeting moment, when she had looked at me with tenderness in her brown eyes, and with truth stamped indelibly upon her beautiful face.

Was that too brief a moment, too uncertain a bond to be depended upon?

XVI

LEROY ARRIVES ON THE SCENE

When I reached home Lawrence had left, Miss Pembroke had retired, and Laura was in the library, waiting for me.

“It doesn’t seem possible,” she said, as I flung off my coat and threw myself into an easy chair, “that so much could have happened in one day. Only think, Otis, when we arose this morning we didn’t know Miss Pembroke to speak to, and now she is asleep in our guest room!”

“Where is Charlotte?” I said.

“She wanted to go to spend the night with some friends, so I let her go. We are responsible, you know, for her appearance if called for, and I know the girl well enough to know she’ll never get very far away from her beloved Miss Janet.”

“Have you questioned Charlotte at all?”

“Yes; and what do you think Otis? She believes that Miss Pembroke killed her uncle!”

“Did she say so?”

“Not in so many words; indeed, she scarcely owned up to it. But you know colored people are as transparent as children, and by talking in a roundabout way I discovered that she suspects Janet, only because she can’t see any other solution of the mystery. She doesn’t seem to blame her at all, and even seems to think Janet justified in putting the old man out of the way.”

“Of course she has no intelligence in the matter,” I said; “but don’t you see, Laura, that if she suspects Janet, but really knows nothing about it, that proves Charlotte herself absolutely innocent even of complicity?”

“So it does, Otis. How clever you are to see that!”

“Clever!” I said, somewhat bitterly. “I’m not clever at all. I may be a lawyer, but I’m no detective.”

“Why don’t you employ a detective, then?”

“It isn’t my place to do so. But I feel sure that a professional detective, from the clues we have, could find the murderer at once.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be Janet Pembroke,” said Laura, with conviction. “I’ve been alone with that girl most of the evening, and she’s no more guilty than I am. But, Otis, she does know more than she has told. She either knows something or suspects something that she is keeping secret.”

“I have thought that, too. And, as her counsel, she ought to be perfectly frank with me.”

“But isn’t there a law or something,” asked Laura, “that people are not obliged to say anything that may incriminate themselves?”

“But you don’t think her a criminal,” I said quickly.

“No,” said Laura, with some hesitation; “but she is so queer in some ways, I can’t make her out. Mr. Lawrence stayed here chatting some time after you left, and once or twice I thought Janet suspected him; and then, again, she said something that showed me positively that she didn’t.”

“There it is again, Laura: if Janet suspects George, she can’t be guilty herself.”

“That’s so,” said Laura, her face brightening. “But then,” she added, “they both may know something about it.”

Ah, this was my own fear! “Laura,” I said suddenly, “do you think those two cousins are in love with each other?”

“Not a bit of it,” said Laura decidedly. “Mr. Lawrence is very much interested in Miss Millicent Waring, though I don’t know that he is really in love with her. But I think he is rather piqued by her indifference. He seems to have a loyal fondness for Janet, but nothing more than would be expected from a good first-class cousin.”

“And she?” I asked, trying hard not to appear self-conscious.

“Oh, she cares for George in the same way. He’s her only relative now, you know. But she told me herself she had never cared especially for any man. She’s peculiar, you know, Otis; but I do think she shows a great deal of interest in you.”

“Do you really?” I exclaimed, looking up to find my sister smiling at me in a mischievous fashion.

“Oh, you dear old goose!” she cried. “Do you suppose I can’t see that you’re already over head and ears in love with Janet Pembroke, and have been ever since the first day we came into the Hammersleigh?”

“By Jove! that’s so,” I cried. “Laura, you know more about my affairs than I do. I thought my affection for that girl dated from this morning, but I see now you are right. I have loved her from the first moment I saw her.”

“And you can win her, if you go about it right,” said my sister, with her little air of worldly wisdom that always amused me.

“I hope so,” I said fervently. “As soon as this dreadful affair is finished up, and Janet has decided upon her temporary home, I think we too want to get away from this place.”

“Yes,” said Laura, with a sigh; “I hate to move, but I’d hate worse to stay here.”

In response to the urgent summons Leroy came back to New York the next morning.

From his office he telephoned to Janet immediately upon his return, saying that he would come up to see her in the afternoon, and asking that George Lawrence should also be present.

As Janet was now staying with us, the interview was held in our apartment. Although Mr. Pembroke’s body had been removed to a mortuary establishment, Janet could not bear the thought of going back to her own rooms, and moreover, the girl was very glad to remain under the cheering influences of Laura’s kindness and friendliness. And so, as Laura insisted upon it, Janet directed Mr. Leroy to come up that afternoon.

This being arranged, Laura also telephoned me at my office, and I went home in ample time to receive our caller.

As Miss Pembroke’s lawyer I had, of course, a right to be present, and as George Lawrence was there too, it seemed more like an official interview than a social call.

Leroy came in, looking exceedingly handsome and attractive. Indeed, I had forgotten what an unusually good-looking man he was. He had that combination of dark eyes and hair slightly silvered at the temples, which is so effective in middle age.

Though not at all effusive in his manner, he seemed deeply moved, and greeted Janet with an air of gentle sympathy. His manner, however, did not meet a response in kind. Janet’s air was cold and haughty and she merely gave him her finger tips, as if the very touch of his hand were distasteful to her.

George Lawrence was a little more cordial in his reception of the lawyer, but it was plain to be seen that neither of the cousins felt very friendly toward him.

Mr. Leroy acknowledged courteously his introduction to Laura and myself, and then he requested to be told the details of the tragedy.

He listened attentively while we told him all about it, now and then asking a question, but expressing no opinions. His face grew very grave, indeed to me it seemed almost sinister, and a little mysterious.

We had not yet finished relating the case, when our door-bell rang and Mr. Buckner was announced.

Buckner was the District Attorney, and after receiving the Coroner’s report he had come to make some further inquiries.

I had never seen the man before, as I rarely had to do with a criminal case, but I liked his attitude and manner at once. He was exceedingly straightforward and business-like. He asked questions and conducted his inquiries as if it were merely a continuation of the inquest.

He had of course learned from the coroner all that he knew about the case, and now he seemed to hope and expect that he would get new evidence from Leroy.

However, Graham Leroy was not a satisfactory person to get evidence from. He answered the District Attorney’s questions, directly and concisely, but he gave little or no information of any importance.

Leroy had not seemed especially interested in hearing of the clues which I had collected from Mr. Pembroke’s bedroom, but after a time I concluded to try the effect of showing him the key which I had in my pocket.

“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed, with a start, “where did you get that?”

The result of my sudden move was all I could have desired. Leroy’s calm was shaken at last; his interest was aroused, and the strange expression that showed on his saturnine face proved that he was greatly agitated at the sight of that key. It seemed to me that fear possessed him, or that at any rate he was startled by some unpleasant thought.

The District Attorney, who had been apprised by the Coroner of my tracing of the key, turned to Leroy with a hint of accusation in his manner.

“You recognize that key, Mr. Leroy?” he said.

“I do,” returned Leroy, and though he spoke in quiet tones, he had difficulty in concealing his agitation.

“Is it yours?”

“It is not mine, but it was in my possession.”

“Whose is it?”

“It belongs to Mrs. Altonstall, a client of mine. She gave it to me, to get some papers for her from a safety deposit box.”

“And you lost it?”

“I did.”

“When did you have it last, to your knowledge?”

“I had it on Wednesday. I went to Utica, Wednesday night, and next morning I missed the key. I concluded that I must have left it at my office, but when I returned there I could not find it, and I felt considerable alarm, for one does not like to lose the key of a client’s box.”

“No,” said Mr. Buckner, grimly; “it is not a good thing to do. And where do you think you lost it?”

“I’ve no idea; but as it was in my pocket, and I must have pulled it out unintentionally, and dropped it unknowingly, it may have happened in the train or on the street or anywhere. Where was it found?”

“This is the key of which we told you; the key that was found in Mr. Pembroke’s bed yesterday morning.”

“What! Impossible!” cried Leroy and his face turned white and his dark eyes fairly glared. “How could Robert Pembroke have come into possession of that key?”

“We don’t assume, Mr. Leroy, that Mr. Pembroke ever had this key in his possession. As it was found in the bed, not under the pillow, but beside the body of the dead man, we think it seems to indicate at least a possibility that it was dropped there by the murderer as he leaned over his victim.”

This came so near to being a direct accusation, that I fully expected Leroy to exclaim with anger. But instead, though his face grew even whiter than before, he said very quietly: “Am I to understand that as an implication that I may be guilty of this crime?”

Though uttered in low even tones, the words expressed horror at the thought.

“You are to understand,” replied Mr. Buckner, “that we ask you for a frank and honest explanation of how your key, or rather your client’s key, happened to be where it was found.”

“I cannot explain it,” said Leroy, and now he had entirely controlled his agitation, and his face was like an impassive marble mask.

“You cannot or you will not?”

“I cannot. I have not the remotest idea where I lost that key, but by no possibility could I have lost it in Mr. Pembroke’s bedroom, because I was not there.”

“When were you last in Mr. Pembroke’s room?”

“I was there Tuesday evening, and I may possibly have dropped the key there then.”

“But you said you remembered having it Wednesday morning.”

“I might be mistaken about that; perhaps it was Tuesday morning that I positively remember having it.”

Clearly Leroy was floundering. His words were hesitating, and though it was evident that his brain was working quickly, I felt sure he was trying to conceal his thoughts, and not express them.

“Supposing then that you may have dropped this key in Mr. Pembroke’s bedroom when you were calling on him Tuesday evening, you would not be likely to have dropped it in the bed, would you?”

“Certainly not. I saw Mr. Pembroke in his room only a few moments, after having already made a longer call in the drawing-room.”

The involuntary glance which Leroy shot at Janet and the color which flamed suddenly in the girl’s face, left me in no doubt as to the purport of the call he had made in the drawing-room on Tuesday evening. I knew as well as if I had been told, that he had been asking Janet to marry him; I knew that his interview with Mr. Pembroke afterward had probably related to the same subject; and though I was glad that his suit had not been successful, yet I felt jealous of the whole episode. However, I had no time then to indulge in thoughts of romance, for the District Attorney was mercilessly pinning Leroy down to an exact account of himself.

“Had the bed been turned down for the night, when you were in Mr. Pembroke’s room on Tuesday evening?”

“I didn’t notice especially, but I have an indistinct impression that the covers had been turned back.”

“In that case it would have been possible for you to drop the key in the bed without knowing it, but very far from probable. Did you lean over the bed for any purpose?”

“No; of course I did not. But perhaps if I did drop the key in the room, and Mr. Pembroke found it, knowing it to be a valuable key, he may have put it under his pillow, for safety’s sake.”

“That again is possible; but improbable that he would have done it two nights, both Tuesday and Wednesday nights! Moreover, Mr. Leroy, you said at first that you were sure you had the key Wednesday morning. And not until you inferred that you were suspected of implication in this affair, did you say that it might have been Tuesday morning you had it. Now, can you not speak positively on that point?”

Leroy hesitated. Though his face rarely showed what was passing in his mind, yet though at this moment no one who saw him could doubt that the man was going through a fearful mental struggle. Indeed, he sat silent for so long, that I began to wonder whether he intended to answer the question or not. Lines formed across his brow and his stern lips fastened themselves in a straight line. He looked first at Janet and then at George, with a piercing gaze. Finally he shook his head with a sudden quick gesture, as if flinging off a temptation to prevaricate, which was almost too strong to be resisted.

“I can speak positively,” he said, and the words seemed to be fairly forced from him. “I had that key last to my knowledge on Wednesday morning, when I made use of it at the Sterling Safety Deposit Company.”

XVII

CAN LEROY BE GUILTY?

It was as if a bomb had burst. We all sat appalled, for at the first thought it seemed as if this admission proclaimed Graham Leroy a guilty man. The picture flashed into my mind. This strong man, capable I felt sure, of the whole range of elemental passions, killing, for some reason unknown to me, his client, who was equally capable of rage and angry passion. I seemed to see him bending over his victim, and inadvertently dropping the tell-tale key from his pocket. But I think it was an effect of the dramatic situation that conjured up this picture in my mind, for it was immediately dispelled as Janet’s voice broke on the tense silence.

“I cannot fail to see the trend of your implications, Mr. Buckner,” she said, and her tones were haughty, and even supercilious; “I suppose you are daring to insinuate that Mr. Leroy might have been in my uncle’s room on Wednesday night, late. But let me remind you that I myself put the chain on the door at eleven o’clock, after which it was impossible for Mr. Leroy to enter.”

The old argument: “How could he get in?”

And though this argument seemed to turn suspicion toward Janet, it did not in the least do so to my mind.

Of course, I had no answer to the question, but that did not change my conviction that Janet was innocent. Could Leroy be guilty? I didn’t know, and I didn’t much care, if only suspicion could be turned away from Janet!

It was by an effort that I brought my attention back to the conversation going on.

“Will you tell me, Mr. Leroy, where you were on Wednesday night?” went on the District Attorney, making no recognition of Janet’s speech beyond a slight bow in her direction.

“I went to Utica,” answered Leroy.

“At what time?”

Again there was a lengthy interval of silence, and then Leroy said, in a low voice, “Rather late in the evening.”

“On what train?”

“On a late train.”

“The midnight train?”

“Yes;” the answer was fairly blurted out as if in utter exasperation.

Although the rest of his hearers started at the realization of all that this implied, Mr. Buckner proceeded quietly. “Where were you between eleven and twelve o’clock, on Wednesday night?”

“I refuse to say.”

“I think I must insist upon an answer, Mr. Leroy. Were you at the station long before train time?”

“No.”

“You reached the station then but a short time before the train left?”

“That is right.”

“Did you go directly from your home to the station?”

“Perhaps not directly, but I made no stop on the way.”

“What did you do then, since you say you did not go directly?”

“I walked about the streets.”

“Why did you do this?”

“Partly for the exercise, and partly because I preferred not to reach the station until about time for my train to leave.”

“And did your walking about the streets bring you anywhere near this locality?”

“That I refuse to answer.”

“But you must answer, Mr. Leroy.”

“Not if it incriminates myself.”

“Then your refusal to answer is the same as affirmative. I shall assume that you were in this locality between eleven and twelve o’clock on Wednesday night.”

“What if he was?” broke in Janet; “no matter how much he was in this locality, he couldn’t get into our apartment, and so it has not the slightest bearing on the case!”

“That is so,” said George Lawrence; “unless it can be proved that Mr. Leroy was able to enter through a locked and chained door, I think it is none of our business where he may have been at the time the crime was committed.”

“You’re all working from the wrong end,” said Leroy, suddenly. “Of course the murder was committed by some professional burglar, who effected his entrance in some way unknown to us. Forget, for a moment, the question of how he got in, and turn your energies to finding some clever and expert housebreaker who is at large.”

“What could be the motive of a professional burglar?” said Mr. Buckner.

“The robbery of the money,” I broke in eagerly, delighted that Leroy should have started suspicion of this sort.

“Can you tell us anything regarding a large sum of money which it is assumed Mr. Pembroke had in his possession the night he was killed?” Mr. Buckner asked of Leroy.

“I can tell you that I took him a large sum of money—ten thousand dollars—on Tuesday evening.

“He had asked you to do this?”

“He had; giving the reason that he wished to pay it to some man who was coming to get it, and who wanted cash.”

“J. S.!” I said, involuntarily.

“That’s the murderer!” declared Laura. “I’ve suspected that J. S. from the very beginning. Why don’t you look him up, Mr. Buckner, if you want to find the criminal?”

“All in good time, Mrs. Mulford,” the district attorney answered, but I knew that he had seen the letter which the Coroner had shown me, stating that J. S. would not come on Wednesday evening as he had telegraphed. Still, if J. S. had come, and with evil intent, the letter might have been a blind. But again, if J. S. had come for money, and had received it, why should he kill Mr. Pembroke? Truly, there was no logical direction in which to look, save toward Janet, and that way I declined to look.

Mr. Buckner did not seem inclined to ask any more definite questions. I concluded he wished to take time to think the matter over by himself.

“It seems to me this way,” he said; “we have a great many clues to work from, and until they’re traced to more definite conclusions we are unable to attach suspicion to anyone. We know that Mr. Pembroke was killed at or about midnight. We know the apartment was securely locked and fastened at that time. We must assume, therefore, that whoever did the deed could not get into the house between eleven and twelve—he must have been in the house, therefore, before the door was chained.”

“If by that you mean Miss Pembroke,” burst out George Lawrence, angrily, “I’ll have you know—”

“I don’t necessarily mean Miss Pembroke,” said Mr. Buckner, but he said it so gravely, that I knew his suspicions, notwithstanding Leroy and his key, were in Janet’s direction. “I am thinking just now of the possibility of an intruder who might have come in much earlier, and secreted himself in the house until midnight.”

“Then he must have stayed in the house until morning,” said Lawrence.

“He might have done so,” agreed Mr. Buckner.

“But it is incredible,” said Leroy, “that the burglar would have remained after the deed was done. Why would he not take off the chain and go away as silently as he came?”

“It might be,” said Mr. Buckner, thoughtfully, “that he meant to cast suspicion upon the inmates of the house themselves.”

So he did hark back to Janet after all! He meant us to understand that he thought the crime was committed either by Janet, or by somebody who planned to throw suspicion on Janet. Either theory seemed to me absurd.

I was glad when Mr. Buckner at last took his departure. He was certainly at sea regarding the matter. He suspected Janet, to be sure; but he also had doubts concerning the entire innocence of Graham Leroy. And surely that key was a bit of incriminating evidence, if ever there were such a thing.

And yet, when it came to a question of evidence, what could be more incriminating than that chained door as a proof against Janet? And so Mr. Buckner went away leaving the rest of us to discuss the new turn events had taken.

It must have been the result of Mr. Buckner’s implied accusation of Leroy that gave us all a feeling of loyalty and helpfulness toward the man. I don’t think anyone present suspected him of crime. But the key matter was inexplicable, and too, Leroy’s manner and speech had not been frank or ingenuous. If he really had been in Robert Pembroke’s bedroom on Wednesday night, he could not have acted differently under the fire of Mr. Buckner’s questions. And though each of us, I felt sure, was considering the possible explanation of the key, yet it was difficult to speak of it without embarrassment.

But Leroy himself introduced the subject.

“Confounded queer about that key,” he said, but he said it thoughtfully, more as if talking to himself than to us.

“It is queer,” I said, eagerly taking up the subject; “if you had it Wednesday morning, and it was found in Mr. Pembroke’s room Thursday morning, there must be an explanation somewhere.”

“Yes; there must;” and Graham Leroy’s lips closed as if in a sudden determination to say nothing more about that matter.

“Can’t you suggest any explanation?” asked George Lawrence.

“No, I can’t,” and the decision in Leroy’s tones forbade any further reference to the key. “But I am here now,” he went on, “to read to you, Mr. Lawrence, and to you, Miss Pembroke, the will of your late uncle. Except for a few minor bequests, you two are equal heirs. Mr. Lawrence is executor, and therefore I will conduct the legal formalities with him, and I need not trouble Miss Pembroke with such matters. Of course, it goes without saying that anything I can do in the investigation of this awful tragedy will be done. Of course, you will want legal advice Miss Pembroke, since the authorities seem to consider you under surveillance.”

I waited a moment, to give Janet opportunity to speak first concerning me, and she did so. Her beautiful face was pale, but her dark eyes flashed, as she said: “I feel sure I shall need legal counsel, Mr. Leroy, and therefore I have retained Mr. Landon as my lawyer.”

Graham Leroy was astounded. I could read that, in the sudden start he gave, and the half-breathed exclamation which he suppressed. But in a moment, he recovered his poise, and spoke with a cold dignity. “I suppose, Janet, you had some good reason for preferring Mr. Landon’s services to my own.”

“I had,” returned Janet, in tones as icy as his own; “also, Mr. Landon and Mrs. Mulford have been exceedingly kind to me, and I am sure whatever emergency may arise, if the case is brought to trial, Mr. Landon will use his best efforts in my behalf.”

If Leroy was angry at her preferring me to himself, he lost sight of it for the moment, in the shock given him by Janet’s words.

“The case brought to trial!” he exclaimed. “Why, there is no case as yet. What do you mean?”

Janet looked at him steadily. “I may be tried,” she said, “for the murder of my Uncle Robert.”

“What nonsense!” cried George Lawrence; “they’ll never dare do such a thing as that!”

“They’ll dare fast enough,” said Leroy; “but they shall never do it! They’ll try me first!”

A sudden light broke over me. Leroy’s hesitation and dubious statements might have this meaning. He might himself suspect Janet of the crime, and he might be determined to be let himself thought guilty in her place. This didn’t quite explain the key, but I hadn’t thought it out thoroughly yet, and if for quixotic reasons he wanted to make it appear that he was implicated, he had certainly made a good start. Alas, every new development pointed or might be construed to point toward Janet. I longed for a frank talk with Leroy, but I knew that would be impracticable. For if he intended to muddle the case and direct suspicion toward himself in order to turn it away from Janet, he would pursue those same tactics with me. And beside, although he hid it, I well knew that he was chagrined and angry at the fact of my being chosen for Janet’s lawyer instead of himself. So I discarded any hope I might have formed of getting the truth out of Leroy, and left that to the official authorities.

At present, Leroy’s intention seemed to be to discard all question of crime or criminal, and attend to the business in hand of Mr. Pembroke’s will.

I myself saw no necessity for immediate proceedings in this matter, but Leroy insisted upon it, and insisted too, that both Janet and George should go with him at once into the Pembroke apartment, where, he said, there were papers and documents necessary at the moment.

The fact that I was not invited to accompany them, was made so patent that I had no desire to intrude my presence, although as Miss Pembroke’s lawyer I could have done so. But I concluded that one reason for Leroy’s haste to get at those papers, was his wish to get rid of me. Nor was it entirely to be wondered at that he should want an interview alone with the two cousins. I was a comparative stranger to him, my sister an entire stranger; whereas he had been for years a friend of the Pembroke household. And so the three went away to the apartment across the hall; and I was left alone with Laura.

The door had scarcely closed behind them, before Laura spoke her mind. “That Leroy is the guilty man,” she said; “don’t say, ‘how did he get in?’ for I don’t know, and I don’t care! But he’s the one who killed Mr. Pembroke, and he had his own motive for doing so, which we know nothing about.”

“While all that may be true, Laura,” I said, in a conciliatory way, for she was very much excited, “yet you must not make such positive statements, with so little to base them on. Leroy may have a guilty knowledge of the matter, but I don’t believe he murdered Mr. Pembroke, and I do believe he’s letting himself be suspected to shield Janet.”

“Nothing of the sort,” declared Laura; “he’s a bad man! I don’t have to see him twice to know that. And if he isn’t guilty, and if he’s letting himself be suspected—then it’s to implicate Janet and not to save her!”

“Laura, you’re crazy. How could his implication also implicate her?”

“Why, don’t you see? if they think Mr. Leroy committed the crime, they’ll try to find out how he got in. And then they’ll conclude that Janet let him in. Because you know, Otis, there was really no other way anybody could get in. And then, you see, they’ll conclude that Mr. Leroy and Janet acted together, and are both guilty.”

“Laura, you argue just like a woman; you say anything that comes into your head, and then back it up with some other absurd idea! Now, sister, talk to me in this strain all you want to, but let me beg of you never to say these things to anyone else.”

Laura looked a little offended, but she was too fond of me ever really to resent anything I said to her, so she smiled, and forgave my aspersions on her reasoning powers.

But I couldn’t help remembering that Janet had told me that Leroy was untrustworthy, and not entirely reliable, and now that Laura, with her woman’s intuition, had denounced him, I began to wonder myself what sort of a man Leroy really was.

XVIII

THE ROOMS IN WASHINGTON SQUARE

In sheer desperation, I resolved upon an interview with Inspector Crawford. I hadn’t a very high opinion of him as a detective, but I had reached the pitch where I must do something.

I telephoned to him, but it was only after some persistence that I could persuade him to give me even a little of his valuable time. Finally he agreed to a fifteen-minute interview at his own home.

It was not far to his house, and as I walked over there I wondered why he seemed so averse to a discussion of the Pembroke case. He had impressed me, when I saw him that morning, as one of those busybodies in the detective line who are always willing to dilate upon their clues and their deductions, their theories and their inferences.

But as soon as I began to talk with Mr. Crawford I learned that he had little interest in the Pembroke case, because he considered its result a foregone conclusion.

Inspector Crawford was not an especially cultured man, nor of a particularly affable nature, but he was possessed, as I soon learned, of a certain stubbornness which manifested itself mainly in adhering firmly to his own decisions.

“I know Miss Pembroke killed her uncle,” he said, “because nobody else could by any possibility have done it. I examined the windows myself. Those which were fastened were absolutely immovable from the outside, and those which were unfastened had the same sort of catches, and the black woman declared she had unfastened them from the inside in the morning. The window opening on the fire escape had a double lock, the dumb-waiter was securely bolted on the kitchen side, the night-latch and chain were on the front door, and, therefore, my dear sir, to get into that apartment without breaking something was as impossible as if it had been hermetically sealed.”

“Some one might have cut out a pane of glass and replaced it,” I suggested.

The inspector looked at me with a glance almost of pity.

“It’s my business to make sure of such things,” he said. “Of course I thought of that, and examined every window-pane. Had one been put in with fresh putty during the night, I should certainly have detected it. If you examine them, you will find both putty and paint hard and weather-stained.”

My respect for Mr. Crawford’s detective ability rose rapidly, and I frankly told him so.

He smiled disinterestedly.

“I’m not one of those spectacular detectives,” he said, “who pick up a handkerchief in the street, and declare at once that it was dropped by a cross-eyed lady with one front tooth missing, who was on her way to visit her step-daughter now living in Jamaica, Long Island, but who formerly was a governess in a doctor’s family in Meriden, Connecticut.”

I laughed at this bit of sarcasm, but was too vitally interested in the subject in hand to care for amusing side issues.

“Do you say then, inspector,” I continued, “that there was positively no way for any one else to get into that apartment, and that therefore Mr. Pembroke necessarily met his death at the hands of his niece or the colored servant?”

“Or both,” added Mr. Crawford.

“You assert that as your unqualified opinion?”

“I assert it as an incontrovertible fact,” said Inspector Crawford, in his decided way, “and, though it needs no backing up of evidence, the evidence all points unmistakably to the same fact. There are motive, opportunity, and a weapon at hand. What more is there to say?”

“There is only this to say,” I declared, maddened by his air of finality: “that Miss Pembroke did not do it; that neither she nor the black woman knows who did do it; and that I take it upon myself to prove this when the occasion shall arise to do so.”

Again the inspector looked at me with that compassionate expression that irritated me beyond words.

“Mr. Landon,” he said, “I have no desire to be personal, but may I ask you, if you were as absolutely disinterested in the Pembroke case as I am, would you not incline to my opinion?”

This silenced me, for I well knew that but for my interest in Janet Pembroke I should inevitably be forced to Mr. Crawford’s point of view.

“Ah!” he said. “I thought so. Now let me tell you, Mr. Landon—and I am indeed sorry to tell you—that there is no possible way to get that girl acquitted, and that your best plan is to work simply for the lightest possible penalty. If you can plead self-defence, temporary insanity, or even somnambulism, I advise you to do so.”

“I thank you, inspector, for your advice, and regret to say that I cannot follow it. I shall plead ‘not guilty,’ and I shall prove my case.”

The inspector began to look interested, for, though a man may not boast of his own reputation, I may say that Mr. Crawford knew me as a lawyer of long practice and wide experience; and knew, too, that I had been successful in cases where wise and anxious judges had scarcely dared hope for it.

“I hope it may be so,” he said. “It does not seem to be possible, but, of course, no man’s judgment is infallible. Might I be allowed, however, to ask your line of defence?”

“I don’t know exactly, myself,” I confessed; “but I think it will implicate George Lawrence.”

“But he couldn’t get in.”

“Inspector, if any one is implicated other than those two women, it must necessarily be some one who ‘couldn’t get in.’”

“That is true,” said the inspector; “but, all the same, a murder can’t be committed by a man who can’t get in.”

“That is no more impossible,” I said stanchly, “than a murder committed by either of those two women.”

Again the inspector contented himself with a smile.

“I have no reason,” I went on, “for suspecting George Lawrence, except that he could be said to have a motive. I admit, as you say, that it does not seem possible for him to have entered the apartment, unless one of the women let him in.”

“Let him in!” echoed the inspector. “I hadn’t thought of that! Ah, now I see your idea. If George Lawrence is the man who did the deed and was let in by his cousin, while she might have been accessory, she might not have known of the deed at all.”

“That is possible, inspector,” I agreed; “but had she let George in, she must have again put the chain on the door after he went out. This is scarcely compatible with the assumption that she knew nothing of what had happened in the meantime.”

“No,” declared the inspector, in his decided way. “Your suggestion, however, leads to a new line of investigation. But say George Lawrence had gone to the Pembrokes’ apartment last night, and had come away again, the elevator boy would have known it, and would have given evidence this morning; that is, unless he had been bribed, which is, of course, possible. But all this will be brought out at the trial.”

“Not so fast, inspector,” I said, feeling a grim delight in bringing him up with a round turn. “George Lawrence can prove a complete and perfect alibi, attested by responsible witnesses.”

Inspector Crawford looked thoroughly disgusted. “Then the whole matter stands where it did at first,” he said, “though, of course, we must remember that, since the women could have let in George Lawrence, they could, of course, have let in any one else, had they been so minded. But all this is in your province, rather than in mine, and if you can find anybody who is likely to have gone in there last night, with or without criminal intent, I think for your own sake you had better make investigation along that line.”

“Mr. Crawford,” I said, “I would not have mentioned to you even the name of George Lawrence in this connection if I could have done what I wanted to without your assistance. I want to go to George Lawrence’s apartment, and make a search of his rooms. I have not a definite reason for doing this, but I feel that it may lead to something. I cannot say I suspect George Lawrence of the crime. I cannot doubt his alibi, nor can I imagine how he could have gotten into the apartment had he wanted to. But I do know that he had, or at least might possibly have had, a motive for desiring his uncle’s death, and upon that perhaps irrelevant fact I base what I shall not call a suspicion, but an interest into looking into his affairs. I could not go through his rooms alone, but as an inspector you will be allowed to do so, and I want to go with you and at once.”

I may have been mistaken in Mr. Crawford’s inclination toward detective work. Although he had seemed indifferent when he had been so sure of his conclusion, the mere opportunity of searching for clues seemed to stir him to action, and, to my surprise, he was not only willing but anxious to go with me at once.

As I knew Lawrence would spend the entire afternoon in his work of looking over Mr. Pembroke’s papers, I felt that the coast was clear for an hour or so, at least. So together we took a Broadway car, and were not long in reaching Washington Square.

The inspector’s badge, of course, gained him access at once to George’s apartment, and I followed him into the rooms, feeling that if there was anything even remotely approaching a clue, I must and would find it.

Though not luxurious, Lawrence’s quarters were exceedingly comfortable. There was a studio, not large, but well lighted and furnished in a way that showed its use as a living-room, and perhaps for small social functions as well. A bedroom and bath completed the suite, and the inspector told me to begin my search.

“Let us examine the place,” he said, “independently of each other, and afterward we can compare notes. I confess I have little hope of finding evidence of any sort. Of course I don’t for a moment think that, even had Lawrence killed his uncle, he would have broken off that hat-pin and brought it home here to incriminate himself.”

“Of course not,” I assented; “but, by the way, where is the other half of that hat-pin?”

The inspector gave his queer smile. “Assuming a woman to have done the deed,” he said, “we must assume her to be clever enough to dispose of a piece of a broken hat-pin.”

My heart sank at his words, for I saw how deeply rooted was his belief in Janet’s guilt, and I feared a judge and jury might look at it in the same way.

Silently we began our search. I took the studio, and the inspector the bedroom, first; afterward we were to go over each other’s ground.

In one way, it seemed a dreadful thing to be poking round among a man’s personal belongings; but again, since the cause of justice demanded it, I felt no hesitancy in doing so.

I took little interest in the sketches on the walls or the odd bits of junk and curios on the tables. No man with anything to conceal would leave it in those obvious places.

And yet I was not looking for anything George might have concealed, but rather for some straw which might show the direction of the wind of evidence.

For the first time in my life, I felt like the detective in fiction, and I scrutinized carefully the floor and the rug. It seemed to me that all the clues I had ever read of had been discovered on the floor; but the trouble was that this floor offered so many unexpected substances that the result was distracting. But by no stretch of the imagination could I look upon them as clues. I certainly discovered many things upon the floor that told their own story; but the stories were of no importance. Cigarette or cigar ashes were in such quantity as to indicate recent masculine guests. An artificial violet and a bit of fluffy feather trimming showed perhaps an afternoon tea, or a reception which feminine guests had attended. Lead-pencil shavings here and there betokened the untidiness of an artist, and splashes of ink or water-color, though numerous, proved merely that Lawrence had spoken the truth regarding his profession.

Though disheartened by my non-success, I kept on until I had examined every square inch of floor. I found nothing unexplainable to the most ordinary intellect, except a few tiny bits of broken glass on the hearthstone. So infinitesimal were these fragments that I almost missed them, and, though I could not think them of any importance, I took them up on a bit of white paper and examined them by the light. They were of a pinkish purple color, and I wondered if they could be bits of a druggist’s phial which had contained poison. The notion was absurd enough, for Mr. Pembroke had not been poisoned, and, moreover, even granting my hypothesis a true one, those few specks of glass would represent only a small fraction of a broken bottle.

But he might have dropped it, my imagination rambled on, and smashed it, and then swept up all the fragments, as he thought, but overlooked these specks.

At any rate, I put the paper containing the bits in my pocket, and went on with my search. Feeling that I had finished the floor, I examined all the furniture and decorations, paying no attention to Lawrence’s desk or personal belongings.

Mr. Crawford came in from the bedroom. “I’ve done up my room,” he said, “and there’s nothing there at all, not even a revolver. Now, if you’re through here, we will change territory.”

“I can’t find anything,” I returned, and as I spoke the inspector went straight to the writing-desk.

“If there is nothing here,” he said, “I give it up.”

With a practised hand he ran swiftly through Lawrence’s papers.

“H’m!” he said. “Our young friend has been dabbling in stocks. Bought L. & C. Q. on a margin. That’s bad, for it dropped ’way down day before yesterday. That ought to help along your ‘motive,’ Mr. Landon, for as sure as I sit here George Lawrence must have lost many thousands in Wall Street on Wednesday.”

“It is corroborative,” I said, “but that’s all. Granting Lawrence’s motive for desiring to inherit his uncle’s money at once, there is no real evidence that he helped matters along by putting the old gentleman out of the way.”

“Not a bit,” agreed Inspector Crawford; “and you mark my word, Mr. Landon, if there was any reason for suspecting young Lawrence, it would have turned up before this.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” I returned; “and it isn’t exactly evidence I’m after, but merely a hint as to how he could have done it.”

“Ah!” said the inspector, smiling again. “He couldn’t have done it save with the knowledge and assistance of his cousin.”

XIX

A TALK WITH JANET

I went home decidedly disheartened. As usual, the Inspector’s positiveness and incontrovertible reasoning depressed my spirits, because I felt convinced, although against my will, that he might be right.

But when I entered our apartment, and found Laura and Janet waiting for me, I forgot my troubles in the happiness of seeing Janet in my home.

The girl must have been of an adaptable temperament, for surely our household was totally unlike the one she had been accustomed to, and yet she seemed perfectly at home and at ease with us.

She wore black, but her robes of soft trailing silk, with a sort of transparent net by way of a yoke, did not seem so unsightly as heavy crape-trimmed dresses had always appeared to me.

Indeed the soft dull black was very becoming to Janet, and threw out her creamy white skin in beautiful relief. Her large dark eyes and dusky hair completed the harmony of black and white, and her scarlet lips were the only touch of color in the picture.

The evening was a trifle chill, and Laura had a wood fire blazing in the grate, for even in the short time we had lived in the Hammersleigh, my energetic sister had succeeded in substituting open fires for the ornate but unsatisfactory gas logs.

And so it was a cosy picture of home life that met my eyes, as I entered after my expedition down to Washington Square.

Of course, I couldn’t mention my afternoon’s experiences just then, for it was almost dinner time and I knew Laura’s aversion to unpleasant subjects of conversation at the dinner table.

And so I did my part toward making the meal a cheery and pleasant occasion; and it was less difficult than might have been expected to avoid all reference to the tragedy.

Both women were quite willing to follow my lead, and our talk was of all sorts of pleasant matters, and now and then even verged toward lightness. I realized, as I was sure Laura did too, that Janet was a delightful conversationalist. She was both receptive and responsive. She caught a point easily and was quick at repartee. Moreover, she was gentle and refined, and it is needless to say that my love for her grew apace with my discovery of her merits.

After dinner we returned to the drawing-room, and with her usual tact, Laura contrived a household errand of some nature that took her away for a time, and left me alone with my client.

I was all unwilling to break the charm of the pleasant atmosphere we had created, but I knew it must be done if I were to free Janet from suspicion.

Determined to learn from her some facts which would help me, I told her at once that I desired a straightforward talk with her.

Immediately her manner changed. She became once more reserved, haughty and rebellious. But I had no choice save to go on.

“I am so sorry,” I said, “that you resent my questioning you about these things. For surely, Miss Pembroke, you must understand, and it is my duty to make you understand that your position is serious. Now whether you want to or not, won’t you please be honest with me, and confide more fully in me what knowledge you may have bearing on the case?”

“I can’t be honest,” she replied, with a sigh that seemed to come from her very soul; “I truly can’t. Whatever you learn must be without my assistance.”

“Why can you not be honest? Are you afraid to be?”

“I cannot answer that question, either. I tell you, Mr. Landon, that I have no information of any sort to give you.”

“Then I must ask you a few definite questions, and you must answer them. Why did you not mention the letter that came to your uncle from Jonathan Scudder?”

“Who told you about that?”

The girl started up as if I had accused her of something serious, and indeed perhaps it was.

“The Inspector found the letter in your room,” I replied; “as you were not willing to be frank in these matters, the law took its rights and searched the whole place for any possible light on the subject.”

“And you consider that that letter throws light on the subject?”

“Only to the extent of proving that you purposely suppressed that letter; and I ask you why?”

“And I refuse to tell you why.”

“Miss Pembroke, don’t do that. Truly, you injure your own cause by refusing to tell these things. You have taken me for your lawyer; now if you want me to help you, indeed I may almost say to rescue you, from the danger you are in, you must help me in any way that you can.”

My earnestness seemed to have an effect. The girl’s face softened and her voice trembled a little as she said, “Perhaps it would be better for me to tell you all—but—no, I can’t, I can’t!” She hid her face in her hands, and her whole slender form shook with emotion. But she did not cry, as I had feared she would. Instead, she raised her head with a sudden determined gesture. “There was no reason,” she said, with an air of indifference which I knew was assumed; “I simply forgot it, that’s all.”

“You forgot it!” I said, looking her straight in the eyes, so earnestly, that her own eyes fell before mine.

I knew she could not persist in a falsehood long, and sure enough in a moment she said, “Well, at least I didn’t exactly forget it, but I thought it was of no consequence.”

“You thought it was of no consequence! when only last evening we were discussing J. S. with your cousin, and wondering who he could be. At that time you had read the letter from Jonathan Scudder, saying that he would not come here Wednesday evening as he had telegraphed that he would do. Why did you not tell us of it?”

“Perhaps it wasn’t the same J. S.!” Janet smiled at me as she said this, and I felt sure the smile was to distract me from my serious purpose, and win me to a lighter mood. And she nearly succeeded, too, for again I saw gentleness in her smile, and when to Janet Pembroke’s beautiful face was added the charm of gentleness, it was irresistible indeed.

But by a mighty effort I refrained from being cajoled, and I said sternly, “You knew it was the same J. S., because the letter referred to the telegram.”

“That’s so,” she said, musingly; “I never thought of that. I fear I’m not very clever at deception.”

“I fear you are not,” I answered, gravely, “and I thank Heaven for it. Now, if you will just put all these matters into my hands, and tell me what I ask, you will have no further cause for deception, and, I hope, no more trouble.”

“What do you ask?” she said, and never before had she looked so lovely. She spoke in a low tone and had she been the most finished coquette she could not have appeared more alluring. I was tempted almost beyond my strength to clasp her in my arms and say, “I ask only for you,” but I knew were I to precipitate matters in that way I might antagonize her, and so lose what slight chance I had of helping her.

“I ask,” I said, in low even tones, “that you will tell me frankly why you made no mention of the letter from Jonathan Scudder?”

“Because I wished suspicion to rest upon J. S.!” The words were quick and incisive, and fairly cut into the air as she enunciated them clearly and emphatically.

“Do you know Jonathan Scudder?”

“I do not. I never heard the name until I read that letter. But I know J. S. to be an enemy of my uncle, and why may it not be that he came and killed Uncle Robert, even after he sent that letter? Perhaps he sent it for a blind.”

“Miss Pembroke, you do not believe J. S. came at all on Wednesday night. You know he did not, and you are making this up simply that suspicion may be turned in his direction. Is not this true?”

“Yes,” faintly murmured the girl, “you asked me to be frank, and I have been.”

She was making an awful admission, and she was perfectly well aware of it. Fear clutched at my heart. If she herself had killed her uncle, how natural to endeavor to throw suspicion on an unknown man. Again, if Leroy were implicated, or if they had been companions in wrong-doing how equally plausible a ruse!

Her face was white now to the very lips. Her hands trembled, and her eyes darted frightened glances, as if she knew not which way to turn next.

“Miss Pembroke,” I said, very gently, “I’m more sorry than I can tell you, that you persist in secrecy. But since you do I will speak for you. You want to throw suspicion on J. S., in order to divert it either from yourself or from someone else whom you wish to shield.”

“How do you know that?” cried Janet, looking up with startled eyes.

“It is not difficult to guess,” I said, bitterly. “Nor is it difficult to guess the identity of the one you might wish to shield.”

“Don’t!” breathed Janet, clasping her hands; “don’t breathe his name aloud!”

“I will!” I said, thoroughly angered now; “it is Graham Leroy, and you do love him, in spite of your pretended dislike of him!”

I paused suddenly, for a new thought had struck me. If Leroy were the murderer, and if Janet had admitted him to the house, and willingly or unwillingly been cognizant of his deed, then she would act exactly the way she had acted! She would try to shield him, try to avert suspicion from him, but of course she could not have him for her lawyer, and though she still loved him, she could not but scorn him.

The suddenness of these thoughts so overwhelmed me that for a moment I did not look at her. When I did, I was amazed at the change in her face. From a white pallor it had turned to an angry red, and my heart fell as I realized that she was angry at me for discovering her secret.

“Don’t look like that,” I pleaded; “only tell me the truth, and I will help you—I will help you both. At any rate, I know that you were guiltless, even if you have a guilty knowledge of Leroy’s deed.”

“You needn’t assume me guiltless,” Janet said, and her low voice destitute of inflection, sounded as if she were forcing herself to recite, parrot-like, a lesson already learned. “I had motive, and Mr. Leroy had none.”

“He may have had a dozen motives, for all I know,” I said, rather harshly, for I was beginning to realize that if she cared enough for Leroy to proclaim herself guilty, my hopes were small indeed. “He may have wanted that money himself, and come back to get it!” This was a mean speech on my part, and utterly unfounded, but I was so angry at Janet for shielding Leroy’s name, that I cared little what I said.

“Oh, Mr. Leroy never wanted money; he’s a very rich man.”

“Who did want the money then? Did you?” I was fast forgetting my manners, and my determination to win Janet’s confidence by kindliness, but I had not expected to have Leroy thus flung in my face.

“Yes, I wanted money,” said Janet, “you learned that from Charlotte’s evidence.”

“You are the strangest girl!” I said, staring at her, “you won’t tell me the simple things I ask, and then you fire a statement like that at me! What do you mean? That you really wanted a large sum of money?”

“Yes; ten thousand dollars.” The girl whispered this, and it seemed to my bewildered fancy as if she said it without even her own volition. It seemed forced from her by some subconscious process, and I was both amazed and frightened. But I tried not to show my feelings, for if I would learn the truth of this surprising revelation, I must move carefully.

“Did you want that much?” I said, in a casual way, as if it were a mere nominal sum. “What did you want it for?”

“As if I should tell you that!” and this astounding piece of humanity tossed her head, and smiled almost roguishly at me.

“Never mind what you wanted it for,” I said, “but you did want it, didn’t you? And you asked your uncle for it, and he refused you.”

“He said that if—if I would—would—oh, what am I saying!” She broke off with a little gasp, as if she had almost betrayed a secret. But I knew.

“He said he would give it to you, and more too, if you would marry Mr. Leroy, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Janet replied, and this time she spoke in a simple, natural voice and looked at me frankly.

“But, as you wanted the money to give to Mr. Leroy, and didn’t want to marry him, your uncle’s proposition didn’t please you?”

Janet looked at me in a bewildered way. “Yes,” she stammered, “yes—that was it.”

But I was learning my girl at last. For some reason she was telling a string of falsehoods! My faith in her made me believe that she was doing this for some definite and, to her, justifiable purpose. And yet, though my suggestion about Leroy seemed to me to be in line with her plans, and though she had said yes to it—yet I knew it was not the truth. My rapidly increasing love for her gave me an insight into her nature, and though I might not be able to persuade her to tell me the truth, yet I could discern when she spoke truly and when falsely.

“I give it up,” I said to her, suddenly adopting a lighter tone; “I can do nothing with you tonight in our relations of client and lawyer. Let us drop the whole dreadful subject for the rest of this evening, and let us pretend that we are just good friends, with no troublesome questions between us.

“Yes,” agreed Janet, with a smile of delight, “let us do that; but anyway, I don’t see why the troublesome questions that come between us as lawyer and client, should interfere with our friendship.”

“Nor do I, bless you!” I exclaimed, and with a lightened heart I put aside my burden of doubt and fear for the present. And soon Laura came back, and we all chatted pleasantly, without reference to anything gruesome or dreadful.

Laura had not heard our foregoing conversation, and had not, as I feared I had, additional reasons to wonder at Janet Pembroke.

But, we were both charmed with the girl’s vivacity and entertaining powers. She did or said nothing which savored too much of gayety to harmonize with her black gown, and yet her little whimsical speeches and her gentle wistful smiles won our hearts anew, and made both Laura and myself feel bound to her without regard to the cloud that hung above her head.

XX

THE INITIALED HANDKERCHIEF

The funeral of Robert Pembroke was to be held Saturday afternoon. The man had so few friends that elaborate services were not arranged for. Indeed it was to take place from the mortuary chapel, and would doubtless be attended by a very small assembly.

Of course Laura and I would go, out of respect for our friends, although we had never known Mr. Pembroke himself.

I did not see Janet before I went downtown Saturday morning, as Laura was taking great care of the girl, and never allowed her to appear early in the morning.

When I reached my office, I found a letter which was signed James Decker.

It was a bit illiterate, but it revealed to me the fact that its writer had attended the National Theatre on the night of October sixteenth and as he had occupied a seat H 3, he was behind G 3, he wanted very much to know in what way it was to his advantage to announce the fact to me.

I telephoned Mr. Decker at the address he gave, and he agreed to come to see me within the next hour.

He came very soon, and entirely fulfilled the mental picture I had already drawn of him. Flashy clothing, red necktie and hat on the back of his head were his distinguishing characteristics, with voice and manner to correspond.

“What’s up, pard?” was his unduly familiar greeting, but though I did not respond in his vernacular, I had no wish to criticise it.

I explained to him that I wanted to know anything he could tell me about the occupants of seats one and three G on the night in question.

“Sure, I can tell ye all about ’em,” he declared; “they was pals of mine, Billy Rivers and Bob Pierson. They was eight of us went, and we had aisle seats of four rows, right in front of each other. What about them two chaps? they’re all right, Guv’nor, I’ll go bail for that!”

“I’ve no doubt of it, Mr. Decker,” I responded, heartily; “and as this is just a little private matter between you and me, I’m going to ask you for their addresses, but I am going to assure you that this will get them into no trouble, unless they deserve it; and that if you so desire, your name need not be mentioned in the matter.”

“Great Mackerel! I don’t care how much you mention my name, and like’s not Bob and Bill won’t care either. They’re straight, mister, good pals and good men.”

There was something about the candid gaze of Decker that made me feel confidence in his words. I had a conviction then and there, that whoever murdered Robert Pembroke it was neither Bob nor Bill, the good friends of James Decker. But in a way, it was a disappointment, for it only proved one more clue worthless. Where those two ticket stubs came from, or how they got into Robert Pembroke’s bedroom, I didn’t then stop to think; although I had hazy ideas of tracing some sort of connection with the elevator boy or janitor and these people. But for the moment, all I could do was to take these men’s addresses, and present Mr. Decker with a sufficient honorarium to pay him for the trouble and exertion of coming to see me.

I went home at noon, pondering over those ticket stubs. After all, perhaps I had been terribly taken in. Perhaps this Decker man made up the whole story for the purpose of getting the fee which he knew I was pretty sure to give him. Perhaps his two pals were as imaginary as they were good, and perhaps he was only a clever adventurer who had succeeded in fooling a less clever lawyer! Well at any rate, I had done no harm, and I had the men’s addresses. Later on, I would tell the District Attorney the whole story, and if he chose to follow it up he could do so.

From the funeral of Robert Pembroke I went straight to the District Attorney’s office.

I had come to the conclusion that I must do something, and that I must do it quickly. I knew Buckner was only waiting till the funeral was over to push his investigations; and I knew too, that unless some new evidence was forthcoming from somewhere, his procedure must inevitably result in the arrest of Janet.

I must find that new evidence, which must at least turn the trend of suspicion in some other direction. I could think only of the handkerchief that I had found in Mr. Pembroke’s bedroom. This had never been accounted for in any way, and surely it must mean something.

The other articles I had found had proved of little value so far. The ticket stubs promised little or nothing, for I could not feel that the man Decker or his friends were implicated. The time-table gave me no idea of where to look for any clue. It was useless to refer it to the Lackawanna Railroad. Moreover, East Lynnwood was not on that road, nor was Utica, and these were the only two places that had so much as been mentioned in connection with the affair.

The torn telegram, in connection with the letter, seemed to mean nothing; or if it did, it pointed toward Janet’s deception in regard to it.

The money was gone, and that, too, in the minds of some people, again suggested Janet’s wrong-doing. The key, while it might seem to implicate Leroy, was far from being a definite clue, and if it meant Leroy, it might also mean Janet’s complicity.

The hair-pin I left out of consideration, and as a last resort, I determined to run down the owner of that handkerchief.

I rehearsed all these conclusions to the District Attorney, and he smiled a little superciliously. It is strange how the police officials scorn the interesting clues so beloved of the detective mind.

However, Buckner said nothing in opposition to my plan, and at my request handed me the handkerchief. We had little conversation but it was plain to be seen that he was assured of Janet’s guilt and saw no other direction in which to look for the criminal.

“Go ahead and investigate that handkerchief business,” he said, “but you’ll find it leads to nothing. That handkerchief might have been left there by any caller during the last week or so; and as we know Mr. Pembroke had frequent callers, that is of course the explanation.”

I couldn’t believe this, because, though now crumpled from passing through many hands, when I had found the handkerchief it was comparatively fresh, and looked as if it had but just been shaken from its laundered folds. This would seem to indicate that it had not been in the room long, and moreover had it been left there several days before, it would have been found by Charlotte or by Janet, and laid aside to be restored to its owner.

I put it in my pocket, and after a short further conversation with Mr. Buckner, I was convinced afresh of Janet’s impending danger, so that I went away spurred to my utmost endeavor to find some new information.

I examined the handkerchief carefully, but saw only what I had already observed; that it was unusually fine and dainty for a man’s possession, and that the embroidered letters were of exquisite workmanship and unique design.

I took a taxicab and began a systematic canvass of the best shops in the city that provided wearing apparel for fastidious men.

The results were not encouraging. One after another, the haberdashers informed me that the handkerchief had not come from their shops. Indeed, they opined that the work had not been done in this country, but that the handkerchief had been bought abroad. However, as I was about to give up my search, one interested shopkeeper told me of a small and very exclusive establishment from which that handkerchief might have been obtained.

With my hopes a trifle buoyed up, I went at once to the address given me, and to my delight the affable cleric recognized the handkerchief.

“Yes,” he said, “that is one of ours. We have them hand-embroidered for one of our best customers. He has used that design for many years. Did he recommend you to come here?”

“No,” said I, “I’m not ordering handkerchiefs for myself. Moreover, I was not sent here by the owner of this one, nor do I know his name. Are you willing to tell it to me?”

“I see no reason why I shouldn’t. That handkerchief belongs to Mr. Gresham—William Sydney Gresham. It is one of the best bits of work we ever put out, and we are a little proud of it.”

“It’s beautiful work,” I agreed, “and now will you give me Mr. Gresham’s address?”

Although not especially keen-witted, the clerk looked a little surprised at this, and hesitated for a moment. But when I told him that the matter was important, he made no further objection, and gave me Mr. Gresham’s club address.

Needless to say I went directly there, and by good luck I found Mr. Gresham, pleasantly passing the before dinner hour with some of his friends.

I went to him, introduced myself and asked for a moment’s private conversation. He looked surprised, but consented, and with a courteous manner led me to a small room, where we were alone.

“Be seated, Mr. Landon,” he said, pleasantly; “what can I do for you?”

He was a handsome man and well set up. He was especially well dressed, in clothes of English cut, and his whole appearance showed attention to details. His face betokened a strong, manly character and his gaze was clear and straightforward.

Without preliminaries, I showed him the handkerchief and said, simply, “Is this your handkerchief, Mr. Gresham?”

“It certainly is,” he said, taking the linen square, and glancing at the letters; “did you find it? I thank you very much for restoring my property—though of no great value.”

“Had you missed it?” I said, looking at him closely.

“Bless my soul, no! A man has several handkerchiefs, you know, and I dare say I might lose two or three without missing them. Excuse me, Mr. Landon, but aren’t you attaching undue importance to such a trifle as a lost handkerchief?”

“I don’t know yet, Mr. Gresham, whether this particular loss of yours will prove to be a trifling matter or not. Do you know Robert Pembroke?”

“The man who was murdered a few days ago?”

“Yes.”

“No, I never knew him; but I read in the papers of the poor fellow’s death and thought it most shocking. I trust they will discover the murderer and avenge the crime.”

If Mr. Gresham were implicated in the affair, he certainly carried off this conversation with a fine composure. But I resolved to startle his calm if I could.

“Then can you explain, Mr. Gresham,” I said, “how this handkerchief of yours happened to be found on the bed of the murdered man the morning after the murder?”

“Great Heavens, no! nor do I believe it was found there!”

“But it was, for I myself found it.”

“My handkerchief! In Mr. Pembroke’s bedroom! Impossible!”

The man spoke with an angry inflection and a rising color, and I watched him narrowly. Either this was the just indignation of an innocent man, or else it was the carefully rehearsed dissimulation of a clever wrong-doer. My instinct and my reason told me he was innocent, but my inclinations so strongly hoped for some hint of his guilt, that I persevered.

“Yes, Mr. Gresham, I found it in that room, and on that bed in less than twelve hours after Mr. Pembroke was killed.”

“You did! and you think therefore that I killed him, or at least that I was in his room! Why, man, I have already told you that I never knew Mr. Pembroke, and have certainly never been to his house, nor do I even know where he lives!”

This was all very well if it were true, but how was I to know whether this fine gentleman were lying or not. To be sure his face, voice and manner gave every effect of outraged innocence, but was that not just what a clever criminal would show?

“Where were you late last Wednesday night?” I asked him bluntly.

“By Jove! I don’t know! I may have been in a dozen places. I go where I choose, and I don’t keep a diary of my doings!”

“But try to think, Mr. Gresham,” I said, more gently; “were you here at this club?”

“I may have been and I may not. I may have been motoring, or dining out, or at the theatre, or anywhere. I tell you I don’t know where I was.”

“It will be to your own interest to remember,” I said, speaking sternly, for now I began to suspect the man.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because when a man’s handkerchief is found under such circumstances, it is advisable for the man to prove that he was not there too.”

“Lest I be suspected of the murder of a man whom I never saw, and never even heard of until after he was dead?”

“We have only your own word for that,” I returned, coldly; “but the rather definite clue of your handkerchief found in Mr. Pembroke’s bedroom requires investigation, and I am here for that purpose.”

“The deuce you are! Well, Mr. Landon, you are barking up the wrong tree! May I refer you to my man of business, and ask you to excuse me from a further discussion of this matter?”

“You may not! I am here, Mr. Gresham, if not exactly in an official capacity, yet with the authority of a lawyer employed on this case. And if I may advise you, merely as man to man, I think it will be better for you to question your memory a little more closely, and endeavor to recollect where you were on Wednesday night.”

“Oh, suppose I can hark back to it. Let me see; I believe I motored up to Greenwich for the night. No, that was Tuesday night. And Thursday night I went to the theatre. Well, then it must have been Wednesday night that I was at the Hardings’ to dinner. Yes, I was. I dined at the home of James S. Harding. And that you can verify from him. Now are you satisfied?”

“What time did you leave Mr. Harding’s?”

“I don’t know; about eleven or twelve, I suppose.”

“And then where did you go?”

“Good Heavens! I can’t remember every corner I turned! I think I stopped here at the Club before I went to my diggings; yes I’m sure I did.”

“Then there must be Club members, or even stewards by whom you can prove an alibi.”

“Prove an alibi! Look here, Mr. Landon, I positively refuse to carry this conversation further. I know nothing of your Mr. Pembroke or of his murderer. I know nothing about that handkerchief, which you say you found there, except the fact that it is mine. Now if your people want to arrest me, let them come and do it; but until they do, kindly spare me further questioning, which I do not admit to be within your rights. Allow me to wish you good morning.”

Though most anxious to believe this man guilty, it was difficult to do so, and yet I was quite willing to believe that his somewhat grandiloquent attitude was all a bluff. However, I had found the owner of the handkerchief, and I had learned all I could from him. And so, with a conventional leave-taking, I left him and went home.

XXI

FLEMING STONE

At dinner and during Saturday evening, Janet seemed so sad and depressed in spirits, that I seconded Laura’s efforts to divert her mind from all thoughts of the tragedy.

It was not so difficult as it might seem, for the girl’s strange temperament was volatile, and her thoughts were easily led to any subject we suggested. We talked of books and music, and finally of personal acquaintances, discovering that we had a few in common. Although I did not know the Warings personally they were acquaintances of some friends of mine, and I gathered from Janet’s remarks that Millicent Waring was one of her intimates.

The evening passed pleasantly enough, but after Laura had carried Janet away to rest for the night, I sat and pondered deeply over my case.

Try as I would, I could not feel that Mr. Gresham had any guilty knowledge of the affair; and if he had, I could think of no way to turn suspicion in his direction. Except, of course, through the handkerchief, which now seemed to me an insoluble mystery.

And except for the slender hope resting upon that handkerchief, I had nothing to offer in the way of evidence against any person or persons other than the girl I loved. It was then that I bethought me of Fleming Stone. I had recently heard of the marvellous work this great detective had done in the Maxwell case, and I wondered that I had not thought of him before. Beside his powers the efforts of minor detectives paled into insignificance. His services were expensive, I knew, but George Lawrence had authorized the employment of a detective, and I did not believe he would object to the outlay. Then, too, my client was now a rich woman, or would be, as soon as the estate was settled.

I admitted my own inability to read the mystery in the clues I had at my disposal, but I felt sure that Stone could do so.

Then the horrible thought struck me, what if Stone’s inexorable finger should point toward Janet! But this I would not allow myself to consider, for I could not believe it possible; and, moreover, without Stone’s intervention, the law was determined to accuse Janet, anyway, therefore Stone’s help was the only possible chance I could see for help.

And so I went to bed with a hopeful heart, that since truth must triumph, and since Fleming Stone could discover the truth if any one could, that Janet’s exoneration was practically assured.

I was uncertain whether or not to tell Janet of my decision to consult Fleming Stone. And all Sunday morning I hesitated about the matter.

It was late Sunday afternoon before I concluded that it would be better to inform her of my plan, and this conclusion was really brought about more by opportunity than by decision.

Laura had gone out, and Janet and I sat alone in our pleasant library. The girl looked so sweet and dear, in her pathetic black robes, that my heart yearned to comfort her. Her face was sad and very gentle of expression; her dark eyes showing that wistful look that I had learned to watch for. The corners of her red mouth drooped a little, and she looked like a tired child who ought to be protected and cared for against all misfortune.

“I thought George would come up this afternoon,” she said, as she stood looking idly out of the window, where her slight black-robed figure made a lovely picture against the background of the gold-colored silk curtain.

“I’m glad he didn’t,” I said involuntarily; “I’m glad to have you to myself.”

She looked up startled, for I never before expressed a hint of my personal feeling toward her. What she read in my eyes must have been intelligible to her, for her own lids dropped, and a soft pink blush showed faintly on her pale cheeks.

“Do you mind that I want you to myself?” I said, going to her side.

“No,” she replied and again she gave me a fleeting glance that proved her not entirely unconscious of my meaning, and not offended by it.

“Janet,” I went on, taking both her hands in mine, “it may seem dreadful to tell you now, when I’ve known you but a few days, but I must tell you that I love you. You know it, of course, and believe me, dear, I’m not asking you to respond—yet. Just let me love you now, until this wretched business is finished, and then, after that, let me teach you to love me.”

“It’s too late for you to do that,” she whispered, and then, overcome with this sudden knowledge, I clasped her in my arms and realized the meaning of the tenderness in her eyes and the wistful droop of her scarlet lips.

“You darling,” I murmured, as I held her close; “you precious, contradictory bit of feminine humanity! This is the most blessed of all your contradictions, for I never dreamed that you already loved me.”

“But you can’t doubt it now, can you?” she returned, as she rested, contentedly, in my embrace.

“No, dearest, you are not easy to understand, there is much about your nature that puzzles me, but when that true, sincere look comes into your eyes, I know you are in earnest. Oh, Janet, my darling, how happy we shall be after all this troublesome mystery is cleared up, and you and I can devote our whole life to caring for each other.”

“I shall be so glad to be happy,” she said, with a wistful little sigh, and I remembered that her life, so far, had given her little or no joy.

“Sweetheart,” I said, “my life purpose henceforth shall be to give you happiness enough to make up for the sad years you have spent.

“You can easily do that, my dear,” and the tenderness in her eyes fairly transfigured her. And then, with a pretty impetuous gesture, she hid her face on my shoulder.

“But it doesn’t seem possible,” I said, after a time, “that you can really love me when you’ve known me but a few days.”

“That doesn’t count in a love like ours,” said Janet, speaking almost solemnly. “It is not the kind that requires time to grow.”

“No,” I agreed, “it was born full grown. I always told Laura that when I fell in love it would be at first sight, and it was. The marvellous part, dear, is that you care, too.”

“Care!” she exclaimed, and the depths of love in her eyes gave me a hint of her emotional nature; “but,” she went on, “this is all wrong. You must not talk to me like this, and I must not listen to it. I am under suspicion of having committed a crime. Surely you cannot love me until I am freed from that.”

“But you are not guilty?”

I asked the question not because of any doubt in my own mind, but because I wanted for once to hear her own statement of her innocence.

“That I shall not tell you,” she said, and her eyes took on a faraway, inscrutable look, as of a sphinx; “that you must find out for yourself. Or rather, no, I don’t want you to find out. I want it always to remain a mystery.”

“What, Janet! you don’t want me to find out who killed your uncle!”

“Oh, no, no!” and her voice rang out in agonized entreaty; “please don’t, Otis; please don’t try to find out who did it!”

“But then, dear, how can you be freed from suspicion? and I want to tell you, Janet, I want to tell you now, while I hold you in my arms—I want to tell you in the same breath that I tell you of my love—that you will be accused of this crime, unless the real criminal is discovered.”

“How do you know I’m not the real criminal?”

“I know it for two reasons. First, because I love you, and I’m telling you so; and second, because you love me, and—”

“I’m not telling you so,” she interrupted, and a look of pain came into her dear eyes as she tried to resist my embrace.

“You don’t have to tell me, dear,” I said, quietly, “I know it. But you must tell me who it is that you are trying to shield by your strange ways and words. Is it Leroy? It can’t be Charlotte.”

“I’m not shielding anybody,” she cried out; “the jury people proved that I must have killed Uncle Robert myself, and so, you see, I must have done so.”

“Now you’re talking childishly,” I said, as I soothed her, gently; “of course you didn’t kill him, darling; but you do know more about it than you have yet told, and you must tell me, because I’m going to save you from any further unpleasantness. I wish I could understand you, you bewitching mystery! You are surely shielding some one. It can’t be that absurd J. S. I hardly think it can be the man of the handkerchief; oh, but I haven’t told you about that yet. It can’t be George—because he has a perfect alibi.”

“I suppose if it were not for that alibi, George might be suspected,” said Janet slowly.

“Indeed he might, but as there are people to swear to his presence in another part of town at the time of the crime, he is beyond suspicion. I wish you had such an alibi, dearest.”

“Oh, I wish I did! Otis, what do you think? You know I was locked in that house and nobody could get in. You know I didn’t kill Uncle Robert. Now who did?”

“Janet,” I said, very seriously, “I don’t know. And I have nearly lost hope of finding out. So I will tell you what I have decided to do; I’m going to consult Fleming Stone.”

“Fleming Stone? Who is he?”

“He is probably the cleverest detective in the city. I feel sure that he can solve our mystery, if he will undertake it.”

“Oh, don’t have a detective!” she cried; “at least, not that Mr. Stone. He can find out everything!”

“And don’t you want everything found out?” I asked, looking at her intently.

“No!” she cried vehemently. “I don’t! I want Uncle Robert’s death always to remain a mystery!”

“It can’t be a greater mystery than you are!” I exclaimed, for the words were wrung from me as I looked at the girl’s face, which had again taken on that white, impassive look.

It was at that moment that Laura returned, and as she entered the library, Janet fled away to her own room.

Laura looked at me questioningly, and I told her quite frankly all that had passed between Janet and myself.

She kissed me tenderly, like the dear sister that she is, and said; “Don’t worry, Otis; it will come out all right. I know Janet much better than you do. She is innocent, of course, but she is so unnerved and distraught with these dreadful days, that I’m only surprised she bears up as well as she does. Leave her to me, and you go and get your Fleming Stone, and use every effort to persuade him to take the case.”

As it had been my life-long habit to take Laura’s advice, especially when it coincided with my own inclination I started off at once to hunt up Fleming Stone.

I knew the man slightly, having run across him a few times in a business way, and I knew that not only were his services exceedingly high-priced, but also that he never took any case unless of great difficulty and peculiar interest. I hoped, however, that the circumstances of the Pembroke affair would appeal to him, and I determined to use every effort to interest him in it.

By good fortune, I found him at home, and willing to listen to a statement of my business.

FLEMING STONE

Fleming Stone’s personality was not at all of the taciturn, inscrutable variety. He was a large man, of genial and charming manner, and possessed of a personal magnetism that seemed to invite confidence and confidences. I knew him well enough to know that if I could win his interest at all it would be by a brief statement of the mystery as a puzzle, and a request that he help me solve it.

“Mr. Stone,” I began, “if three persons spent the night in an apartment so securely locked on the inside that there was no possible means of ingress, and if in the morning it was found that one of those three persons had been murdered at midnight, would you say that the guilt must rest upon either one or both of the other two persons?”

At any rate, I had succeeded in catching the man’s attention.

As there was no question of personal feeling in my statement, he seemed to look at it as an abstract problem, and replied at once:

“According to the facts as you have stated them, the guilt must necessarily rest upon one or both of the other two persons. But this is assuming that it really was a murder, that there really was no mode of ingress, and that there really were no other persons in the apartment.”

Having secured Fleming Stone’s interest in the abstract statement, I proceeded to lay before him the concrete story of the Pembroke affair.

He listened gravely, asking only one or two questions, and when I had told him all I knew about it he sat thinking for a few moments.

At last, unable to control my impatience, I said: “Do you now think the guilt rests upon either one or both of those women?”

As I have said, Mr. Stone was not of the secretive and close-mouthed style of detective, and he said in his frank and pleasant way: “Not necessarily, by any means. Indeed, from what you have told me, I should say that the two women knew nothing about the crime until the morning. But this, of course, is a mere surmise, based on your account of the case.”

As I had told him the facts as I knew them, with all their horrible incrimination of Janet, I was greatly relieved at his words.

“Then,” said I, “will you take up the case, and find the criminal as soon as may be? Money is no object, but time is precious, as I strongly desire to avoid any possibility of a trial of Miss Pembroke.”

“Have you any other clues other than those you have told me?”

“I haven’t told you any,” I said, in some surprise; “but we certainly have several.”

He listened with the greatest attention, while I told him in rapid succession of the key, the time-table, the ticket stubs, the torn telegram, the handkerchief, and finally, the missing money.

“Have you traced these to their sources?” he inquired.

“We have, and each one led to a different man.”

I then told him of Jonathan Scudder, of Graham Leroy, of James Decker, and of William Sydney Gresham, and he listened with a half-smile on his pleasant, responsive face.

“Of course you can see all these clues for yourself,” I went on, “and I feel sure, Mr. Stone, that by an examination of them, you can deduce much of the personality of the criminal.”

“I don’t care to see them,” was his astonishing answer; “I have already deduced from them the evidence that they clearly show.”

“Your statement would amaze me,” I said, “except that I had resolved not to be surprised at anything you might say or do, for I know your methods are mysterious and your powers little short of miraculous.”

“Don’t credit me with supernatural ability, Mr. Landon,” said Stone, smiling genially. “Let me compliment you on the graphic way in which you have described that collection of clues. I can fairly see them, in my mind’s eye lying before me. Were not the ticket stubs bent and broken and a good deal soiled?”

“They were,” I said, staring at him.

“And was the time-table smudged with dirt, and perhaps bearing an impress of tiny dots in regular rows?”

“Now I know you’re a wizard!” I exclaimed, “for that’s exactly what I did see! such a mark on the first page of that time-table!”

“It might easily not have been there,” said Stone, musingly; “I confess I chanced that. It was merely a hazard, but it helps. Yes, Mr. Landon, your collection of clues is indeed valuable and of decided assistance in discovering the identity of the person or persons unknown.”

It struck a chill to my heart that Fleming Stone seemed to avoid the use of a masculine pronoun. Could he, too, think that a woman was implicated, and if not, why didn’t he say the man who committed the crime, instead of dodging behind the vague term he had used. With a desperate idea of forcing this point, I said; “The Coroner believes that since the weapon used was a hat-pin, the criminal was a woman.”

“Why did you say it was a hat-pin?” said Fleming Stone, and I realized that his brain was already busy with the subtleties of the case.

“The doctors stated that it was part of a hat-pin, the other end of which had been broken off.”

“Did you see the pin that was extracted from the wound?”

“I did.”

“How long was it?”

“Almost exactly four inches.”

“And are you prepared to affirm that it is part of a hat-pin, and not a complete pin of a shorter length?”

“I am not. The thought did not before occur to me. But as it had no head on it, we assumed that it was probably the half of a broken hat-pin. It is by no means the first instance on record of using a hat-pin as a murderous weapon.”

“No,” said Fleming Stone; “and yet that does not prove it a hat-pin. May it not have been a shawl-pin, or some shorter pin that women use in their costumes?”

“It may have been,” said I; “but women do not wear shawls nowadays. At any rate, any pin of that length would seem to indicate a woman’s crime.”

“Well, as a rule,” said Fleming Stone, smiling, “we men do not pin our garments together; but I dare say almost any man, if he wanted one, could gain possession of such a pin.”

How true this was, and how foolish we had been to assume that a woman’s pin must have meant a woman’s crime! A picture passed through my mind of Laura’s dressing-table, where I could have procured any kind of a pin, with no trouble whatever.

“Moreover,” went on Fleming Stone, “the great majority of hat-pins used in America will not break. They will bend, as they are usually made of iron, though occasionally of steel.”

I looked at the man with growing admiration. How widespread was his knowledge, and how logical his deduction!

“I should have to see the pin,” said Stone, “before drawing any conclusion from it. You did not examine it closely, you say?”

I had not said so, but I suppose he deduced it from my slight knowledge of its characteristics.

“I did not examine it through a microscope,” I replied.

“You should have done so. If it were really a broken hat-pin, it would show a clean, bright break at the end; whereas, were it a shorter pin which had lost its head, it would show at the end a fraction of an inch of duller steel, and perhaps an irregular surface where the head had been attached.”

“I can see that you are right, but I cannot see why it should make much difference which it was.”

“My dear sir, according to your statement, the only clue we have to work upon is the weapon which was used. The weapon is always an important item, if not the most important, and it cannot be scrutinized too closely or examined too minutely, for, sooner or later, it is almost always certain to expose the criminal.”

“I had thought,” I said humbly, “that I possessed a degree of detective instinct, but I now see I was mistaken. I assumed the pin to be a hat-pin, and thought no more about it.”

“It may be one,” said Stone, “and the only way to find out is to see it. Of course I must also examine the apartment, and then, if necessary, question some of the parties concerned. But at this moment I have little doubt in my mind as to who killed Robert Pembroke. I will take the case, because, though unusual, it promises to be a short one. I think I may safely say that by tomorrow night at this hour we will not only have discovered the criminal, but obtained a confession. But I will say the criminal has been very, very clever. In fact, I think I should never have conceived of such various kinds of cleverness combined in one crime. But, as is often the case, he has outwitted himself. His very cleverness is his undoing.”

Surely the man was a wizard! I looked at him without a word after he had made his astounding announcement. I had no idea whom he suspected, but I knew he would not tell me if I asked, so I thought best to express no curiosity, but to leave the matter in his hands, and await his further pleasure.

“You can go at once to see the apartment,” I said; “but to look at the pin we shall have to wait until morning, as I think it is in charge of the coroner.”

“It must all wait till morning,” said Fleming Stone, “as I have other work that I must attend to this evening.”

I accepted my dismissal, and, making an appointment to call for him the next day, I turned my steps homeward.

I had purposely said nothing to Fleming Stone of my suspicion of George Lawrence. Indeed, it was scarcely strong enough to be called a suspicion, and, too, the mere idea of his going into the apartment implied the idea of his being let in by Janet. Therefore, I had contended myself with telling Stone the facts as I knew them, and suppressing my own opinion. Also, it seemed a dreadful thing to cast suspicion on Lawrence, when I had no evidence of any sort.

XXII

A CALL ON MISS WARING

When I arose next morning I assured myself that I was in all probability the happiest man in the city. With Fleming Stone’s assurance that that very night should see the Pembroke mystery cleared up, and with the knowledge in my heart that Janet loved me, I felt that my future outlook was little less than glorious.

I had given up all ambition to be a detective; I even had little care as to the outcome of Fleming Stone’s investigation—granting, of course, that Janet and George were in no way implicated. I could have given myself up to the happy dreams which are usually said to be indulged in by men of fewer years than my own, but I remembered my appointment and hastened away to meet Fleming Stone.

Though I had a vague feeling of fear as to the result of this day’s work, yet I knew it must be gone through with, and I prepared to face whatever might be before me.

Together we went to the District Attorney’s office.

Mr. Buckner was much impressed by the fact of Fleming Stone’s connection with the case, for it was well known that the great detective accepted only puzzling problems. It was quite evident, however, that the District Attorney could see no reason for more than one opinion as to the Pembroke tragedy.

“Here are the clues,” said Mr. Buckner, as he arranged the collection on his desk.

The torn telegram was not among them, and I realized that Buckner had excluded that, because the letter from Jonathan Scudder practically denied it.

Fleming Stone glanced at the key and the handkerchief with the briefest attention. He picked up the ticket stubs and the time-table, but after a moment’s scrutiny he laid them down again, murmuring, as if to himself, “Clever, very clever!”

“Mr. Buckner,” he said at last, “these clues seem to me all to point to the same criminal, and a most ingenious person as well.”

“You speak in riddles, Mr. Stone,” said the District Attorney, “I confess I thought these articles of but slight importance, as they have been traced each to a different owner.”

“Even so,” said Stone, “they are distinctly indicative, and form a large share of the evidence piling up against the criminal. But a far more important clue is the weapon with which Mr. Pembroke was killed. Will you show me that?”

Buckner took the pin from a drawer and offered it to Mr. Stone, saying, “There is the weapon. If the head of the hat-pin had been left on, it might be traced to the woman who used it. But as she broke it off, this small portion cannot be traced. She doubtless broke the head off purposely, thus proving herself, as you have already remarked, Mr. Stone, a very clever criminal.”

Mr. Stone took the pin, glanced at it a moment, and then, taking a magnifying-glass from his pocket, examined it carefully.

“It is not a hat-pin,” he said, “nor is it part of a hat-pin. The pin as you see it there is its full length. The head has been removed, not accidentally, but purposely. It had been removed, and carefully, before the pin was used as a weapon.”

“May I ask how you know this, sir?” asked the coroner respectfully.

“Certainly,” said Stone, in his affable way. “If you will look at the end of the pin through this glass, you will see unmistakable signs that the head has been removed. For about an eighth of an inch you note a slight discoloration, caused by the attaching of the glass head. You also see on one side a minute portion of glass still adhering to the steel. Had the head been accidentally or carelessly broken off, it is probable that more glass would have adhered to the pin. The head was therefore purposely and carefully removed, perhaps by smashing it with something heavy or by stepping on it. The fragment of glass that is attached to the pin is, as you may see if you will hold it up to the light, of a violet color. The pin, therefore, I’m prepared to assert, is one of the pins which first-class florists give away with bunches of violets bought at their shops. I have never seen these pins with violet-colored heads used for any other purpose, though it is not impossible that they may be. I say a first-class florist, because it is only they who use this style of pin; the smaller shops give black-headed ones. But the larger flower dealers make a specialty of using purple tin-foil for their violet bunches, tying them with purple cord or ribbon, and placing them in a purple pasteboard box. To harmonize with this color scheme, they have of late years provided these violet-headed flower pins. All this is of importance in our quest, for it ought to be easier to trace a violet pin than the more universally used hat-pin.”

How different Fleming Stone’s manner from the bumptious and know-it-all air of the average detective! He was quite willing to share any information which he gained, and seemed to treat his fellow-workers as his equals in perspicacity and cleverness.

We had learned something, to be sure. But as the coroner had no other objects of evidence to show us, and there seemed nothing more to be learned from the pin, Fleming Stone turned into the street, and I followed him.

“Could not the head have been broken off after the pin was used to commit the murder?” I inquired.

“No,” said Stone; “it would be impossible to break off a glass head with one’s fingers under such conditions. It could have been done by some instrument, but that is not likely. And then, too, there would probably have been bits of glass on the pillow.”

“Bits of glass!” I exclaimed. “Bits of violet-colored glass! Why, man alive, I have them in my pocket now!”

“Let me see them,” said Stone. “It may save us quite a search.”

It took more to excite Fleming Stone’s enthusiasm than it did mine, and he seemed almost unaware of the importance of my statement; but when I took a white paper from my pocket, unfolded it, and showed him the specks of glass I had found in Lawrence’s apartment the night before, his flashing eyes showed that he thought it indeed a clue. But he only said quietly: “You should have mentioned this in your statement of the case. Why did you not?”

“The real reason is that I forgot it,” I admitted, frankly. “But I had no idea it was important evidence, for I never dreamed these bits could be the head of a pin. I thought them a portion of a broken bottle. You know druggists use small phials of that color for certain prescriptions.”

“Some druggists use bottles of this color for poison,” said Fleming Stone, “but that doesn’t affect our case, for Mr. Pembroke was not poisoned. But it may easily be the head of the pin we were talking about. Where did you find this glass?”

“In George Lawrence’s studio,” I replied, looking a little shamefaced at my own obvious stupidity.

“Well, you are a clever detective!” said Fleming Stone; but so genial was the smile of mild amusement he turned upon me, that I could not feel hurt at his sarcasm.

“You didn‘t even tell me that you examined young Lawrence’s studio, and you haven’t yet told me why you did so. I assume you have no intent to conceal anything from me.”

“I have not,” I said. “I’m mortified—first that I did not realize the importance of this broken glass, and next because I didn’t mention the incident to you. It was a stupid blunder of mine, but I assure you it was not intentional.”

“It may mean much, and it may mean nothing,” said Fleming Stone, “but it must be investigated. Where, in the studio, was the glass?”

“On the marble hearthstone,” said I.

“Where it might easily have been broken off the pin by a boot heel, or other means. But we must not assume more than the evidence clearly indicates. Tell me more of young Lawrence. Was he what is known as a ladies’ man? Would he be likely to take bunches of violets to his feminine friends?”

“I know the man very slightly,” I answered, “but I should judge him to be rather attentive to the fair sex. Indeed, I know that the day before yesterday he escorted a young lady to a matinée, and that night he dined and spent the evening at the home of the same girl.”

“Do you know this young lady?” he asked.

“I know her name,” I replied. “It is Miss Waring, and she lives in Sixtieth Street.”

“And your own home is in Sixty-second Street?”

“Yes. If necessary, I can telephone to my sister, and she will ask Miss Pembroke for Miss Waring’s address.”

“Do so,” said Fleming Stone; and I knew from the gravity of his expression that he was rapidly constructing a serious case against somebody.

I obtained the desired information over the telephone, and then, with Fleming Stone, boarded a car going uptown. Though still pleasant-mannered and responsive, Stone seemed disinclined to talk, so the journey was made almost in silence.

When we reached Miss Waring’s, Mr. Stone sent up his card, asking her to grant him an interview as soon as possible.

In a few moments Millicent Waring appeared. She was a dainty little blonde, with what is known as a society manner, though not marked by foolish affectation.

Fleming Stone introduced himself and then introduced me, in a pleasant way, and with a politeness that would have been admired by the most punctilious of critics.

“Pray do not be alarmed, Miss Waring,” he began, “at the legal aspect of your callers.”

“Not at all,” said the girl, smiling prettily. “I am pleased to meet one of whom I have always stood in awe, and to discover that in appearance, at least, he is not a bit awe-inspiring.”

Whether Miss Waring was always so self-poised and at her ease, or whether it was Fleming Stone’s magnetic manner that made her appear so, I did not know, but the two were soon chatting like old friends. My part, apparently, was merely that of a listener, and I was well content that it should be so.

“You know Mr. Lawrence?” Mr. Stone was saying. “Mr. George Lawrence?”

“Oh, yes,” said the girl; “and I have read in the paper of a dreadful tragedy in his family.”

“Yes; his uncle, I believe. You have seen Mr. Lawrence recently, Miss Waring?”

“Last Wednesday I went with him to a matinée. After the theatre he brought me back here. Then he went home, but he came back here to dinner and spent the evening.”

“At what time did he leave?”

“At eleven o’clock precisely.”

“How do you know the time so accurately?”

“Because as he came to say good-night I was standing near the mantel, where there is a small French clock. It struck the hour, and I remember his remarking on the sweet tone of the chime, and he counted the strokes to eleven. He then went away at once.”

“You mean he left the drawing-room?”

“Yes; and a moment later I saw him pass through the hall, and he nodded in at me as he passed the drawing-room door on his way out. Why are you asking me all this? But I suppose it is part of the red tape in connection with the dreadful affair.”

“Is Mr. Lawrence a particular friend of yours? You must pardon the question, Miss Waring, but you also must answer it.” Fleming Stone’s smile robbed the words of any hint of rudeness.

“Oh, dear, no!” said Miss Waring, laughing gaily; “that is, I like him, you know, and he’s awfully kind and polite to me, but he’s merely an acquaintance.”

“Did you go anywhere on your way to and from the theatre?”

“No, I think not—oh, yes, we did, too; just before we went into the theatre Mr. Lawrence insisted on stopping at the florist’s for some violets. He said no matinée girl was complete without a bunch of violets.”

“And did you pin them on your gown?” asked Stone, as if in a most casual way.

“No, indeed,” said Miss Waring; “I never do that. It spoils a nice gown to pin flowers on it.”

“And what did you do with the pin?”

“What pin?”

“The pin that a florist always gives you with violets.”

“Oh, yes, those purple-headed pins. Why, I don’t know what I did do with it.” The girl’s pretty brow wrinkled in her endeavor to remember, and then cleared as she said: “Oh, yes, it comes back to me now! When I said I wouldn’t use it, lest the flowers should spoil my gown, I handed it to Mr. Lawrence, and he stuck it in his coat lapel—underneath, you know—for, he said, perhaps I might change my mind. But, of course, I didn’t, and I’m sure I don’t know what became of the pin. Do you want one? I have dozens of them upstairs.”

“No,” said Fleming Stone; “and I don’t think we need encroach further on your time, Miss Waring. I thank you for your goodness in seeing us, and I would like to ask you to say nothing about this interview for twenty-four hours. After that you need not consider it confidential.”

I believe Fleming Stone’s manner would have wheedled a promise out of the Egyptian Sphinx, and I was not in the least surprised to hear Miss Waring agree to his stipulations.

When we again reached the street Fleming Stone observed: “Without going so far as to designate our attitude toward George Lawrence by the word ‘suspicion,’ we must admit that the young man had a motive, and, that there is evidence whether true or not, to indicate his having had in his possession a weapon at least similar to the one used.”

The doubt I had felt all along of Lawrence was, of course, strengthened by Miss Waring’s disclosures; but to have George accused was only one degree less awful than to have suspicion cast on Janet. And, too, notwithstanding the strange and somewhat complicated evidence of the violet pin, Lawrence had told me he had a perfect alibi. And then, besides this, how could he have gained entrance to the apartment at the dead of night, unless Janet had let him in? I could not bring up this last point, lest Fleming Stone should immediately deduce Janet’s complicity; but I would learn how he proposed to prove George’s guilt when George was able to prove his presence at another place at the time of the fatal deed.

“But,” I said, “evidence is of little use so far as Mr. Lawrence is concerned, for he has a perfect alibi.”

XXIII

LAWRENCE’S STATEMENT

To my surprise, instead of seeming baffled by my statement, Fleming Stone gave me a quizzical glance.

“A perfect alibi?” he repeated. “How do you know?”

“He told me so,” I said confidently.

“Why did he tell you that? Did he expect to be accused?”

“No,” I replied; “I do not think he did. You know, Mr. Stone, I never met young Lawrence till since this affair; but, unless I am no judge of human nature, he is a frank, honest sort of chap, with a whole lot of common sense, and he said to his cousin, in my presence, that in the course of legal proceedings he might easily be called upon to give an account of his own movements the night of the murder, but that he was prepared to prove a perfect alibi. Therefore, you see, we cannot suspect him, notwithstanding the coincidence of the violet-colored glass.”

“He can prove a perfect alibi,” again repeated Fleming Stone, and again that strange little gleam of satisfaction crept into his eyes. It irritated while it fascinated me, and I wondered in what direction his suspicions would next turn.

“Did he tell you,” he asked, “the nature of this alibi?”

I was struck with a sudden thought. For some reason, the detective even yet suspected George, and all I said seemed to strengthen rather than allay his suspicion. I would, therefore, give the suspected man a chance to speak for himself.

“He did,” I answered; “but instead of repeating to you at secondhand what he told me, would it not be better to go down to his place and let him tell it for himself?”

“Very much better,” said Stone heartily; and again we started downtown. It was well on toward noon, and it seemed to me we had made no definite progress. After Fleming Stone had told me he would discover the criminal that day, I couldn’t help imagining a sudden bringing to book of some burly ruffian whose face was well known in the rogues’ gallery, but unfamiliar to those in my walk of life. But Stone’s sudden interest in George Lawrence filled me with a vague fear that the trail he was evidently following might somehow implicate Janet before he had finished. However, as I was feeling convinced that George’s own testimony would affect Fleming Stone more favorably than my own version of it, I felt glad indeed that we were bound on our present errand.

And so we came again to the house in Washington Square where Lawrence lived.

The young man was at home, and received us in his studio. He seemed no whit embarrassed at the detective’s visit, greeted me pleasantly, and expressed himself as quite willing to tell us anything we wanted to know.

“Of course you understand,” began Fleming Stone, “that with so few possible witnesses, it is necessary to make a somewhat thorough examination of each one.”

“Certainly,” said George, whose own affability of manner quite equalled that of the celebrated detective.

“Then,” went on Stone, “I will ask you, if you please, to detail your own occupations on last Wednesday.”

“Beginning in the morning?” asked George.

“If you please.”

“Well, let me see. I didn’t get up very early, and after I did rise I stayed around here in my studio until luncheon time. During the morning I worked on several sketches for a book I am doing. About twelve o’clock I went uptown and lunched with a friend, a fellow-artist, at a little German restaurant. After that I went and called for Miss Millicent Waring, whom I had invited to go with me to a matinée. I had expected Mrs. Waring to accompany us, but as she was ill she allowed Miss Waring to go with me alone, although it is not Miss Waring’s habit to go about unchaperoned.”

I couldn’t help feeling a certain satisfaction in listening to young Lawrence’s story. I was glad that his habits and his friends were all so correct and so entirely free from the unconventionality which is sometimes noticed in the social doings of young artists.

“We went to the matinée,” continued George, “in Mrs. Waring’s carriage, which also came for us, after the performance.”

“One moment,” said Fleming Stone. “You stopped nowhere, going or coming?”

“No,” said Lawrence; “nowhere.”

“Except at the florist’s,” observed Stone quietly.

It may have been my imagination, but I thought that George started at these words. However, he said in a cool, steady voice:

“Ah, yes, I had forgotten that. We stopped a moment to get some violets for Miss Waring.”

“And after the matinée you drove home with Miss Waring?”

“Yes,” said Lawrence; “and left her at her own door. She invited me to come back to dinner, and I said I would. As the Warings’ house is only two blocks away from the Pembroke’s, I thought I would run in for a few moments to see Janet. I did this, and Janet seemed glad to see me, but Uncle Robert was so crusty and irritable that I did not care to stay very long. I left there about six, came back here to my room, and dressed for dinner. From here I went directly back to the Warings’, reaching there at 7.30, which was the dinner hour. There were other guests, and after dinner there was music in the drawing-room. I stayed until eleven o’clock. As I said good-night to Miss Waring, the clock chanced to be striking eleven, so I’m sure of the time. From the Warings’ I came right back here on a Broadway car. I reached this house at 11.25, it having taken me about twenty-five minutes to come down from Sixtieth Street and to walk over here from Broadway.”

“How do you know you reached this house at exactly 11.25?” Fleming Stone asked this with such an air of cordial interest that there was no trace of cross-questioning about it.

“Because,” said George easily, “my watch had stopped—it had run down during the evening—and so as I came into this house I asked the hall boy what time it was, that I might set my watch. He looked at the office clock, and told me. Of course you can verify this by the boy.”

“I’ve no desire to verify your statement, Mr. Lawrence,” said Stone, with his winning smile. “It’s a bad habit, this letting a watch run down. Do you often do it?”

“No,” said Lawrence; “almost never. Indeed, I don’t know when it has happened before.”

“And then what next, Mr. Lawrence?”

“Then the hall boy brought me up in the elevator, I let myself into my rooms, and went at once to bed.”

“Then the first intimation of your uncle’s death you received the next morning?”

“Yes, when Janet telephoned to me. But she didn’t say Uncle Robert was dead. She merely asked me to come up there at once, and I went.”

“What did you think she wanted you for?”

“I thought that either uncle was ill or she was herself, for she had never telephoned for me before in the morning.”

“I thank you, Mr. Lawrence,” said Fleming Stone, “for your frank and straightforward account of this affair, and for your courteous answers to my questions. You know, of course, that it is the unpleasant duty of a detective to ask questions unmercifully, in the hope of being set upon the right track at last.”

“I quite appreciate your position, my dear sir, and I trust I have given you all the information you desire. As I have told Mr. Landon, I have no taste for detective work myself, but I suppose it has to be done by somebody.”

After polite good-byes on both sides, we left Lawrence in his studio, and went downstairs. Mr. Stone insisted on walking down, though it was four flights, and I, of course, raised no objection.

When we reached the ground floor he stepped into the office, which was a small room just at the right of the entrance, and not far from the elevator.

After a glance at the office clock which stood on the desk, Mr. Stone addressed himself to the office boy.

“Do you remember,” he said, “that Mr. Lawrence came in here last Wednesday night?”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy; “I do.”

“At what time was it?”

“Just twenty-five minutes after eleven, sir.”

“How can you fix the time so exactly, my boy?”

“Because when Mr. Lawrence came in, his watch had stopped, and he asked me what time it was by the office clock.”

“Couldn’t he see for himself?”

“I suppose he could, sir, but, any way, he asked me, and I told him; and then I took him up in the elevator, and he was setting his watch on the way up. Just before he got out he said: ‘Did you say 11.25?’ and I said, ‘Yes.’”

“The office clock is always about right, I suppose?” said Mr. Stone, and, taking his watch from his pocket, he compared the two. There was but a minute’s difference.

“Yes, sir, just about right; but that night I thought it was later when Mr. Lawrence come in. I was surprised myself when I see it wasn’t half past eleven yet. But, of course, I must have made a mistake, for this clock is never more than a couple of minutes out of the way.”

“What time does your elevator stop running?”

“Not at all, sir, we run it all night.”

“And other men came in after Mr. Lawrence did that night?”

“Oh, yes, sir; lots of them. These is bachelor apartments, you know, and the men come in quite late—sometimes up till two or three o’clock.”

Apparently Fleming Stone had learned all he wanted to know from the boy, and after he had thanked him and had also slipped into his hand a bit of more material reward, the interview was at an end.

We went out into the street again, and Fleming Stone said: “Now I should like to examine the Pembrokes’ apartment.”

“And shall you want to interview Miss Pembroke?” I inquired.

“Yes, I think so,” he replied; “but we will look over the apartment first.”

“We’ll have something to eat first,” I declared; “and if you’ll come home with me, I’ll guarantee that my sister will give you quite as satisfactory a luncheon as you could obtain in the best hotel in the city.”

“I’ve no doubt of it,” said Stone pleasantly; “and I accept your invitation with pleasure. Will you wait for me a minute, while I telephone?”

Before I had time to reply he had slipped in through a doorway at which hung the familiar blue sign.

In a minute or two he rejoined me, and said: “Now let’s dismiss the whole affair from our minds until after luncheon. It is never wise to let business interfere with digestion.”

As we rode up home in the car, Mr. Stone was most agreeable and entertaining. Not a word was said of the Pembroke case—he seemed really to have laid aside all thought of it—and yet I couldn’t help a sinister conviction that when he telephoned it had been a message to headquarters, authorizing the surveillance, if not the arrest, of somebody. It couldn’t be Lawrence, in the face of that alibi; it couldn’t be Janet, for he knew next to nothing about her connection with the matter; it couldn’t be Charlotte, of course; and so it must have been “some person or persons unknown” to me.

I felt no hesitancy, so far as Laura was concerned, in taking home an unexpected guest, for it was my habit to do that whenever I chose, and I had never found Laura otherwise than pleased to see my friends, and amply able to provide hospitality for them. But, as we neared the house, I remembered Janet’s strange disinclination to employ a detective, and her apparent horror at the mention of Fleming Stone’s name.

Feeling that honesty demanded it, I told Fleming Stone exactly what Janet had said on this subject when I had left the house that morning. Though apparently not disturbed personally by Miss Pembroke’s attitude toward him, he seemed to consider it as of definite importance for some other reason.

“Why should Miss Pembroke object to a detective’s services,” he said, “when, as you have told me, Mr. Lawrence said at your dinner table last night that he wanted to engage the best possible detective skill?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I’m puzzled myself. But I admit, Mr. Stone, that Miss Pembroke has been an enigma to me from the first. Not only do I believe her innocent, but I have a warmer regard for her than I am perhaps justified in mentioning to a stranger; and yet she is so contradictory in her speech and action from time to time that I simply do not know what to think.”

Fleming Stone turned a very kind glance on me. “The hardest puzzle in this world,” he said, “is a woman. Of course I do not know Miss Pembroke, but I hope she will consent to meet me, notwithstanding her aversion to detectives.”

“I think she will,” I said; “and, besides, she is so changeable that at this moment she may be more anxious to see a detective than anybody else.”

“Let us hope so,” he said somewhat gravely. “It may be much to her advantage.”

XXIV

THE CHAIN OF EVIDENCE

Laura greeted us cordially; and Miss Pembroke, with a politeness which, though slightly constrained, was quiet and non-committal. But, as I had hoped, Fleming Stone’s winning manner and charming conversational ability seemed to make Janet forget her aversion to detectives. At the luncheon table various subjects were touched upon, but it was not long before we drifted into a discussion of the theme uppermost in all our minds. I could see that although Fleming Stone was apparently talking in a casual way, he was closely studying Janet’s face as he talked.

I noticed that when any reference was made to George Lawrence, Janet seemed perturbed, and, although Mr. Stone said flatly that George could not have entered when the door was chained, this did not seem to lessen Janet’s concern. But when Stone referred to George’s perfect alibi, Janet looked relieved, as if freed from a great fear.

It was entirely due to Fleming Stone’s tact that the conversation was kept at a light and airy level. I was intensely conscious of a growing portent of evil. A cloak of gloom seemed to be settling around me, and it was only with the utmost effort that I could control my nervous apprehensions. What was going to happen, I did not know, but I felt intuitively that a climax was fast approaching, and at last I found myself sacrificing all other sympathies to the hope that Janet might be spared.

I could see that Laura was equally agitated, although she too was outwardly calm. Janet, as always, was a puzzle. She seemed alternately depressed or gladdened in proportion as the drift of suspicion seemed directed toward or away from her cousin George.

In a word, Fleming Stone’s personality dominated us all. We were but as strings of an instrument upon which he played, and we responded involuntarily to his impulses or at his will.

Into this surcharged atmosphere came another element with the entrance of George Lawrence. He looked handsome and debonair as usual, and informally begged of Mrs. Mulford permission to share our after-dinner coffee.

“We’re glad to have you,” said Laura, in her affable way, “and, as we have finished luncheon, we will have our coffee in the library, where we can be more comfortable.”

Although Lawrence seemed perfectly at ease, and unconscious of any reason to fear Fleming Stone’s investigations, I couldn’t help feeling that his air of ease was assumed. It was not so much any signs of nervousness or sensitiveness about him, as it was the pronounced absence of these. It seemed to me that he was playing a part of straightforward fearlessness, but was slightly overdoing it.

Fleming Stone talked to Lawrence casually, referring once to his perfect alibi. George remarked that though he had no fear of suspicion falling in his direction, it gave him a feeling of satisfaction to know that he could satisfactorily account for his whereabouts at the time the murder was committed.

“And now,” said Mr. Stone, after the coffee service had been removed, “I think I will make my examination of the apartment opposite. It is not probable that I will discover anything in the nature of a clue, but as a detective I certainly must examine the scene of the crime. I would prefer to go alone, if you will give a key. I will rejoin you here after my search.”

Janet gave Mr. Stone her key, and without further word he crossed the hall alone to what had been the Pembrokes’ apartment.

After Fleming Stone’s departure a strange chill fell on the mental atmosphere of our little party. George Lawrence seemed to lose his careless air, and a grayish pallor settled on his face, notwithstanding his apparent effort to appear as usual. Janet watched her cousin closely, and she herself seemed on the verge of nervous collapse. Laura, like the blessed woman she is, strove bravely to keep up, but I saw that she too felt that the end was near. As for myself, remembering Fleming Stone’s promise, I seemed to be possessed, to the exclusion of all else, of a great fear for Janet.

It could not have been more than ten minutes, if as much as that, before Fleming Stone returned.

As he entered our library he seemed to have lost his professional aspect, and I thought I had never seen a sadder or more sympathetic expression than I read in his eyes.

“Mr. Lawrence,” he said, without preamble, “it is my duty to arrest you for the murder of your uncle, Robert Pembroke.”

For a moment there was no sound, and then, with a pathetic, heart-breaking little cry, Janet said: “Oh, I hoped so that it wasn’t you!”

To my surprise, Lawrence tried to deny it. Guilt seemed to me to be written in every line of his face, yet, with a palpable effort, he assumed an air of bravado and said: “I told you I might be accused, but I can prove a perfect alibi.”

“Mr. Lawrence,” said Fleming Stone, more sternly than he had yet spoken, “you have over-reached yourself. That very phrase, ‘I can prove a perfect alibi,’ gave me the first hint that your alibi was a manufactured one. An innocent man can rarely prove a perfect alibi. Not one man in a hundred can give accurate account to the minute of his goings and comings. Your alibi is too perfect; its very perfection is its flaw. Again, the idea of proving an alibi, or, rather, the idea of using that phrase, would not occur to an honest man. He would know that circumstances must prove his alibi. It was that which proved to me that Mr. Leroy and Mr. Gresham were innocent. I am informed that Mr. Leroy refused to tell exactly where he was at the time this crime was committed. Had he been guilty he would have had a previously prepared and perfectly plausible alibi. Then Mr. Gresham said frankly that he didn’t know where he was at the particular hour about which Mr. Landon questioned him. Had he been the criminal, and left his handkerchief behind him by way of evidence, he, too, would have prearranged a story to tell glibly of his whereabouts. No, a perfect alibi should ordinarily lead to grave suspicion of the man making it, for it is ordinarily a concocted fiction. Again, it would have been a strange coincidence had your watch happened to run down, which you admit is a most unusual circumstance, at the only time in your whole life when you had a reason for its doing so. Your watch did not run down; you pretended that it did so as to get an opportunity to fix the time—the apparent time—in the mind of the hall boy at your apartment. This is what you did: You returned to your apartment much later than 11.25. In the absence of the boy, probably while he was up with the elevator, you stepped in and changed the time on the office clock. You went out again, and after a moment came in as if just reaching home. You then asked the boy the time, and he told you, although he had supposed it to be much later. Again you overdid your work when, while going up in the elevator, you asked the boy again, as if to make sure of the time, but really to fix it firmly in his mind, that he might witness for you. Some time later, during the night, you probably slipped downstairs, eluding the elevator, and corrected the clock. All this is corroborated by the fact of your calling Miss Waring’s attention to the time when you left her house. You carefully brought to her notice that it was then exactly eleven o’clock, which it was.”

George Lawrence sat as if petrified; for the moment I think he was really more amazed at Fleming Stone’s marvellous discoveries than alarmed at his own danger. He did not attempt to deny what Stone had said; indeed, he could not, for under the peculiar magnetism of the speaker’s gaze Lawrence seemed hypnotized, and his silence had tacitly affirmed each point as it was brought out against him.

Suddenly he drew himself together with a bold shrug, as if preparing for a last desperate effort.

“Your deductions are true in part,” he said. “I did change the clock, as you so diabolically discovered, and I suppose I did overdo matters when I accounted for every minute too carefully. But, though it was a manufactured alibi, and though I had reasons of my own for wanting to account for my movements that night, it has nothing to do with Robert Pembroke’s death, and couldn’t have had; for, as you all know, though I have a latch-key, the door was chained all night.”

“Leaving that question, for a moment,” said Fleming Stone, “let us consider these clues, which though apparently leading in various directions, point, Mr. Lawrence, directly and indubitably to yourself. When I was told by Mr. Landon of the several clues picked up in Mr. Pembroke’s bedroom, the morning after his murder, I was impressed at once by their number and variety. It was extraordinary to find so many objects, unrecognized by any member of the household, in the murdered man’s bedroom. Then, when I learned that some of these had been traced, and each so-called clue led to a different suspect, I saw at once that the situation was prearranged. The various clues were placed where they were found, exactly as a mine is ‘salted’ in expectation of prospectors. You, Mr. Lawrence, deliberately and with intent to throw suspicion in various directions, and thus baffle detectives—you placed this key, this handkerchief, this time-table, and these torn tickets in the room where they were found. All this shows not only cleverness and ingenuity, but carefully prearranged plans. Where you obtained those precious ‘clues,’ I do not know, but at a guess I should venture to say that you picked up the ticket stubs in the street, as they show evidences of pavement dirt. The time-table has a distinct imprint of the roughened surface of the steel stair-binding. I think that as you came up the stairs, intent upon your deadly errand, you chanced to find that time-table, and left it behind you as one more distracting piece of evidence. But these details are of no importance. You salted the mine successfully, and by the diversity of your clues you led the honest efforts of the detectives in devious paths. But, after all, the missing money and the pin, used as a weapon, are the real clues. We have traced the pin—to you. We have traced the money—to you. We have eliminated all possible suspicion of anyone else, and if you have anything to say by way of defense, or in any way concerning the matter, you may speak now.”

“I have only to say,” said Lawrence, “that you have exhibited a marvelous ingenuity in building up this fabrication of falsehoods, but your whole structure falls to the ground in face of the positive evidence of the chain on the door. For though I have a latch key to the apartment, entrance is impossible when the chain bolt is on.”

“Oh,” cried Janet, with a wail as of utter despair. “If your alibi is broken, George, then I know how you got in that door!”

It was my turn to feel despair. Since the alibi was broken, Janet was practically confessing her complicity in the matter.

“What do you mean, Janet?” said George sharply. “I couldn’t get in unless you had let me in, and you didn’t.”

“No,” said Janet quietly; “I didn’t. Nor did Charlotte. But I know how you got in—at least, how you could have got in.”

“I, too, know how you got into the apartment,” said Fleming Stone; “and it was without the assistance, and without the knowledge, of either Miss Pembroke or her servant.”

Again that wonderful gaze of Fleming Stone’s sad, serious eyes seemed to compel Lawrence to speak against his will.

“How did I get in?” he said hoarsely, bending forward as with the breathless suspense of a man taking his last chance.

“It is not an easy matter to explain,” said Fleming Stone, “nor can I show the method in this apartment; but if you will all come with me across the hall, I will demonstrate to you the possibility of entering a chained door.”

Without a word, we all crossed the hall and entered the Pembroke apartment. It was a cheerful, sunny suite of rooms, and its beautiful furniture and appointments seemed meant for a happy home life rather than grim tragedy. Fleming Stone went first, followed by Laura and George Lawrence. I followed with Janet, and, emboldened by her look of pathetic appeal, I clasped her hand in mine. When we were all inside Fleming Stone closed the door, the night-latch of which, of course, snapped itself.

Lawrence still acted as one hypnotized. Seemingly with no volition of his own, he followed Fleming Stone’s movements, keeping his eyes fixed upon the detective as if literally unable to look elsewhere.

After closing the door, Fleming Stone put on the night-chain. For the first time I looked at the chain carefully. It was a heavy brass chain, long enough, when the door was closed, for the end, on which was a sort of knob or button, to reach back to the opening provided for it, and then slide along the brass slot until it stopped at the other end and hung in a loop. It seemed to me no different from dozens of chains I had seen of the same sort.

When it hung finally in position, Fleming Stone turned the knob and opened the door with a jerk, precisely as Charlotte had done on that memorable morning.

“Is it not true,” asked Mr. Stone, “that this door, with the chain on thus, has often been violently jerked open?”

“Yes,” said Janet; “Charlotte is very strong, and always pulls the door open sharply, forgetting the chain is there. And, too, Uncle Robert has often done the same thing, and his motions were always so vigorous that I thought sometimes he would break the chain.”

“There was no danger of breaking the chain,” said Mr. Stone; “but the repeated jerks at it have so forced the end of the slot nearest the edge of the door, that the brass is sprung outward, and the knob on the end of the chain may be removed—not as easily as it can be at the other end, it is true, but with some ingenious handling.”

As he spoke, Fleming Stone, by some clever exertion, so twisted the knob on the end of the chain that it came out of the near end of the slot, with no necessity of pushing it back to the other end. I saw at once that this could be done also from the outside of the door, there being ample room when the door was ajar to slip one’s hand in and free the chain in this manner.

At this demonstration of an actual fact, Fleming Stone did not look at George Lawrence, but at Miss Pembroke.

“You knew of this?” he said.

“I feared it,” replied Janet, and I think she would not have spoken but for those impelling eyes upon her. “I remember George was out one evening when he was living here, and I thoughtlessly put the chain on the door and went to bed. The next morning, when I found that he had let himself in in some way, I wondered at it, but concluded that I must have been mistaken, and had not put the chain on. But I had noticed myself that the slot was sprung at this end, and I had been thinking that I would get a new and heavier chain bolt.”

My first thought was that Janet’s puzzling demeanor was now explained, and I understood why she had so readily accepted my services. She had suspected George from the first, because she knew that with his latch-key and the defective chain-lock he could make his entrance. But his perfect alibi had deceived her, and relieved her fear, so that she was glad or sad according as his alibi was sustained or doubted. Janet’s evidence, of course, left no doubt as to George’s guilt.

He saw this himself, and, seemingly at the end of his resources, he exclaimed: “It’s no use. I may as well confess. I did kill Uncle Robert, but it was not premeditated, or, at least, not until a few moments before the deed. I want to make my confession to my cousin. I owe it to no one else.”

But although Lawrence said this, he never once moved his eyes from Fleming Stone’s face, and seemed really to make his confession to him.

“It was a violet pin I used, not a hat-pin. I—I had it, by accident, in my coat lapel all Wednesday afternoon at the matinée. On account of disastrous losses in Wall Street that morning, I had determined to kill myself. I’m not of much account, any way, and I was desperate. I knew Uncle Robert would give me no money to repay my stock losses, for he always thought speculation no better than any other sort of gambling—and it isn’t. As I sat in the theatre, unconsciously my fingers trifled with the pin, and I conceived a notion of using that to take my own life, instead of a revolver. I went home to dress for dinner, and, still having the pin in my mind, I transferred it from my frock coat to my evening coat. As I stood looking at it while in my room, it occurred to me that were it not for the head of the pin I might push it into my flesh so far as to hide it. It would then be assumed, I thought, that I had died a natural death, and both the family and my memory would be saved the stigma of suicide. Acting on this thought, I laid the pin on the hearthstone and crushed off its glass head with my heel. Without definite intention as to when or where I should carry out my plan, I put the pin in my coat and went on to Miss Waring’s dinner. It was as I sat at the dinner table, and looked around at other men of my own age and class, that I suddenly realized I did not want to give up a life which held promise of many years of pleasure, could I but tide over my financial troubles. I knew, too, that at Uncle Robert’s death I should inherit enough to make good my losses, and an ample fortune besides. It was then, I think, that the thought came to me, why should not Uncle Robert die instead of myself? He was old, he had no joy in life, he made my cousin’s life a burden to her, and his death would free us both from his tyranny. I’m not saying this by way of excuse or palliation, but simply to tell you how it occurred. Like a flash I realized that if my own death by means of the headless pin might be attributed to natural causes, the same would be true of Uncle Robert’s death. I knew I could get into the apartment in the same way I had done before, and I knew, too, that as the chain slot was even more pulled out of shape now than it was then, I could with some manipulation replace the chain before closing the door. I think I need not say that I had no thought of implicating my cousin, for I had no thought of the pin being discovered. The idea obsessed me. The deed seemed inevitable. My brain was especially active, and planned the details with almost superhuman ingenuity. I left Miss Waring’s at eleven o’clock, calling her attention to the fact purposely. I walked over here rather slowly, planning as I walked. I resolved, as Mr. Stone has remarked, to leave a misleading clue or two behind me. I searched the pavement as I walked, for something that would answer my purpose, and was surprised to see how little may be gleaned along a New York street. I found the two ticket stubs, evidently thrown away by someone, and put them in my pocket. Near here, less than two blocks away, I saw a shining object on the sidewalk, and picked up a key, which I was more than surprised to have traced to Mr. Leroy. I suppose he dropped it when he was hanging around here, beneath my cousin’s window, on his way to the midnight train. I then came on to this house, and, after loitering about a minute in the street, I saw the elevator begin to rise. The main front door is always open, and I came in and walked upstairs. It is easy to evade the elevator, even if it passes. On the stairs I found the time-table. And then I came—”

Lawrence stopped. Even his hardy bravado and indomitable will gave way before the picture that now came into his mind. His swaggering narrative ceased. His eyes fell, his mouth drooped, and he seemed on the verge of collapse.

Fleming Stone’s quiet, even voice broke the silence. “And the handkerchief?” he said.

“It came in my laundry, by mistake,” answered Lawrence, and he spoke like an automaton, his intelligence seeming to hang on the will of Fleming Stone.

“You brought it with you on purpose?”

“No; not that. When I left home my plans were entirely different, as I have told you. But I picked up the handkerchief hastily, and though noticing it was not my own, I thrust it into my pocket without thinking much about it.”

“And then when you wanted evidence to incriminate some one other than yourself, you thought of those unknown initials, and flung the handkerchief on the bed.”

“Yes,” said Lawrence, still as if hypnotized by Stone’s compelling glance.

“And afterwards—?”

“Afterwards—afterwards—I went out and got downstairs the same way, having waited until the elevator was on the floor above. I felt like a man in a dream, but I knew that now I must establish my alibi. This I did exactly as Mr. Stone has described. I took great chances in tampering with the office clock, but I knew the boy to be of a stupid, dull-witted type, and, too, he was always half asleep during night hours. Again I watched my chance to elude the elevator, and slipped downstairs later to set the clock right again. I suppose I overdid it in asking the boy the time twice, and also in drawing attention to the clock when it struck eleven.”

“That is so,” said Fleming Stone. “A perfect alibi is not possible unless it is a true one, and then it proves itself without any effort of anybody.”

* * * *

But all this happened many years ago. It is indeed a painful memory, but time has blended away its poignancy. George Lawrence was arrested, but found the means to take his own life before his trial could be begun. Janet being left with a large fortune, went abroad at once and Laura accompanied her. The two became close friends, and when, some months later, I joined them in Italy, the course of true love began to run smoothly, and has continued to do so ever since.

Nor has it been difficult to understand Janet. For all queerness and contradictoriness disappeared after the mystery was solved. It was all because she suspected her cousin that she had endeavored to suppress any evidence that might throw suspicion toward him. He had asked her to get money for him from Robert Pembroke. She had asked her uncle for this, and he had told her that if she’d marry Leroy, he would give her not only the money she asked for, but much more. Knowing, as she did, of the defective bolt, she knew there was grave reason to suspect George both of murder and robbery. But once convinced of his alibi, she hoped the guilt might be placed elsewhere.

Also, of course, the life she led with her erratic and ill-tempered uncle affected her spirits, and made her lose temporarily the joyful and happy disposition that was really her own, and that was permanently restored after new scenes and new friends had caused her to forget the dreadful past.

Janet has been my wife for many years now, and, though we live in New York, our home is far removed from the Hammersleigh; and though our door is securely locked, we have never had it guarded by what was to Fleming Stone a chain of evidence.