THE CURVED BLADES (1915, a Fleming Stone mystery)

CHAPTER I

MISS LUCY CARRINGTON

“Garden Steps” was one of the show-places of Merivale Park, Long Island. In summer it was an enchanting spot, and the dazzling white marble steps which led to the sunken gardens justified their right to give the place its name. Other stone steps gave on terraces and flower banks, others still led to the Italian landscape gardens, and a few rustic steps of a wooden stile transported one to an old-fashioned garden, whose larkspur and Canterbury bells were the finest of their sort.

The house seemed an integral part of this setting. Its wide verandahs, or more often loggias, were so lavishly furnished with flowering plants, its windows so boxed with them, that the whole effect was that of a marvellously well-planned horticultural exhibition.

But all this was of the summer. In winter—for it was an all-round-the-year home—only the varied and extraordinary collection of evergreens shared with the steps the honor of making picturesque and beautiful the view from the house windows.

And now, in January, one of the all too seldom enjoyed white snow storms had glorified the whole estate. Wind-swept drifts half hid, half disclosed the curving marble balustrades, and turned the steps to snowy fairyland flights.

And, for it was night, a cold, dear, perfect winter night, a supercilious moon looked down, a little haughtily and condescended to illumine the scene in stunning, if a bit theatric, fashion.

“Ripping picture, eh?” said Gray Haviland, as he held back the heavy curtain for the golden-haired young woman at his side to look out.

“Oh, isn’t it a wonderful sight!” And as Anita Frayne took a step forward, toward the casement, Haviland let the curtain fall behind him and the two were alone in the deep embrasure of the wide bay-window.

“Not nearly such a wonderful sight as you are!” Haviland swung her round to face him, and stood gazing at the pretty, doll-like face that half laughed, half frowned into his own.

“Me! I’m not like a moonlit landscape!”

“No, you’re just a golden morsel of summer sunshine—” Haviland’s eulogy was interrupted by a petulant voice calling shrilly:

“Where are you two? I hear you talking; come on. I’m waiting.”

“Oh, Lord! come on,” and, holding the curtain aside, he let Anita pass and then followed her.

“Here we are, Cousin Lucy, all ready for the fray. Good evening, Count.”

Count Charlier bowed Frenchily, and Anita gave him the bright, flashing smile that she kept on hand for mankind in general, and which was quite different from that she used on special occasions or for special friends.

Annoyed at the duration of this delaying smile, Miss Lucy Carrington tapped impatiently on the bridge table, and looked her impatience most unmistakably.

Mistress of Garden Steps, wealthy, well-born, of assured social position, capable and efficient, Miss Carrington lacked the one gift of Fate for which she would have bartered all else. She was not beautiful, and had not even enough pretension to good looks to think herself beautiful. Plain features, graying hair—dyed red—big, prominent light-blue eyes, and a pasty, pudgy complexion left no hope for the miracles worked by beauty doctors to avail in her case. Her figure was short and dumpy, the despair of her staymakers, and her taste in dress ran to the extremes in coloring and fashion.

Passionately fond of all beauty, Miss Carrington felt keenly her own lack of it, and to this lack she attributed the fact that she was a spinster. Those who knew her felt there might be other reasons why her suitors had been few, but, as a matter of fact, the acidity of her disposition was a direct result of her disappointed, loveless life, and even yet, though nearing fifty, Miss Lucy Carrington had by no means laid aside all thoughts of matrimonial adventure.

Heiress to immense wealth, there had been fortune-seekers who asked her hand, but Lucy Carrington would none of these. Aristocratic and high-minded, she had unerring perception of motives, and the men who had been willing to marry her face as well as her fortune had been of such unworth that the lady scorned them.

But now, looming on her hopes’ horizon was a welcome possibility. Count Henri Charlier, a visitor of a neighbor, seemingly admired the mistress of Garden Steps and had fallen into the habit of frequent calling. Courteous and polished of manner, he flattered Miss Carrington in such wise that his attitude was acceptable if not indubitably sincere. Her closest scrutiny and most challenging provocation failed to surprise any admission of her lack of perfection in his eyes, and his splendid physique and brilliant mind commanded her complete approval and admiration. There had been hints that his title could not be read entirely clear, but this was not sufficient to condemn him in Miss Carrington’s eyes.

To be sure, the Count had as yet said no word that could be construed as of definite intention, but there had been certain signs, deemed portentous by the willing mind of the lady in question.

Bridge was Miss Carrington’s favorite diversion, and, as the Count also enjoyed it, frequent evenings were devoted to the game.

It was, perhaps, a mistake that Miss Carrington should have allowed this, for her temper, always uncertain, lost all restraint when she suffered ill-luck at cards. A poor hand always brought down violent objurgation on the head of her partner and sarcastic comment or criticism on her adversaries. These exhibitions of wrath were not good policy if she wished to charm the French visitor, but, as he invariably kept his own temper, his irate hostess made little effort to curb hers.

“What are you doing, Anita?” cried Miss Carrington, petulantly, as they settled themselves at the table. “You know I always play with the blue cards, and you are dealing them!”

“Sure enough! Pardon me, Lady Lucy, I will take the red ones.”

“Then, pray, wait till I make them up. There. No, let the Count cut them! Have you no notion of bridge rules? You are quite the most inattentive player! Will you kindly concentrate on the game?”

“Yes, indeed,” and Anita Frayne smiled as she deftly dealt the red cards. “I hope you have a good hand.”

“You hope I have a good hand! A strange idea for an adversary!”

“But I know you like to win,” and Miss Frayne hastily gathered up her own cards.

“I do not like to have you want me to win! That’s babyish. I like to win by superior skill, not merely by lucky cards!”

This was an awful whopper, and all at the table knew it, but it was ignored and the game began.

Miss Carrington—Lady Lucy, as she liked to be called—did not hold good hands. On the contrary, she had a run of bad luck that made her more and more irate with each hand dealt. Miss Frayne, who was her protégée and social secretary, watched with growing apprehension the red spots that appeared in Miss Carrington’s cheeks, infallible danger signals of an impending outbreak.

It came.

“Another handful of blanks!” Miss Carrington exclaimed, angrily, and flung the offending thirteen cards across the wide room.

“There now, Cousin Lucy,” said Gray Haviland, determined to keep the peace if possible, “that was a clever idea! It will certainly change your luck! I’ll collect the pasteboards, and we’ll start fresh.”

Easily, the big, good-looking young chap sauntered across the room and gathered up the cards, chatting meanwhile. “You don’t lose your deal, you know; so try again, Cousin Lucy, and good luck to you!”

In angry silence Miss Carrington dealt again, and examined her hand. “Nothing above a nine spot!” she declared, throwing them, backs up, on the table.

“Too bad!” murmured Miss Frayne, carelessly picking up the hand. “Why, you didn’t look closely! Here’s an ace and two queens and—”

“They’re nothing! How dare you dispute my word? I say the hand is worthless!” She fairly snatched the cards from the girl and turned them face down again.

“But mad’moiselle,” began the Count, “if you have an ace and two queens, I could have played a no-trump hand grand—ah, splendid!”

“Yes, you could have played it! You want to play all the open hands! You want me to sit here a dummy, a figure-head, every time!”

“Now, now, Lady Lucy—” and Anita Frayne laughed pleasantly.

“Be quiet! You’re worse yet! You want to deal me good hands to humor me! I believe you would cheat to do it! I don’t want good cards that way!”

“Ah,” begged the Count, seeing Anita flush, “do not tell the young lady she cheats! Do not do that!”

“I’ll tell her what I choose! Gray, say something! You sit there like a mummy, while these people are insulting me right and left! Tell Anita that I am right in not wishing her to deal me good cards purposely.”

“But she didn’t,” declared Haviland; “you know she didn’t. Why, she couldn’t, even if she wanted to!”

“Oh, yes, she could!” and Miss Carrington gave a disagreeable sneer. “She’s quite clever enough for any deceit or treachery.”

“Stop, Cousin Lucy! I can’t let you talk so about Miss Frayne in my presence!”

“Oh, you can’t, can’t you? And, pray, what right have you to defend her? Go away, both of you! I’ll play with you no longer. Go away and send Pauline and Mr. Illsley in here. They, at least, will play fair.”

Anita Frayne rose without a word. Haviland rose too, but talking volubly. “Let up, Cousin Lucy,” he said sternly. “You’ve no right to treat Miss Frayne so. You ought to apologize to her for such rudeness.”

“Apologize!” Miss Carrington fairly shrieked; “she’ll do the apologizing, and you, too, my foolish young cousin. You little know what’s going to happen to me! To-morrow you may sing another song!”

Haviland looked at her in astonishment; the Count, thoughtfully. The same idea was in both their minds. Could she mean that she was expecting the Count to propose to her that evening?

“Nothing nice can happen to you unless you learn to control that temper of yours,” and Haviland swung away after Anita.

He found her in the next room, nestled in the corner of a big davenport, weeping into a sympathetic sofa-cushion.

“Go and find the others,” she whispered, as he came near her. “Make them go and play with her!”

Obediently, Haviland went. In the glassed sun-parlor he found Pauline Stuart, Miss Carrington’s niece, and Stephen Illsley, one of the most favored of Pauline’s many suitors.

“For goodness’ sake, people,” he began, “do go and play bridge with the Lady of the Manor! She’s in a peach of a fury, and you’ll have to take your life in your hands, but go!”

“I won’t,” said Pauline, bluntly; “It’s Anita’s turn to-night. She said she’d do it.”

“She did! But she came off second best, and she’s weeping buckets on the best Empire embroidery sofa-cushions! I’m going to comfort her, but you must go and keep the gentle Lucy from pulling the house down about our ears! She’s sure queering herself with his nibs! He can’t admire her sweet, flower-like soul after this night’s exhibition.”

“I don’t want to go a bit, but I suppose we’ll have to,” and Pauline smiled at her guest.

“Oh, go on,” said Haviland, as he turned to leave them; “and, for Heaven’s sake, give her all the good cards. Can you manage that, Illsley?”

“I am afraid not. Her eyes are too sharp.”

“Well, if her luck stays bad, get her to play mumble-peg or something, instead of bridge.”

Haviland disappeared and Pauline rose unwillingly. “I do so hate to play with Aunt Lucy,” she said, “but it must be done. Are you willing to sacrifice yourself?”

“For you? Always!” And the two went to the cardroom.

Pauline Stuart, tall, dark, graceful, was a striking-looking girl. Only twenty-four, she carried herself with the dignity and poise of a duchess, and her heavy, dark brows gave her face an expression of strength and will-power that contrasted forcibly with the delicate Dresden china beauty of Anita Frayne. The two girls were not especially friendly, though never definitely at odds. Anita was envious of the more fortunate Pauline. The latter, Miss Carrington’s niece, would inherit a goodly part of her aunt’s large fortune, while the humble position of the secretary commanded only a liberal, not munificent, salary.

The girls, however, were at one in their dread of Miss Lucy’s ebullitions of temper and their resentment of the biting sarcasms and angry diatribes she flung at them in her frequent spasms of fury.

Illsley, a well-set-up chap of good address, followed Pauline into her aunt’s presence.

“You waited long enough,” grumbled Miss Carrington. “Sit down. It’s your deal now, Pauline.”

Matters went well for a time. Miss Lucy held good cards, and once or twice she triumphed through a mistake of her adversaries, which she fortunately did not discover was made on purpose.

Count Charlier’s little bright black eyes darted inquiringly from aunt to niece, but he made no comment. All four played well, and when at last Miss Carrington made a grand slam her joy was effervescent.

“Good play,” she flattered herself. “You must admit, Count, that it was clever of me to take that difficult finesse just at that critical point.”

“Clever indeed, mademoiselle. You have the analytical mind; you should have been a diplomat. Also, Fortune favors you. You are beloved of the fickle goddess.”

“Let us hope so,” and for a moment Miss Carrington looked grave.

And then, with the perversity of that same goddess, the card luck changed. Pauline and Illsley held all the high cards, Miss Lucy and the Count only the low ones.

Storm signals showed. Whiter grew the stern, set face; tighter drew the thin, wide lips; and rigid muscles set themselves in the angry, swelling throat. Then, as she scanned a hand of cards, all below the ten, again they went in a shower across the room, and she cried, angrily: “A Yarborough!” reverting to the old-fashioned term.

“Never mind, Aunt Lucy,” and Pauline tried to laugh it off; “this is not your lucky night. Let’s give up bridge for to-night. Let’s have some music.”

“Yes! because you love music and hate bridge! It makes no difference what I want. My wishes are never considered. You and Anita are just alike! Selfish, ungrateful, caring for nothing but your own pleasure. Mr. Illsley, don’t you think young girls should pay some slight attention to the wishes of one who does everything for them? Where would either of them be but for me? Are you not sorry for me?”

“Why—I—you must excuse me, I am not sure I understand—”

“Yes, you understand, perfectly well. You know the girls slight me and snub me every chance they get. But it will not always be thus. To-morrow—”

“Come, Aunt Lucy,” pleaded Pauline, “let us have some music. You know there are some new records, just arrived to-day. Let us hear them.”

“Are there new records? Did you get the ones I wanted?”

“Some of them. We couldn’t get them all.”

“Oh, no, of course not! But if you had wanted certain records they would have been found!”

“But, Auntie Lucy, we couldn’t get them if they aren’t made, could we? Gray tried his best.”

“Oh, tried his best! He forgot to ask for them, so he says he ‘tried his best,’ to excuse his carelessness. If Anita had wanted them—”

The starting of the music drowned further flow of the lady’s grievances.

CHAPTER II

A CLASH OF TONGUES

True to its reputation for calming the impulses of the turbulent spirit, the music soothed Miss Carrington’s ruffled temper, and she waxed amiable and even gay. Enthroned on her favorite red velvet chair, resplendent in an elaborately decorated gown of sapphire blue satin, with her bright auburn locks piled high and topped by an enormous comb of carved tortoise-shell, she dominated the little group and gave orders that must be obeyed.

She wore, among other jewels, a magnificent rope of pearls. So remarkable were these, that the Count, who had never seen them before, ventured to refer to them.

“Yes,” agreed Miss Carrington, “they are wonderful. Practically priceless, I assure you. It took my agent years to collect them.”

“And you grace an informal home evening with these regal gems?”

“Not usually, no. But you know, Count Charlier, pearls must be worn frequently to preserve their lustre. Laid away a long time, they grow dead and dull-looking.”

“You keep them here? Is it safe, think you?”

“I don’t keep them here all the time. Indeed, I got these from the Safe Deposit only this morning. I shall return them there in a few days. While here, I shall wear them all I can to liven them up.”

“You brought a lot of your other jewels, didn’t you, Aunt Lucy?” said Pauline, casually; “why did you? Are you going to a ball?”

“No: I wish to—to look them over and plan to have some reset.”

“But are they safe?” inquired the Count again; “do you not fear thieves?”

“No, we never have such things as robbery in Merivale Park. It is a quiet, well-behaved neighborhood.”

“But you have a safe?” went on the Count; “you take at least that precaution?”

“Oh, yes, I have a safe in my boudoir. There is really no danger. Count Charlier, would you like to hear me sing? Find one of my records, Gray.”

Miss Carrington’s singing voice had been a fine one and was still fair. She sometimes amused herself by making records for her phonograph, and Gray Haviland managed the mechanical part of it.

“Which one, Lady Lucy?” he asked, as he rummaged in the record cabinet.

“Any of those pretty love songs,” and Miss Carrington glanced coyly at the Count.

“Here’s a fine one,” and Haviland placed a disk in the machine.

“Listen,” he said, smiling; “don’t miss the introduction.”

The needle touched the record, and Miss Lucy’s laugh rang out, so clear and true, it was difficult to believe it was a recorded laugh and not a sound from the lady herself. Then the recorded voice said: “This song is one of Carr’s favorites, I’ll sing it for him.” And then, with only a few seconds’ interval, Miss Carrington’s voice sang, “Believe me, if all those endearing young charms.”

It was well sung, and a perfect record, so that the incident of the singer listening to her own voice was interesting in itself.

“Capital!” applauded the Count, as it was finished. “It is indeed pleasant to preserve one’s songs thus. May I not some time record my own amateur attempt?”

“Delighted to have you, Count,” said Haviland, cordially. “Come over some morning, and we’ll do up a lot of records.”

“Since when have you been master here, Gray?” said Miss Lucy, with fine scorn. “I will give the invitations to my own house, if you please! Count Charlier, if you will come to-morrow afternoon I will instruct Mr. Haviland to make the records.”

It was not so much the words as the manner of their utterance that was offensive, and Haviland set his lips in stifled anger. It was not at all unusual, this sort of rebuff, but he could not endure it as patiently as the two girls did. Haviland was a second cousin of Miss Carrington, and, while he lived with her in the capacity of a business secretary and general man of affairs, the post was a sinecure, for the services of her lawyer and of her social secretary left little for Haviland to do. His salary was a generous one and he was substantially remembered in her will, but he sometimes thought the annoying and irritating fleers he had to accept smilingly, were worth more than he was receiving. He was continually made to feel himself a dependent and an inferior.

These trials also fell to the lot of the two girls. Pauline, although her aunt’s heiress to the extent of half the fortune, the other half to go to an absent cousin, was by no means treated as an equal of Miss Carrington herself. It seemed to give the elder lady delight to domineer over her niece and in every possible way make her life uneasy and uncomfortable. As to the social secretary, Miss Frayne, she was scolded for everything she did, right or wrong.

Often had the three young people declared intentions of leaving Garden Steps, but so far none of them had made good the threat.

Vanity was the key-note of Lucy Carrington’s nature, and, knowing this, they could, if they chose, keep her fairly sweet-tempered by inordinate flattery often administered. This proceeding hurt their self-respect, jarred their tempers, and galled their very souls, but it was that or dismissal, and thus far they had stayed. Matters were nearing a crisis, however, and Haviland’s patience was so sorely strained that he was secretly looking for another position. Anita Frayne, whose pretty blonde doll-face belied a very fiery disposition, was on the verge of a serious break with her employer, and Pauline Stuart continually assured herself that she could not go on this way.

Pauline was the orphaned daughter of Lucy’s sister, and had lived with her aunt for many years. Carrington Loria, the son of another sister, was engaged in antiquarian research in Egypt, where he had been since his graduation as an engineer. He, too, was an orphan and had lived with Lucy in his younger days, and he and Pauline were equal heirs to their aunt’s wealth.

The father of the three Carrington sisters, having become angered at his two daughters who married against his wishes, had left his entire fortune to Lucy, his only remaining child. Thus her niece and nephew were her only direct heirs, and, save for some comparatively small bequests, the Carrington estate would eventually be theirs.

Pauline well knew that if she left her aunt’s roof it meant complete disinheritance, for Lucy Carrington was proud of her beautiful niece, and, too, was fond of her in her own way. But the ungovernable temper of the lady made her home an almost unbearable abiding-place.

Since childhood years Carrington Loria had lived there only during his college vacations; but had been back occasionally for short visits from his now permanent Egyptian occupation. He had always come laden with gifts of Oriental products, and the rooms at Garden Steps showed many rare specimens of cunning handiwork and rich fabrics and embroideries.

To break the awkward pause that followed Miss Carrington’s rude speech to Gray Haviland, Pauline picked up an antique scarab from a side table and drew the Count’s attention to its inscription.

He expressed a polite interest, but cast furtive glances at his hostess, as if afraid of a further outbreak.

Nor were his fears unjustified. Miss Carrington administered a scathing reproach to Pauline for intruding herself upon the Count’s attention, and bade her put aside the scarab and hold her tongue.

“Don’t speak to me like that, Aunt Lucy; I am not a child!” And Pauline, unable to control herself longer, faced her angry aunt with an air of righteous wrath.

“I’ll speak to you as I choose, miss! It is for you to mend your tone in addressing me! If you don’t, you may have cause to regret it. Count Charlier came here to see me, and I refuse to countenance your clumsy attempts to engage his interest in your silly babble!”

“But—I insist—” stammered the greatly embarrassed Count, “allow me, madame, let me say, I call on you all—all—”

“Nothing of the sort!” declared Miss Lucy; “you came, Count, to play bridge with us. Our opponents behaved so rudely and played so badly it was impossible for us to continue the game. Nor can we enjoy music in this inharmonious atmosphere. Let us stroll in the conservatory, you and I.”

She rose, trailing her heavy silks and flashing her sparkling jewels, and the Count, a little hesitatingly, followed her. They crossed the great hall, and, going through a reception room and the delightful sun-parlor, came to the warm, heavily-scented conservatory.

“Poor old Charlier!” said Haviland, as the pair disappeared; “he’s in for it now! Do you suppose the palms and orchids will bring him up to the scratch? ’Nita, I’ll bet you a box of gloves against a box of simple little cigarettes that he doesn’t propose to the lady to-night?”

“Done!” cried Miss Frayne, who was sparkling again, now that the dread presence was removed. “I doubt he can help himself. She has him at her mercy. And he’s too good-mannered to disappoint her wish.”

“He’ll propose,” said Pauline, with an air of conviction. “He’s a typical fortune-hunter, that man. Indeed, I am not sure he’s a Count at all. Do you know, Mr. Illsley?”

“I know almost nothing of the man, save that he’s a guest of the Frothinghams. That’s not entirely in his favor, I think.”

“Right you are!” agreed Haviland. “Those people are—well, they’re to be queried. But I say, Polly, if the two do hit it off, it’s grinding poverty for us, eh?”

“It may be a blessed relief, Gray. She’ll give us something, of course, and send us away from here. I, for one, shouldn’t be sorry to go. She is getting too impossible!”

“She is!” put in Anita; “every day she pounds us worse! I’d like to kill her!”

The fierce words and would-be menacing glance of the little blonde beauty were about as convincing as a kitten declaring himself a war lord, and even the stately Pauline smiled at the picture.

“She ought to be killed,” declared Haviland, “and I say this dispassionately. I wouldn’t do it, because killing is not in my line, but the eternal fitness of things requires her removal to another sphere of usefulness. She makes life a burden to three perfectly good people, and some several servants. Not one would mourn her, and—”

“Oh, stop, Gray!” cried Pauline; “don’t talk in that strain! Don’t listen to him, Mr. Illsley. He often says such things, but he doesn’t mean them. Mr. Haviland loves to talk at random, to make a sensational hearing.”

“Nothing of the sort, Polly. I do mean it. Lucy Carrington is a misery dispenser, and such are not wanted in this nice little old world.”

“But perhaps,” Pauline looked thoughtful, “the fault is in us. We don’t like her, and so we see nothing good in what she does. Now, Carrington Loria adores her. She had a letter from him to-day—”

“Yes, Loria adores her!” interrupted Haviland, “because he doesn’t live with her! She sends him love-letters and money, and he doesn’t know the everlasting torture of living under her roof, year in and year out! But he caught on a little the last time he was here. He said—well, in his quaint Oriental fashion, he said, ‘Gee! she’s the limit!’ that’s what he said.”

“Well, she is,” pouted Anita. “I can’t do a thing to suit her. To-day I wrote a letter over six times before she was satisfied. And every change she wanted made was so foolish she wanted it changed back again. She nearly drove me crazy!”

“But I have to put up with her morning, noon, and night,” sighed Pauline. “You have your hours off, Anita, but I never do. She even wakens me in the night to read to her, or to help her plan her new gowns.”

“It is awfully hard for you,” began Mr. Illsley, and then all stopped short, for the object of their discussion returned to the room.

It was plain to be seen Miss Carrington was in a state of suppressed excitement. She giggled almost hysterically, and tapped the Count playfully on the arm with her fan, as she bade him say good-night and go.

The interested ones watching her could not learn whether the Count had declared himself or not. The presumption was negative, for, had he done so, surely Miss Carrington would have told the good news.

Charlier himself was distinctly non-committal. Debonair as always, he made his adieux, no more demonstrative to his hostess than to the others, and went away. Illsley followed, and the household dispersed. The clock struck midnight as the ladies went upstairs.

Following custom, they all three went to Miss Lucy’s boudoir. It was by way of reporting for to-morrow’s orders, and was a duty never neglected.

The exquisite apartment, from which opened the bedroom and bath, was softly lighted and fragrant with flowers.

“How do you like Count Henri Charlier?” Miss Carrington quickly demanded of her satellites.

“Charming,” said the voluble Anita. “Just a typical French nobleman, isn’t he? And how he adores our Lady Lucy!”

The whole speech rang false, but the vanity of the lady addressed swallowed it as truest sincerity. “Yes,” she returned, “he is infatuated, I have reason to think. But—we shall see what we shall see! Curb your impatience, girls! You shall know all in due time.”

“Can I do anything for you, Auntie, to-night or to-morrow?” asked Pauline, and, though she tried to speak with enthusiasm, her tone did sound perfunctory.

“Not if you offer in that manner,” and Miss Carrington looked at her niece coldly. “One would think, Pauline, that it must be an irksome task to do the smallest favor for your aunt and benefactor! Do you feel no pleasure in doing what trifles you can for one who does everything for you?”

“I would feel a pleasure, Aunt Lucy, if you were kinder to me. But—”

“Kinder!” shrieked her aunt; “kinder! Girl, have you taken leave of your senses? I give you a home, fine dresses, money, everything you can want, and you ask me to be kinder to you! Go! never let me see you again, after that speech!”

“Oh, auntie, don’t! I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean to exasperate me beyond endurance? No, of course you meant to stop short of that! But you have done it. I mean this, Pauline: to-morrow you go elsewhere to live. No longer will I give a home to such a monster of ingratitude!”

“But, Miss Carrington”—and Anita Frayne’s soft voice implored gently—“don’t be hasty. Pauline didn’t mean—”

“What!” and Lucy Carrington turned on her, “you take her part? Then you go, too! I want no ingrates here. Leave me, both of you. This night is your last beneath this roof! You are two unworthy girls, to scorn and slight the hand that has fed and clothed you and given you luxury and comfort such as you will never see again! Go, I’ve done with you! Send me Estelle. She, at least, has some small affection for me.”

The two girls left the room. The scene was not without precedent. Before this they had been ordered to leave the house forever, but always forgiveness and reinstatement had followed. This time, however, the Lady Lucy had been rather more in earnest, and the girls looked at each other uncertainly as they turned toward their rooms.

Anita summoned Estelle, the French maid, and then told her to hasten immediately to Miss Carrington.

“Don’t undress me,” said the mistress as the maid appeared; “I’m not retiring at once. Get me out of this gown and give me a negligée and slippers.”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” and Estelle deftly obeyed orders and brought a white boudoir gown edged with swans-down.

“Not that!” cried Miss Carrington. “Bring the gold-embroidered one—the Oriental.”

“Ah, the green one, from Monsieur Loria?”

“Yes, the one my nephew sent me at Christmas time. My, but it’s handsome, isn’t it, Estelle?”

“Gorgeous!” declared the maid, and she spoke truly. Young Loria knew his aunt’s taste, and he had sent her a typical Egyptian robe, of pale green silk, heavy with gold embroideries. In it Miss Carrington looked like one attired for a masquerade.

“Shall I take down mademoiselle’s hair?” asked Estelle, lingering.

“No. I want to be alone. I will read awhile. You need not return. I will do for myself.”

“There is your glass of milk, ma’mzelle, on the bed-table.”

“Silly! I suppose I can see it for myself.”

“Yes, ma’am. And you will have your tea at eight in the morning?”

“Of course, my tea at eight. As always. You might remember that much yourself. But nobody remembers things for my comfort.”

“Pardon, but sometimes it is eight, and, again, it must be half-past.”

“Eight! Now, will you go? You are most exasperating! Why do you stand there like a gibbering idiot?”

“The jewels, mademoiselle; the pearls? Shall I not put them in safety?”

“No! I will put them in the safe myself. Where is the key?”

“There, mademoiselle, on your dresser. But if I might—”

“You mayn’t do anything except to get out and stay out! Do you hear? Shall I never be obeyed?”

“Yes, mademoiselle; good-night.”

The soft tone was fully belied by the evil glare of the French girl’s eyes, but that was not seen by Miss Lucy Carrington.

CHAPTER III

THE TRAGEDY

The house faced the east, and, built on an English model, was far wider than deep. A broad hall ran through the centre from front to back, and on either side there were successive rooms whose windows looked out on equally beautiful scenes, both front and back. On the right of the hall, as one entered, was the long living room, and beyond it, the library and music room. The other side of the hall was a reception room, opening into the sun parlor, and on to the conservatory, and back of these, the dining room and smaller breakfast room.

Breakfast was served at nine, and the members of the family were usually all present. Miss Carrington, herself, made a point of being on time partly from habit, and also because it gave her opportunity to chide those who were late.

When she was not in her place, on the morning after the stormy bridge game, Pauline expressed surprise, and Haviland echoed her words.

But Anita said scornfully, “She went to bed in an awful tantrum and probably didn’t sleep well.”

Miss Frayne was looking her prettiest, and her roseleaf face with its fluffy golden halo, was like a Greuze picture. She wore a frivolous little house gown of blue crêpe de chine that just matched her forget-me-not eyes. Not especially appropriate garb for a secretary, but Miss Carrington preferred her household to be well-dressed, and really commanded pretty tints and fabrics for the two girls. Pauline was in white serge, of rather severe cut, but which suited her as no frills and flounces could. Her black hair was smoothly parted and coiled low over her ears, and her clear ivory-tinted skin was flushed faintly pink from the glow of the big, crackling wood fire.

“It’s most unusual,” went on Pauline, after a few moments more had passed, and the Lady Lucy had not appeared. “I’m going up to see if she is ill—or—”

“Or merely in a tantrum extraordinary!” said Anita, her blue eyes full of laughing disrespect for her employer.

“’Nita,” said Haviland, as Pauline disappeared, “hold your breakfast napkin up in front of your face, quick!”

“Why?” said the girl, wonderingly, as she did his bidding.

“Because, if you hadn’t, I should have flown at you and kissed you! And I mustn’t now, for Haskins is approaching with muffins.”

Down came the shielding napkin and only the arrival of the muffin-laden Haskins saved the lovely laughing face from Haviland’s impetuous caress.

The old butler fussed about, and several minutes passed, when Pauline called from above stairs, “Gray! Come here, at once!”

“Desperate case!” and Haviland rose, and unhurriedly left the room, pinching Anita’s little ear as he passed her.

Another moment and Miss Frayne heard an exclamation from Haviland that made her rise from the table and go flying upstairs herself.

The door of Miss Lucy’s boudoir was open, and entering, she saw Pauline and Haviland with horror-stricken faces, gazing at a terrible sight.

Miss Lucy Carrington, seated before her dressing-table, her face white and ghastly, her large eyes staring wide—staring horribly—but, without doubt, unseeing. Nor was this all of the strangeness of the sight. She was robed in an embroidered Oriental-looking gown, and wore many jewels. Her red-dyed hair, dressed elaborately, as she had worn it the night before, was still crowned with the enormous comb of carved tortoise-shell, but the comb was broken to bits. One portion, still standing upright, rose above the disordered coiffure, but the rest, in broken scraps, lay scattered over the puffs of hair—over the white hands clasped in her lap—and on the floor at her feet.

“What does it mean?” whispered Anita, shuddering, “is she—is she dead?”

“Yes,” answered Haviland, briefly. He stood, hands in pockets, gazing at the startling figure.

“Who?—What?—” Anita’s eyes riveted themselves on something else.

Around the neck of Miss Lucy was—yes, it was—a snake!

With a low scream, Anita flung herself into Haviland’s arms, but he put her gently away from him.

Aghast at this repulse, Anita put her hand across her eyes and turned to leave the room.

“Mind where you go, ’Nita!” called out Haviland, and the girl stopped just in time to save herself from stepping into a mass of débris.

“Why!” she cried, “why, it’s Miss Lucy’s tray!”

It was. The silver tray that had held the breakfast tea was on the floor, and near it a jumbled heap of silver and broken china that had once been a costly Sevres set. Dainty white serviettes were stained with the spilled tea and a huge wet spot was near the overturned silver teapot.

Hastily Anita ran from the room, but she sank down on a couch in the hall just outside the door, utterly unable to go further.

Fascinated by the beady eyes of the green snake, Pauline stared at it, with clenched hands. Haviland stepped nearer and lightly touched it.

“Is it—is it alive?” gasped Pauline.

“It’s paper,” replied Haviland quietly. “A paper snake, a toy—you know.”

“But who put it there? Aunt Lucy is deathly afraid of snakes! Did fright kill her? Gray, is she—murdered?”

“Yes, Pauline, she has been killed. But could it be—fright? Impossible!”

“Not for her! You don’t know her horror of snakes. Why, going through the Japanese department of a shop, I’ve seen her turn white and fairly fly from the counter where those paper things were displayed.”

“But what else killed her? There is no wound, no shot, no blood.”

“Get the doctor, Gray! Don’t wait a minute. Telephone at once.”

“He can do nothing, Pauline. She is dead.” Haviland spoke like a man in a daze.

“But no matter, we must call him. Shall I?”

“No, I will.”

“Go into her bedroom—use that telephone by her bedside.”

Obediently, Haviland went on to the adjoining room, the soft rugs giving forth no sound of his footfalls.

The door was ajar, and as he opened it, he called, “Come here, Pauline; look, the night lights are burning, and the bed untouched. She hasn’t been to bed at all.”

“Of course she hasn’t. She has her hair as it was last evening. But her comb is broken.”

“Broken! It’s smashed! It’s in tiny bits! She has been hit on the head—don’t touch her, Pauline! You mustn’t! I’ll call Dr. Stanton. You go out of the room. Go and find Anita.”

But Pauline staid. Turning her back to the still figure in the chair, she gazed curiously at the upset tray on the floor. She stooped, when Haviland’s voice came sharply from the next room. “Don’t touch a thing, Pauline!” he cried, as he held his hand over the transmitter.

She looked up, and then as she saw him turn back to speak into the instrument, she stooped swiftly and picking up something from the floor she hurried from the room.

She found Anita on the couch in the hall, and speaking somewhat sharply, Pauline said, “Where’s Estelle?”

“Mercy! I don’t know!” and Anita’s blue eyes stared coldly. “How should I know anything about Estelle?”

“But she must have brought that tray an hour ago. Did she upset it, or who?”

“Pauline, why do you act as if I knew anything about this matter. Is it because you do?”

The blue eyes, cold like steel, and the dark ones, flashing fire from their shadows, looked steadily at each other.

Gray Haviland came hurriedly out to the hall.

“The doctor will be here at once,” he said; “and he will call the coroner.”

“Coroner!” screamed Anita; and ran away to her own room.

“Let her alone,” said Pauline, contemptuously; “but Gray, we must nerve ourselves up to this thing. Don’t you think we ought to—to put away the jewels? It’s wrong to let any one come into a room where a fortune in jewels is displayed like that.”

“But Doctor Stanton said to touch nothing—nothing at all. You see, Pauline, in a murder case—”

“Oh, I know; ‘nothing disturbed till the Coroner comes,’ and all that. But this is different, Gray. Doctor Stanton didn’t know there are two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry on that—that—on her.”

“How do you know so exactly?”

“I’m not exact, but she has told me times enough that the rope of pearls cost one hundred thousand, and that corsage ornament she is wearing and her rings and ear-rings are easily worth the same sum. I tell you there will be policemen here, and it isn’t right to throw temptation in their way.”

“Besides,” and Anita’s voice spoke again as she reappeared in the doorway, “besides, Pauline, they are all yours now, and you should be careful of them!”

The tone more than the words conveyed a veiled insolence, and Pauline accepted it for such. With a sudden determined movement, she went swiftly to her aunt’s side, and unfastened the long rope of pearls, the wonderful glittering sunburst, and a large diamond and emerald crescent that held together the glistening silk folds. The rings and ear-rings she could not bring herself to touch.

“It is only right,” she contended, as if trying to persuade herself, “these are too valuable to risk; no one could fail to be tempted by them.”

“Why don’t you finish your task?” said Anita, smiling unpleasantly, “why leave so much?”

“No one would attempt to take the rings or ear-rings,” said Pauline, steadily, “and that scarab bracelet is not of great value.”

“I thought that was a most valuable antique that her nephew sent her.”

“She thought so, too,” said Pauline, carelessly, “but Carr told me it was an imitation. Not one expert in a hundred can tell the difference, anyway.”

As Pauline placed the mass of gems in the safe, the doctor came. “What does it mean?” cried the bewildered man, coming into the room. “Miss Carrington—”

Words failed him as he saw the astounding sight. For surely, no one had ever before seen a murdered woman, sitting before her dressing-table, staring but smiling, and garbed as for a fancy-dress ball!

Doctor Stanton touched the icy-cold hand, felt for the silent heart, and then turned his attention to the disheveled hair and broken comb.

“Fractured skull,” he said, as his skilled fingers thridded the auburn tresses. “Killed by a sudden, swift blow on the head with a heavy, blunt—no, with a soft weapon; a black-jack or sandbag.”

“A burglar!” exclaimed Pauline.

“Of course; who else would deal such a blow? It was powerful—dealt by a strong arm—it has driven bits of this broken shell stuff into the brain. But it was the force of the concussion that killed her. Here is a deep dent—and yet.—Tell me the circumstances. Why is she rigged out like this?”

“I’ve no idea,” answered Pauline, taking the initiative. “When I left her last night, she had on an evening gown. But this negligée is not unusual; it is one of her favorites. Though why she has on that spangled scarf, I can’t imagine.”

“She seems to have been posing before the mirror, rather than engaged in making a toilette.” Dr. Stanton was a pompous middle-aged man of fussy manner. He did not again touch the body, but he stepped about, noting the strange conditions and commenting on them. “This paper snake—tight round her neck! What does that mean?”

“What can it mean?” returned Pauline. “She had an intense hatred—even fear of snakes; I’ve never seen it before. Could it have been placed there to frighten her to death?”

“No; she didn’t die of fright. See, her expression is placid—even smiling. But the shattered comb and dented skull have but one explanation—a stunning blow. Did she have on the comb last evening?”

“Yes; it is a favorite one with her. An heirloom, from a Colonial ancestor. It encircled the entire back of her head, when whole.”

“At what time was she killed?” asked Gray Haviland. He had stood, till now, a silent listener to the conversation between Pauline and the Doctor.

“Oh, many hours ago,” returned Stanton; “six or eight at least. Evidently she was preparing for bed, and trying the effect of some new finery.”

“Those things are not new,” put in Anita; “she has had them all a long time. But she must have been admiring herself, for when we found her she had on all her finest jewels.”

“What?” cried Dr. Stanton; “where are they?”

“I took most of them off,” replied Pauline, quietly, “and put them in the safe. If the police people must come, I am not willing to have a fortune in jewels here to tempt their cupidity. And I have a right. It is no secret that my cousin Carrington and I are her heirs. But that snake perplexes me beyond all else. If you knew her aversion to them—even pictured ones—”

“I do know it,” returned the doctor; “I have often heard her say so. Ah,” as he stepped carefully about, “she was adorning herself; see, here is powder scattered on the floor. She used this powder-puff, shaking it over the rug and floor.”

“I saw that the first thing!” cried Pauline, excitedly; “and there was a—” she stopped, looking in amazement at the white dust on the floor. For where she had seen a distinct footprint, as of a stockinged foot, there was now merely a blurred whirl! Some one had obliterated that footprint!

“A what?” asked the doctor, sharply.

“Nothing. A—a lot of powder spilled—I was going to say.”

Gray Haviland looked at her. “Tell the truth, Pauline,” he said.

“I have,” she replied, with a calm quite equalling his own. “Must we have the Coroner, Dr. Stanton?”

“Yes, yes, of course; I will telephone at once. There will be police and detectives—oh, it is a terrible case! Nothing must be touched, nothing! If there is any clue to this mystery, do not let it be disturbed.”

“But you say it was without doubt a burglar who did it,” said Anita, her wide eyes gleaming blue.

“It must have been.”

“Then why were none of her jewels stolen?”

“Bless my soul!” and Dr. Stanton looked as if a bomb had exploded at his feet. “Sure enough! It cannot have been a burglar! Who, then? What other motive than robbery—”

“It was a burglar,” declared Pauline, “and he was—he was frightened away by—by a noise—or something—”

“Not likely!” said Anita, “with all those gems in easy reach!”

“The Coroner and the police must get here at once!” and the doctor wiped his perspiring brow. “Never have I seen such an inexplicable state of affairs! Was—was Miss Carrington indisposed at all last evening? Did she say or do anything unusual?”

“Not at all,” began Pauline, but Anita interrupted; “Yes, she did! She said, ‘You little know what’s going to happen to me! To-morrow you may sing another tune!’”

“What did she mean by that?”

“I’ve no idea. Could it mean suicide?”

“No!” thundered the doctor; “her skull was fractured by some one bent on wilful murder! As there is no robbery, we must look for a deeper motive and a cleverer villain than any professional burglar!”

CHAPTER IV

A PAPER SNAKE

On the third floor was the bedroom of the maid, Estelle, and before its locked door stood Pauline and Anita, demanding admittance. There was no response from inside, until Pauline said sternly, “Unless you open this door at once, Estelle, the police will force it open.”

The key turned, the door moved slowly ajar, and Estelle’s face appeared, wearing an expression of amazement.

“What is it you say, Miss Pauline? The police? Why?”

The maid was making a very evident effort to appear composed, and was succeeding wonderfully well. Her eyes were reddened with weeping—a condition which a hasty dabbing of powder had not concealed. She was nervously trembling, but her air of injured innocence, if assumed, was admirable.

“Estelle,” and Pauline loomed tall and magnificent as an accusing angel, “what do you know of your mistress’ death?”

Estelle gave a shriek and threw herself on her bed in apparent hysterics.

“Don’t begin that!” ordered Pauline, “sit up here and tell the truth.”

“But,” and the maid sat up, sobbing, “I know nothing. How can I?”

“Nonsense! You took the tea-tray to her at eight o’clock. What did you see?”

Estelle shrugged her shoulders. “I saw Miss Carrington sitting before her mirror. She, I assumed, was engrossed in reverie, so I set down the tray on a tabouret and departed.”

“You noticed nothing amiss?” said Anita, staring at the girl.

“No; I scarce looked at the lady. She reproved me harshly last night, and I had no wish to annoy her. I set down the tray with haste and silently departed.”

“You set it down? Who, then, overturned it?”

“Overturned? Is it then upset?” Estelle’s manner was the impersonal one of the trained servant, who must show surprise at nothing, but it was a trifle overdone.

“Estelle, stop posing. Wake up to realities. Miss Carrington is dead! Do you hear? Dead!”

“Ah! Mon Dieu! Did it then kill her?” and Estelle’s calm gave way and she screamed and moaned in wild hysterics.

“What can we do with her?” asked Anita, helplessly; “she must know all about the—the—”

“The murder,” said Pauline calmly. “But she will tell us nothing. It is useless to question her. The Coroner will attend to it, anyway.”

“The Coroner,” and Anita looked frightened. “Will he question all of us?”

“Of course he will. And, Anita,” Pauline whirled on her suddenly, “what are you going to say was the errand that took you to Aunt Lucy’s room after one o’clock last night?”

“I! Nothing of the sort! I was not in her room after we left it together.”

“I saw you. Don’t trouble to deny it,” and Pauline dropped her eyelids as one bored by a conversation.

“You did!” and Anita’s flower face turned rosy pink and her blue eyes blazed with an intensity that Pauline’s dark ones could never match. “Be careful, Pauline Stuart, or I shall tell what I know! You dare to make up such a story! It was I who saw you come from your aunt’s room at a late hour! What have you to say now?”

“Nothing—to you,” and Pauline swept from the room and returned slowly down the stairway to the second floor.

The sight of two police officers in the hall gave her a sudden start. How had they appeared, so soon? And how dreadful to see them in the palatial home that had heretofore housed only gentle-mannered aristocrats and obsequious liveried servants! The men looked ill at ease as they stood against the rich background of tapestry hangings and tropical palms, but their faces showed a stern appreciation of their duty, and they looked at Pauline with deferential but acute scrutiny.

Not noticing them in any way, the girl, her head held high, went straight to her aunt’s room. Sergeant Flake was in charge, and he refused her admission.

“Coroner’s orders, ma’am,” he said; “he’ll be here himself shortly, and then you can see him.”

“Come away, Pauline,” and Haviland appeared and took her by the arm; “where’s Anita?”

“I left her in Estelle’s room. Oh Gray, that girl—”

“Hush!” and gripping her firmly, Haviland led her to a small sitting room and shut the door. “Now listen, Pauline; mind what I say. Don’t give the least bit of information or express the slightest notion of opinion except to the chief authorities. And not to them until they ask you. This is a terrible affair, and a mighty strange one.”

“Who did it, Gray?”

“Never you mind. Don’t even ask questions. The very walls have ears!”

“Who upset that breakfast tray?”

“Estelle, of course.”

“She says she didn’t.”

“She lies. Everybody will lie; why, Pauline, you must lie yourself.”

“I won’t do it! I have no reason to!”

“You may find that you have. But, at least, Pauline, I beg of you, that you will keep your mouth shut. There will be developments soon—there must be—and then we will know what to do.”

The two returned to the boudoir. At first glance it seemed to be full of men. The beautiful room, with its ornate but harmonious furnishings and appointments of the Marie Antoinette period, was occupied with eager representatives of the law and justice hunting for any indication of the ruthless hand that had felled the owner of all that elegance.

Coroner Scofield was receiving the report of Doctor Moore, who had arrived with him.

Dr. Moore agreed with Dr. Stanton that the deceased had been struck with a heavy weapon that had fractured the skull, but he admitted the wounds showed some strange conditions which could only be explained by further investigation.

The Coroner was deep in thought as he studied the face of the dead woman.

“It is most mysterious,” he declared; “that face is almost smiling! it is the face of a happy woman. Clearly, she did not know of her approaching fate.”

“The blow was struck from behind,” informed Dr. Moore.

“Even so, why didn’t she see the approach of the assailant in the mirror? She is looking straight into the large glass—must have been looking in it at the moment of her death. Why receive that death blow without a tremor of fear or even a glance of startled inquiry?”

Inspector Brunt stood by, gravely, and for the most part silently, watching and listening.

“That might imply,” he said, slowly, “that if she did see the assailant, it was some one she knew, and of whom she had no fear.”

Gray Haviland looked up suddenly. A deep red spread over his face and then, seeing himself narrowly watched by the detectives present, he set his lips firmly together and said no word.

Pauline turned white and trembled, but she too said nothing.

“Why is she sitting in this large easy chair?” went on the Coroner; “Is it not customary for ladies at their dressing tables to use a light side-chair?”

This showed decidedly astute perception, and the Inspector looked interestedly at the chair in question, which he had not especially noticed before.

Being tacitly appealed to by the Coroner’s inquiring eyes, Pauline replied: “It is true that my aunt usually sat at her dressing-table in a small chair—that one, in fact,” and she pointed to a dainty chair of gilded cane. “I have no idea why she should choose the heavy, cushioned one.”

“It would seem,” the Coroner mused, “as if she might have sat down there to admire the effect of her belongings rather than to arrange her hair or toilette.”

Absorbedly, all present watched Coroner Scofield’s movements.

It was true, the quietly reposeful attitude of the still figure leaning back against the brocaded upholstery, and so evidently looking in the great gold-framed mirror, was that of one admiring or criticising her own appearance. Added to this, the fact of her bizarre costume and strange adornments, it seemed certain that Miss Carrington had come to her death while innocently happy in the feminine employment of dressing up in the elaborate finery that she loved.

But the snake!

Carefully Coroner Scofield removed the inexplicable thing. He held it up that all might see. A Japanese paper snake, a cheap toy, such as is found together with fans and lanterns in the Oriental department of large shops.

“Could this have been placed round her neck after death?” Scofield inquired of the doctors.

The two physicians agreed, that though that was possible, yet the appearance of the flesh beneath it seemed to indicate its having encircled the throat during life.

“Never!” cried Pauline, excitedly. “Aunt Lucy couldn’t have sat there and smiled, with a snake anywhere near her!”

“That would seem so,” and Dr. Stanton nodded his head. “I well know of my late patient’s aversion to snakes. It amounted almost to a mania! It is not an uncommon one, many women feel the same, though seldom to so great an extent.”

“That deepens the mystery,” said Coroner Scofield; “unless, indeed, the snake was put on after the crime. But that is even more mysterious. I shall now remove these valuable jewels, and give them to—”

He looked inquiringly at Haviland and Pauline, and the latter immediately responded: “Give them to me, Mr. Scofield. I am now mistress here.”

Haviland said nothing, but he looked at Pauline as if in disapproval.

“Is this of great worth?” inquired Scofield, as he carefully removed the scarf from the shoulders it surrounded.

“Only moderately so,” returned Pauline. “It is a Syrian scarf and was sent to her by her nephew who lives in Egypt. It is not new, he sent several to us about a year ago.”

She took the long, heavy, white and silver drapery, and laid it in a nearby wardrobe. Then the Coroner unfastened the large pearls from their place as eardrops, and taking up one lifeless hand removed its rings. All these he handed to Pauline without a word.

“What is this?” he exclaimed suddenly; and opening the curled-up fingers of the other hand he drew forth a crumpled gray object. It was a glove, of soft suéde, and so tightly had it been held that it was deeply creased.

“A man’s glove!” said the Coroner, smoothing it out. “Will the wonders of this case never cease?”

He scrutinized it, but remarking only that it was of medium size and superior quality, he laid it carefully aside for the time.

From the same arm he removed the scarab bracelet, also handing that to Pauline.

“The lady was fond of Oriental jewelry,” he observed.

“Yes,” returned Haviland, before Pauline could speak. “Her nephew sent or brought home much of it. But, as we informed you, Miss Carrington was also wearing pearls and diamonds of enormous value, compared to which these trinkets are as nothing.”

“But scarabs, I am told, are of great price.”

“Some are,” returned Haviland. “That bracelet, however, is not genuine, nor of great value.”

Then the Coroner, with delicate touch, removed the bits of broken tortoise-shell from the puffs of hair, and carefully laid them together on a small silver tray he appropriated from the dressing-table litter.

“I think,” said Inspector Brunt, in his grave, slow way, “that it will be wise to photograph the whole picture from several points of view before the autopsy is performed.”

Arrangements had been made for this, and Detective Hardy, a young man from Headquarters, stepped forward with his camera.

As those who were asked to left the room, Pauline and Gray went out together, and met Anita just outside in the hall.

“Oh, tell me, Gray! Who did it? What does it all mean?” she cried, and grasped him by the arm.

“Tell her about it, Gray,” said Pauline, and leaving the two together, she went swiftly along the hall to her own room.

The alert eyes of the guarding policemen followed her, but also they followed the movements of every one else, and if they had, as yet, any suspicions, no one knew of them.

Meantime, the gruesome work of photography went on.

Surely never was such a strange subject for the camera! Denuded of her jewels, but still robed in her gorgeous dressing-gown, and still leaning back in her luxurious arm-chair, with that strange smile of happy expectancy, Miss Lucy Carrington presented the same air of regal authority she had always worn in life. Her eyes were widely staring, but there was no trace or hint of fear in her peaceful attitude of repose.

“There’s no solution!” said Inspector Brunt, deeply thoughtful. “No one could or would crack a skull like that, but an experienced and professional burglar and housebreaker. And such a one could have but one motive, robbery, and the jewels were not stolen!”

“Inside job,” observed Scofield, briefly, his eyes on his work.

“Maybe the burglar was frightened away at the critical moment.”

“No. Whatever frightened him would be known to some member of the family.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Hey? Have you a theory?” and the Coroner looked up suddenly.

“Anything but! There’s no possible theory that will fit the facts.”

“Except the truth.”

“Yes, except the truth. But it will be long before we find that, I’m afraid. It strikes me it’s at the bottom of an unusually deep well.”

“Well, you’d better find it. It’d be a nice how d’y’ do for you to fall down on this case!”

“There’s no falling down been done yet. And it may well be that the very fact of there being such strange and irreconcilable conditions shall prove a help rather than a hindrance.”

And then, all being in readiness, the lifeless form of Miss Carrington, once the proud domineering autocrat, now laid low, was borne to a distant room, for the autopsy that might cast a further light on the mystery of her tragic death.

CHAPTER V

A MAN’S GLOVE

Inspector Brunt and the young detective, Hardy, were interviewing the members of the household in the library, and the task was not an easy one. The two girls were distinctly at odds, and Gray Haviland, whether authoritatively or not, persisted in assuming a major rôle.

“It seems to me,” Haviland said, “that it is the most remarkable mystery that has ever occurred in the experience of you police people. Now, I think the wisest plan is to call in a big detective—no offence, Mr. Hardy—but I mean a noted fellow, like Stone, say, and let him get at the root of the crime.”

“I think, Gray,” and Pauline looked very haughty, “that any such suggestion would come better from me. I am now mistress of the place, and it is for me to say what we shall do.”

“I know it,” and Haviland looked no whit abashed, “but you know Carr Loria is equally in authority, even if he isn’t here, and you see—”

“I don’t see that Carr’s absence gives you any authority!”

“But it does, in a way. As Miss Lucy’s man of affairs, I ought to look out for the interests of her heirs, at least, for the absent one. I’m sure Loria would want to do everything possible to find the murderer.”

“Has this nephew been notified yet?” asked Inspector Brunt.

“Yes,” returned Pauline; “we’ve telephoned a cablegram to the city to be sent to him in Egypt. But I don’t know when he will get it, nor when we’ll get a response.”

“Where is he?”

“His permanent address is Cairo, but he is off in the desert, or somewhere, so much that sometimes he is away from communication for weeks at a time. Still I’ve sent it, that’s all I can do.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I made it rather long and circumstantial. I told him of Aunt Lucy’s death, and that she was killed by a blow on the head by a burglar, which fractured her skull. I asked him if he would come home or if we should go there. You see, we were intending to sail for Egypt in February.”

“Who were?”

“Myself, my aunt, Miss Frayne and Mr. Haviland. Carrington Loria has been begging us to make the trip, and at last Aunt Lucy decided to go. Our passage is engaged, and all plans made.”

“And now——?”

“Now, I do not know. Everything is uncertain. But if the burglar can be found, and punished, I see no reason why I, at least, shouldn’t go on and make the trip. The others must please themselves.”

Pauline looked at Anita and at Haviland with a detached air, as if now they were no longer members of the household, and their plans did not concern her.

Not so Haviland. “Sure I’ll go,” he cried; “I fancy Carr will be mighty glad to keep me on in the same capacity I served Miss Carrington. He’ll need a representative in this country. I doubt he’ll come over—there’s no need, if I look after all business matters for him.”

“What does he do in Egypt?” asked the Inspector, who was half engrossed looking over his memoranda, and really took slight interest in the absent heir.

“He’s excavating wonderful temples and things,” volunteered Anita, for Pauline and Gray were looking, amazed, at a man who came into the room. He was the detective who had been left in charge of the boudoir, and he carried a strange-looking object.

“What is it?” cried Pauline.

“It’s a black-jack.” replied the detective. “I found it, Inspector, just under the edge of the tassel trimmin’ of the lounge. The fellow slung it away, and it hid under the fringe, out of sight.”

Gravely, Inspector Brunt took the weapon. It was rudely made, of black cloth, a mere bag, long and narrow, and filled with bird shot.

“That’s the weapon!” declared Brunt. “A man could hit a blow with that thing that would break the skull without cutting the skin. Yes, there is no further doubt that Miss Carrington was murdered by a burglar. This is a burglar’s weapon; this it was that crushed the shell comb to fragments, and fractured the skull, leaving the body sitting upright, and unmutilated. Death was, of course, instantaneous.”

“But the jewels!” said Detective Hardy, wonderingly; “why—”

“I don’t know why!” said Brunt, a little testily; “that is for you detectives to find out. I have to go by what evidence I find. Can I find a broken skull and a black-jack in the same room and not deduce a burglarious assault that proved fatal? The thief may have been scared off or decided he didn’t want the loot, but that doesn’t affect the certainty that we have the weapon and therefore the case is a simple one. That burglar can be found, without a doubt. Then we shall learn why he didn’t steal the jewels.”

“But the snake?” said Pauline, looking wonderingly at the Inspector; “the burglar must have been a maniac or an eccentric to put that snake round my aunt’s neck after he killed her—and nothing will ever make me believe that she allowed it there while alive!”

“That’s what I say,” put in Haviland; “the whole affair is so inexplicable—excuse me, Mr. Brunt, but I can’t think it such a simple case as you do—that I think we should engage expert skill to solve the mysteries of it all.”

“That must come later,” and Inspector Brunt resumed his usual gravity of manner which had been disturbed by the discovery of the black-jack. “Will you now please give me some detailed information as to the circumstances? Is the house always securely locked at night?”

“Very much so,” answered Haviland; “Miss Carrington was not overly timid, but she always insisted on careful precautions against burglary. She had a house full of valuable furniture, curios, and art works besides her personal belongings. Yes, the house was always supposed to be carefully locked and bolted.”

“Whose duty is it to look after it?”

“The butler Haskins, and his wife, who is the cook, had all such matters in charge.”

“I will interview them later. Now please tell me, any of you, why Miss Carrington was arrayed in such peculiar fashion, last evening.”

“I can’t imagine,” said Pauline. “My aunt was not a vain woman. I have never known her to sit before a mirror, except when necessary, to have her hair dressed. It is almost unbelievable that she should deliberately don those jewels and scarf and sit down there as if to admire the effect. Yet it had that appearance.”

“But she wore the jewels during the evening, did she not?”

“Not all of them. She wore her pearls, because, as she told us, and as I have often heard her say, pearls must be worn occasionally to keep them in condition. But she added a large number of valuable gems—or, some one did—after we left her last night.”

“Whom do you mean by we?”

“Miss Frayne and myself. We were in her room, to say good-night to her, and we left at the same time.”

“At what time?”

“About quarter past twelve, I should think, wasn’t it, Anita? We went upstairs about midnight, and were with my aunt ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Were your good-nights amicable?” asked the Inspector, and Pauline looked up in surprise. Then, recollecting the last words of her aunt, she shut her lips obstinately and made no reply.

“Indeed, they were not!” declared Miss Frayne; “Miss Carrington told both Miss Stuart and myself that it would be our last night beneath this roof! That to-day we must seek some other home, for she would harbor us no longer!”

“Ah! And why did she thus treat you?”

“There was no especial reason,” and Anita’s lovely blue eyes looked straight at the Inspector with a pathetic gaze, “she was in a tantrum, as she frequently was.”

“She didn’t mean it,” put in Pauline, hastily.

“She did!” asseverated Anita; “I’ve heard her threaten to send us away before, but never so earnestly. She meant it last night, I am sure. And, too, she knew something would happen to her last night—she said so.”

“What? what’s that?”

“Do hush, Anita!” said Pauline; “those foolish words meant nothing!”

“Proceed, Miss Frayne,” and the Inspector spoke sternly.

“She did,” went on Anita. “I don’t remember the exact words, but she said I little knew what was going to happen to her, and she said ‘to-morrow you may sing another song!’ Surely such words meant something!”

“If they did,” said Pauline, angrily, “they merely meant that she was going to dismiss you to-day!”

“Not at all,” and Anita glanced at her, “she distinctly said something would happen to her—not to me.”

“You know better than to take things she said in a temper, seriously! If we are to repeat idle conversations, suppose I say that I heard you say last evening that you’d like to kill her!”

“I didn’t!” shrieked Anita.

“You did,” declared Pauline, calmly; “and Gray said she ought to be killed, too. I know you didn’t mean to kill her, but I’ve just as much right to quote your foolish words as you have to quote hers.”

“Nonsense!” said Haviland; “let up, Polly! You two are always at each other! As there is no question as to who killed poor Miss Lucy, why rake up our foolish words spoken under the intense provocation of her exhibition of temper—which was specially trying last night. Inspector, can we tell you anything more of importance?”

So far the Inspector had been almost silent, and appeared to be learning some points from the conversation not addressed to him. Now, he changed his manner, and began briskly to ask questions.

“This glove,” he said, holding it out, “was, as you know, found clasped in her hand. Is it yours, Mr. Haviland?”

“No,” said the young man, as, after a close examination of the glove he handed it back; “no, it is a size smaller than I wear, and it is of a different make from mine.”

“Have you any idea whose it can be? It is highly improbable the burglar left it.”

“I’ve no idea,” and Haviland shrugged his shoulders. “But if it was not left by the intruder, where could it possibly have come from? It is a man’s glove.”

“Could it be one of Cousin Carr’s?” said Pauline. “Aunt Lucy was awfully fond of anything of his. She kept one of his caps in her drawer for months, after he left the last time.”

“No,” replied Haviland; “it isn’t Loria’s. He wears larger gloves than I do. My theory points to a sort of gentleman burglar, a ‘Raffles,’ you know, and I think he talked with Miss Lucy, before he struck that blow, and disarmed her mind of fear.”

“What an extraordinary idea!” and Pauline looked thoughtful.

“But how else explain the glove?”

“And the snake? Did your gentleman burglar persuade her to wear that paper thing? Never! Gray, you’re absurd!”

“Another thing,” went on Inspector Brunt, returning the glove to his roomy pocket-book; “In the bedroom we noticed a glass of milk and beside it an empty plate. Was it the lady’s habit to have a night lunch?”

“Yes,” said Anita; “but she rarely ate it. In case of insomnia, she had ready a light repast, but she almost never touched it.”

“The glass of milk is still untouched,” said Brunt, “but the plate is empty. What did it contain?”

“A sandwich, I think,” said Anita. “That is what Estelle usually prepared for her. She will know—Estelle, the maid.”

“Miss Carrington’s lady’s maid?”

“Yes; though not hers exclusively. She was expected to act as maid for Miss Stuart and myself also, at such times as Miss Carrington didn’t require her services.”

“And she, then, brought the breakfast tray, that is upset on the floor?”

“Yes; Miss Lucy always had an early cup of tea, before she dressed for breakfast with the family.”

“And the maid took it to her this morning? Did she not then discover the—the tragedy?”

“She says not!” cried Pauline; “but I’m sure she did! She says she saw Miss Lucy at the mirror, and thinking her engrossed, merely left the tray on the tabouret and went away.”

“Ridiculous!” exclaimed Haviland; “What does Estelle mean by such lies? Of course she saw Miss Carrington’s strange appearance, of course she was frightened out of her wits, and of course she dropped the tray and ran. But why not say so? And why not give an immediate alarm? She took that tray, probably, about eight. Pauline went up at nine. What was Estelle doing all that time? Why didn’t she go in to dress Miss Carrington? I tell you, Mr. Inspector, there’s a lot of queer work to be explained, and with all due respect to the force, I’m pretty sure you’ll need expert service if you’re going to get anywhere. And I’m sure, too, that if we can get word to Carrington Loria and back, he’ll say spare no trouble or expense to avenge his aunt’s murder. He is equally heir with you, Pauline, and he ought to be consulted.”

“The will hasn’t been read yet,” said Miss Stuart; “we can’t assume anything until that is done.”

“Pshaw! you know perfectly well half of the bulk of the estate is yours and half Carr’s. I have a small slice and Miss Frayne a bit. The older servants have small legacies, and there are a few charities. That, Mr. Brunt, is the gist of the will. Do you not agree with me, that as I was the man of business for the late Miss Carrington, I am justified, in the absence of Mr. Loria, in continuing my services, at least, until we can get definite directions from him?”

“Those matters are outside my province, Mr. Haviland. Miss Carrington’s legal advisers will doubtless come here soon, and such things will be decided by them. Now, here’s another point. I noted in the course of our investigation in the boudoir a quantity of powder fallen on the floor near the dressing table, in such relation to it that it would seem Miss Carrington was using the face powder as she sat there. Was this her habit?”

“Her habit? Yes;” said Anita, “Miss Carrington was in the habit of using face powder—even cosmetics. It is not strange then, that such a proceeding was part of her night toilette.”

“No, not at all,” agreed Mr. Brunt. “But where the powder was thickest, on the hard floor, near the rug, was a muddled spot, as if some one had wiped out or swept up a mark or print. Can any of you explain this?”

No one spoke, and the stern voice went on. “I remember, Miss Stuart, that you began to say something bearing on this while we were in that room, and you suddenly stopped, appearing confused. I ask you why?”

Pauline hesitated, bit her lip, looked at Gray and then at Anita, and finally said, “I may as well tell. It is nothing. When I went to my aunt’s room, and found what I did find—I was so excited and nervous I scarce knew what I did. But I remember seeing a footprint in that powder, and in obedience to an impulsive instinct I—I obliterated it.”

“With what?”

“With my handkerchief. I merely slapped at it, and the light powder flew about it.”

“Why did you do this?”

“I don’t know. I had no real reason. I was not thinking of what I was doing.”

“Then you did not have a desire to shield some one from possible suspicion?” The words were shot at her so swiftly that Pauline gasped.

“Suspicion! What do you mean? Was it not the work of a burglar?”

“Was the impression of a foot that you saw, the foot of a man or a woman?”

“How can I tell? It was large, but as it was a bare or stockinged foot I could not judge. Might not the burglar have removed his boots, before entering the room?”

“He might, indeed, and that is just what he did do. For more prints of that stockinged foot have been discovered on the stairs, and there is no doubt that the tracks are those of the assailant of Miss Carrington. With your permission, Miss Stuart, I will now go to interview the servants. May I ask you to await me here, all of you? I shall not be very long.”

As the Inspector and the detectives left the room, Haskins appeared to announce Mrs. Frothingham and Count Henri Charlier.

CHAPTER VI

A NEIGHBOR’S CALL

“Oh, is it not terrible? What can I say to comfort you!”

Mrs. Frothingham’s distressed tones and her air of eager, intense sympathy met with little response from Pauline.

Haviland had been called from the room on an errand and Anita’s willingness to receive the neighbor’s condolences did not seem acceptable. The overdressed, forward-mannered widow continued to direct her attention entirely to Pauline, and that young woman merely surveyed her visitor coolly and replied in monosyllables.

“Thanks,” she said, and her icy air would have deterred a less determined intruder.

“I simply couldn’t help running over as soon as I heard the dreadful news. For we are neighbors after all, though not so very well acquainted; and neighbors have a camaraderie of their own, I think.”

“Yes?” said Pauline, and her eyelids fell slightly, with an expression of boredness.

“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Frothingham rattled on; “and I said to our dear Count, we must run over at once, there may be something we can do for the saddened ones.”

“Thank you;” and had a marble statue been given vocal powers the effect would have been much the same.

“Dear friend,” continued the unabashed visitor, “I know how overcome you must be—”

“I am not overcome at all,” said Pauline, rising, and determined to hear no more; “and I must beg to be excused, Mrs. Frothingham, as I have many matters to attend to this morning.”

“Ah, yes, of course, you have. We will not detain you. The Count and I merely called for a moment to inquire—”

“Yes, I quite understand. Miss Frayne will be pleased to answer your inquiries. Thank you both, and—good-morning.”

With a polite but distant bow, Pauline left the room, and as Count Charlier sprang to hold the door open for her, he, after a moment’s hesitation, followed her out.

“A moment, I beg, Miss Stuart,” he said as they reached the hall; “You are offended at Mrs. Frothingham’s intrusion, but have I not a right to call? Was I not such a friend of Miss Carrington as to justify this tribute of respect to her memory?”

“Certainly, Count,” and Pauline grew a shade kinder, “but I am not sufficiently acquainted with your friend to receive her visits.”

“Ah, no. That is conceded. But, I pray you, tell me of the sad affair. I have heard no details—that is, unless you would rather not.”

“No, I am not unwilling. You were a good friend of Aunt Lucy’s—she was fond of you, and I am glad to talk to some one. Let us sit here.” Pauline indicated a recessed seat in the hall and the pair sat there. She recounted briefly the story of the tragedy and the Count was duly sympathetic. Pauline watched him closely, and discerned great interest but little grief or sorrow.

“A burglar, of course,” said the Count hearing of the cruel weapon. “How could any one attack the charming lady! And the marvelous jewels she wore! They were, of course, stolen?”

“No; that’s the strange part. They were not.”

“Ah, how splendid!” and his absorbed air of satisfaction gave Pauline a thrill of disgust at his cold-bloodedness. “And now they are all yours? Those magnificent gems?”

“The property, most of it, is divided between my cousin and myself.”

“Your cousin? Mr. Haviland?”

“No; he is but a distant connection. I mean my first cousin, Mr. Loria, now in Egypt.”

“Ah, yes, I have heard Miss Carrington refer to him. He will come home?”

“I do not know. We have cabled of course. Count Charlier, do you remember hearing my aunt say, last evening, that she expected something to happen to her?”

“I remember, Miss Stuart.”

“Have you any idea what she meant?”

“I? But how could I know?”

“Answer my question, please.”

The Count’s eyes fell, and he shifted his feet about uneasily. At last he said: “It is not pleasant to say such things, but since you ask, I may be permitted to assume that the late Miss Carrington had a regard for my humble self.”

“And she expected, she—hoped that her regard might be returned?”

“It may be so.”

“And that last night you might tell her so?”

“You honor me.”

“Did you tell her so?”

“I did not, Miss Stuart. What might have happened had she lived I cannot say, but I did not, last evening, say any word to Miss Carrington of my aspiration to her hand.”

“Did you say anything that could have been taken as a hint that some time, say, in the near future, you might express such an aspiration?”

“I may have done so.”

“Thank you, Count Charlier. I had perhaps no right to ask, but you have answered my rather impertinent questions straightforwardly, and I thank you.”

Pauline rose, as if to end the interview. In the doorway appeared Anita. “Pauline,” she said, “I wish you would come back and listen to Mrs. Frothingham’s story. It seems to me of decided importance.”

“You have something to tell me?” asked Pauline, returning to the library and looking at the unwelcome neighbor with patient tolerance.

“Yes, Miss Stuart. Now, it may be nothing—nothing, I mean, of consequence, that is, you may not think so, but I—”

“Suppose you let me hear it and judge for myself.”

“Yes. Well, it’s only this. I was wakeful last night, or rather early this morning, and looking from my bedroom window, which faces this house, I saw a man climb out of a window on the first floor and skulk away among the shrubbery.”

“At what time was this?” and Pauline looked interested at last.

“About four o’clock. He was to all appearances a burglar—”

“How could you tell? Was it not dark at that hour in the morning?”

“No; the moon is past full, you know, and it shone brightly in the western sky.”

“Enough for you to discern the man clearly?”

“I took a field-glass to assist my vision. He stealthily climbed out and skirting the bushes made his way swiftly toward the great gates.”

“This is indeed an important bit of information, Mrs. Frothingham; I dare say you ought to tell it to the police who are here.”

“Oh, I couldn’t! I’m so timid about such things! But—if you would go with me, Miss Stuart—”

“Miss Frayne will go with you,” said Pauline, coolly; “You will find a policeman in the hall who will direct you where to find the Inspector.”

Without another word Pauline bowed in a way to include the lady and the Count also, and went away to her own room.

“Stuck-up thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Frothingham, and Anita nodded her golden head in agreement.

Inspector Brunt instructed Hardy to hear the story of Mrs. Frothingham, and he devoted his own attention to Count Charlier, of whom he had heard as being a friend of Miss Carrington’s.

He quizzed the Frenchman rather pointedly as to his friendship with the unfortunate lady and the Count became decidedly ill at ease.

“Why do you ask me so much?” he objected; “I was a friend, yes; I may have aspired to a nearer relation, yes? That is no crime?”

“Not at all, Count,” said Mr. Brunt; “I only want to find out if Miss Carrington’s strange reference to something about to happen to her could have had any reference to you.”

“It might be so; I cannot say. But all that has no bearing on the poor lady’s death.”

“No. At what time did you go away from here, Count Charlier?”

“At about midnight.”

“You went directly home?”

“To Mrs. Frothingham’s, where I am a house guest, yes.”

“And you retired?”

“Yes.”

“And remained in your bed till morning?”

“But of a certainty, yes! What are you implying? That I had a hand in this affair?”

“No, no; be calm, my dear sir. I ask you but one question. Is this your glove?”

The Inspector took the glove from his pocket and offered it to the Count.

The Frenchman took it, examined it minutely and without haste.

“No, sir,” he said, returning it; “that is not my property.”

“Thank you, that is all,” and the Inspector put the glove back in his pocket.

“There is no doubt as to the main facts,” said the Inspector, a half hour later, as, with the members of the family he summed up what had been found out from all known sources. “The assailant was most certainly a burglarious intruder; the weapon, this ‘black-jack’; the motive, robbery. Why the robbery was not achieved and what is the meaning of the unexplained circumstances of the whole affair, we do not yet know. They are matters to be investigated, but they cannot greatly affect the principal conditions. You may be thankful, Miss Stuart, that the sad death of your aunt was undoubtedly painless; and also that the thief did not succeed in his attempt to purloin the valuable gems.”

The Inspector’s speech might seem cold-hearted, but Brunt was a practical man, and he was truly glad for himself that in addition to finding the murderer he did not also have to recover a fortune of rare jewels.

“Now,” he went on, “as to the maid, Estelle. I have talked with her, but she is so hysterical and her stories so contradictory, that I am inclined to the opinion that she has some sort of guilty knowledge or at least suspicion of the intruder. The man was stocking-footed, and it is a pity, Miss Stuart, that you erased that footprint on the floor! But it would have been of doubtful use, I dare say. We have found faint tracks of the powder on the steps of the staircase, and though the last ones are almost indiscernible they seem to lead through the butler’s pantry, and to an exit by that window. But the window was found fastened this morning, so, if it was used as a means for the burglar’s getaway, it must have been fastened afterward by some person inside. Could this person have been the maid, Estelle?”

“Sure it could!” exclaimed Haviland, who was an interested listener. “That girl is a sly one! I caught her this morning, trying to take away that glass of milk. I told her to let it alone.”

“Why?” asked the Inspector.

“Because I thought if she wanted to get it away, there must be some reason for her to want it! What was it?”

“Nonsense!” and Anita looked scornfully at Gray; “naturally, Estelle would do up the rooms, and would, of course, remove the remains of Miss Lucy’s night luncheon.”

“But that’s just it!” said Haviland, triumphantly: “she didn’t take the plate that had had sandwiches on it! If she had, I should have thought nothing of it. But she took the glass of milk, in a furtive, stealthy way, that made me look at her. She turned red, and trembled, and I told her to set the glass down. She pretended not to hear, so I told her again. Then she obeyed. But she glared at me like a tigress.”

“Oh, rubbish!” said Anita. “She was annoyed at being interfered with in her work, and perhaps fearful of being censured.”

“All right,” said Haviland, “then there’s no harm done. If that girl is entirely innocent, what I said won’t hurt her. But she looked to me as if on a secret errand and a desperate one.”

“What puzzles me is,” mused the Inspector, “why she persists in saying that she left the tray in good order in the room—though it was discovered an hour later, upset—when we know that Miss Carrington had been dead since, at least, two or three o’clock.”

“Look here, Inspector,” and Haviland frowned, “if the murder was committed at two or three o’clock, how is it that Mrs. Frothingham saw the intruder escaping at four or later?”

“There is a discrepancy there,” admitted Brunt, “but it may be explained away. The doctors cannot be sure until the autopsy is completed of the exact hour of death, and, too, the lady next door may have made an error in time.”

“Well, I’ll inform you that Estelle did upset that tray herself,” said Pauline with an air of finality.

“How do you know?” and Inspector Brunt peered at her over his glasses.

“It was while Gray was telephoning for the doctor,” said Pauline, reminiscently, “that I looked carefully at that overturned tray.”

“I know it,” said Haviland, “I told you not to touch anything.”

“I know that, but I did. I picked up from the débris, this;” and Pauline held up to view a tiny hairpin of the sort called ‘invisible.’

“It is Estelle’s,” she said; “see, it is the glistening bronze color of her hair. Anita has gold-colored ones, and I do not use these fine wire ones. I use only shell. Moreover, I know this is Estelle’s—don’t you, Anita?”

“It may be.”

“It is. And its presence there, on the tray, proves that she let the tray fall in her surprise at seeing Aunt Lucy, and in her trembling excitement loosened and dropped this hairpin. Doubtless, she flung her hand up to her head—a not unusual gesture of hers—and so dislodged it.”

Brunt looked closely at the speaker. “You’ve got it all fixed up, haven’t you, Miss Stuart?”

Pauline flushed slightly. “I didn’t ‘fix it up,’ as you call it, but I did gather, from what I saw, that the truth must be as I have stated; and in my anxiety to learn anything possible as to the mystery of this crime, I secured what may or may not be a bit of evidence. As Mr. Haviland has said, if Estelle is entirely innocent of any complicity in the matter, these things can’t hurt her. But it would scarcely be possible for her to have been so careless as to drop a hairpin on the tray without noticing it, if she were not startled and flurried by something that took her mind and eyes entirely away from her duties.”

“I think you are purposely making a great deal out of nothing,” remarked Anita; “it seems unfair, to say the least, to condemn the poor girl on such trifling evidence.”

The talk was interrupted by the entrance of the Coroner and the two doctors.

“It is found,” said Coroner Scofield, “that the cause of Miss Carrington’s death was not the blow on the head.”

The Inspector looked his amazement, and the others sat with receptively blank countenances waiting further disclosures.

“No,” went on Scofield, “we find in the stomach unmistakable traces of poison.”

“Poison!” It was Anita’s frightened whisper; “who would poison her?”

“What kind of poison?” asked Brunt.

“Aconitine; deadly and sure. It leaves little trace, but certain tests reveal it beyond all doubt. That is why we have been so long. The tests are difficult of performance. But, it is over, and we report that Miss Lucy Carrington was poisoned by aconitine, administered either by her own hand or another.”

“Oh, she never would poison herself!” cried Anita; “who did it?”

“And the blow on the head?” said Inspector Brunt, looking deeply perplexed.

“Her death, from poison, occurred at or near two o’clock,” asserted the Coroner; “the blow on the head was given after life had departed.”

“Incredible!” said Brunt.

“It is, indeed, Inspector. But those are the facts. The heavy blow fractured the skull, but left no bruise or mark, nor was there any blood from the cut scalp. In addition we have the poison found in the system, and the death symptoms of quiet, placid dissolution which are consequent always on that particular poison.”

“Could it have been self-administered?” asked Brunt.

“Not by Miss Carrington,” said Doctor Stanton, decidedly. “The lady has been my patient for years, and she had an absolute abhorrence of all sorts of drugs or medicines. She made more fuss over taking a simple powder than a spoiled child. I have often prescribed for her, knowing full well she would not take my prescriptions because of her detestation of taking medicine. When remedies have been really necessary, I have had to administer them while with her, and a difficult task it was. Moreover, my patient was not of the temperament or disposition to seek death for herself, nor had she any reason to do so. No; the case is murder; the poison was administered by some one who wished for her death and deliberately set out to accomplish it—and succeeded.”

“Is the action of this poison instantaneous?” asked Brunt.

“No; death ensues about a half hour to an hour after the dose is taken into the system.”

“Then, we gather that the poison was taken in the neighborhood of one o’clock, last night.”

“Yes,” agreed the Coroner, “about one o’clock.”

“About one o’clock!” whispered Anita, in an awe-struck, gasping way, and her great blue eyes stared dazedly into the dark ones of Pauline.

CHAPTER VII

THE INQUEST

Next morning the inquest was proceeding. The great living-room at Garden Steps was crowded with listeners, drawn hither by sympathy, interest or curiosity. And each class found ample to satisfy its motive. The mere fact of being within that exclusive home, within those heretofore inaccessible doors, was enough to thrill and delight many, and observation and scrutiny were as well repaid as was the listening to the astounding revelations that were poured into their ears.

Coroner Scofield’s jury was composed of intelligent men, who were eagerly receptive to the appalling facts narrated to them and the curiously bizarre bits of evidence that became known as the witnesses were questioned.

Dr. Stanton told of his being called to the house, and his discoveries and conclusions. He admitted that he assumed death was caused by the blow on the head, but claimed that it was a pardonable error in view of the fact that such a blow had been given. He affirmed, and Dr. Moore corroborated it, that the autopsy showed that death was caused by aconitine poison, administered, either by the deceased or another, at an hour not earlier than one o’clock, and probably soon thereafter. The terrible blow that had fractured the skull had been given after life had been for some time extinct.

Dr. Stanton asserted emphatically his late patient’s detestation of drugs or medicines of any sort, adducing thereby the extreme improbability of the poison having been self-administered. Moreover, the temperament and disposition of the late Miss Carrington entirely evinced a love of life and desire to prolong it by means of any device or assistance the doctor might give.

Pauline was called next, and a little flutter of excitement in the audience greeted her appearance.

Exceedingly dignified, but of a sweet, gracious mien, she at once received the silent approval of the crowd. Her black gown, its collar of sheer white organdy slightly open at the throat, well suited her pale, beautiful face and her dark hair and eyes. To-day, her eyes seemed fathomless. At times, gazing intently at the Coroner until they almost disconcerted him; and then, hidden by veiling lids, whose long lashes fell suddenly, as if to conceal further disclosures.

On the whole, Pauline was not a satisfactory witness. She told, in most straightforward way, of leaving the breakfast table to go to her aunt’s room and of finding there the dead body. She told clearly all the circumstances of the upset tray, the spilled powder and the eccentric garb of Miss Carrington herself. But questions as to her opinion of these facts brought little response.

“You left Miss Carrington at half-past twelve?” asked Coroner Scofield.

“Not so late, I think,” returned Pauline; “probably at quarter or twenty minutes past twelve—I am not sure.”

“How was she then dressed?”

“In the gown she had worn during the evening.”

“And her jewels?”

“When I left my aunt, she was wearing her pearls and the other jewelry she had worn with her evening dress. Some brooches and rings and bracelets.”

“But not so much as she had on when you discovered her in the morning?”

“Not nearly so much.”

“How do you account for this?”

“I don’t account for it. To me it is exceedingly mysterious.”

“And the paper snake round her neck?”

“I have no idea by whom such a thing could have been brought to my aunt. But I am positive she never put it on herself. Nor can I think she would allow it to come near her if she were alive—or conscious—or, had power to scream for help. Any one knowing my aunt’s fear and horror of anything reptilian will agree to this.”

“It seems evident,” said the Coroner, thoughtfully, “that some intruder entered Miss Carrington’s room, at or near one o’clock. That this intruder in some manner induced Miss Carrington to swallow the poison, whether conscious of her act or not. That the intruder subsequently, and for some reason, placed the snake round the neck of the victim, and, later still, brutally gave her a stunning blow with the black-jack which was found, and thereby fractured her skull. Granting these assumptions, can you, Miss Stuart, give us any information that would lead to discovery of the hand that wrought this havoc?”

“Not any,” and Pauline raised her great eyes a moment to Scofield’s face and slowly dropped them again.

“Then can you not express an opinion or suggest a theory that might account for such strange happenings, at least, in part?”

“No,” said Pauline, slowly; “I have no idea, nor can I imagine why my aunt should be so elaborately arrayed and seated in an easy chair in front of her mirror. It is contrary to all her customs or habits.”

“Could she have been killed first and could the jewels and adornments have been added afterward?” asked the Coroner of the doctors.

“No,” replied Dr. Moore; “the whole condition of the body and clothing make such a theory practically impossible.”

“Quite impossible,” added Dr. Stanton; “and, too, what would be the sense of such a proceeding?”

“We are establishing the facts of the proceedings, not the sense of them,” returned the Coroner, a little testily, for he was at his wits’ end even to make a beginning in this strange case.

“At least,” he went on, “we have the facts and the approximate time of the crime; have you, Miss Stuart, any suspicion of who the murderer can be?”

The question was shot out suddenly. If its intent was to startle the witness, it certainly succeeded. Pauline Stuart turned even whiter than she had been, and she caught her breath quickly and audibly as she flashed a frightened glance at Gray Haviland. It was by no means an accusing glance, though many who saw it, eager for a direction in which to cast their suspicions, took it for such.

But Pauline controlled herself immediately. “Certainly not,” she said coldly. “That is, I can have no suspicion of the murderer’s identity. It was, of course, a midnight intruder, of the criminal class. I have no individual acquaintances who use or possess the weapon that was employed in this crime.”

“The black-jack is an auxiliary only. The poison may have been administered by one not versed in the ways of professional criminals. You admit that, I suppose?”

“It is no doubt true,” said Pauline, icily, “that poison may be given by a person not belonging to the criminal classes. I fail to see, however, how that fact affects the matter in hand.”

“It may well affect it. Since Miss Carrington was killed by a deadly poison, we must conclude that the black-jack assault was made with the intention of concealing the poisoning and making it appear that the blow caused the death. There seems to me no other way to account for the conditions that confront us.”

A silence followed this. Its truth was patent to everybody. Clearly, the poisoner had delivered the blow, for no one else would attack a victim already dead. And a plausible reason would be the hope that the poisoning would pass unnoticed in view of the other apparent cause of death.

“And it points to the work of an amateur,” went on Scofield; “a professional criminal would know that the autopsy would disclose the earlier crime.”

Pauline lost her nerve. “I don’t know anything about it!” she cried, and sank back into her seat, her face buried in her hands.

Coroner Scofield was a man of tact. “It is entirely natural, Miss Stuart,” he said, “that this thought should overcome you. But we must realize the fact that the theory of a professional burglar is practically untenable, because nothing was stolen. A burglar’s motive could be only robbery, and this did not take place. Nor can we think that a burglar was frightened away, before he could appropriate the jewels. For, after giving the poison, and before the blow was given, sufficient time elapsed for a successful getaway to be made. Nor would the burglar have been at pains to cover up his poisoning work, for having achieved his end, he would have secured his booty and made escape. So, it is evident that the motive, not being robbery, is as yet unknown, and may be obscure and complicated.”

“What could it have been?” asked Pauline, her composure regained, her voice low and even.

Scofield looked at her. “It is said, Miss Stuart, that the only motives for murder are love, revenge or gain. Can you imagine any one of these directed toward your aunt?”

Pauline replied tranquilly. Evidently she had fully recovered her poise. “I can think of no one who could have killed my aunt for love; it is improbable that she has ever done any one such wrong as to call for such a deed in revenge; as to gain, if you mean pecuniary gain, all the legatees mentioned in her will may be said to have that motive.”

Pauline’s manner and tones were so impersonal, so scathingly ironic as to amount to a disclaimer for all the legatees. Her way of suggesting it made it seem so far removed from possibility that it was far more emphatic than any denial could have been.

But Coroner Scofield was as unmoved as his witness.

“Quite so,” he said coolly; “and therefore inquiries must be made. Did you, Miss Stuart, after leaving your aunt soon after midnight see or hear anything unusual or suspicious?”

“What do you mean by unusual or suspicious?”

“I mean did you see or hear anything, anything at all, that you could not explain to yourself as being in any way connected with the tragedy we are investigating?”

Before answering, Pauline looked in turn at all the members of the household. Haviland slowly turned his head as if to look at something across the room, and as slowly brought it back to its previous position.

“I did not,” said Pauline, looking straight at the Coroner.

“That is all,” said Scofield, briefly, and the next witness was called.

This was the maid, Estelle. Her eyes were red with weeping, but she was not hysterical now, or incoherent. She answered tersely questions as to Miss Carrington’s habits and as to her words and actions during the maid’s last interview with her.

“I left her at about quarter of one,” the witness deposed; “I had given her the Oriental negligée, of which she is fond. I offered to take down her hair and put away her jewels, but she declined those services, and bade me leave her.”

“She was wearing, when you left her, only the jewels she had worn during the evening?”

“Only those, sir. When I changed her evening gown for the boudoir robe, she bade me replace such jewels as I had already taken off her. She kept on her rings, bracelets and her long rope of pearls while I changed her costume.”

“And then she dismissed you for the night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where was she then? Sitting before the mirror?”

“No, sir. She stood in the middle of the floor.”

“Was she in an amiable mood?”

“She was not. Because I offered to assist her further, she ordered me from the room in anger.”

“Ah, in anger! Was Miss Carrington often angry with you?”

“Indeed, yes; as she was with everybody.”

“Confine your answers to your own experience. You prepared a night luncheon for your mistress?”

“Yes, sir,” and now Estelle’s voice trembled and her eyes rolled apprehensively.

“What was it?”

“Two small sandwiches and a glass of milk.”

“What sort of sandwiches?”

“Caviare, sir.”

“Ah, yes. And why did you put a large dose of bromide in the glass of milk?”

“Did it kill her?” and Estelle screamed out her query. Pauline and Anita looked at one another. It was the same question Estelle had asked of them.

“An overdose of bromide may be fatal,” parried the Coroner, not answering the question directly. “Why did you do it?”

“I didn’t do it,” and the French girl shrugged her shoulders; “why should I poison my mistress? She was quick-tempered, but I was used to that.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said the Coroner; “the bromide didn’t poison Miss Carrington, for, in the first place, she didn’t take it. The glass of milk was found next morning untouched, though the sandwiches were gone. Therefore, the bromide in the milk was found. Why did you put it in?”

“I didn’t do it,” reiterated the maid. “Look higher up for that!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mention no names, but somebody must have done it, if bromide was found in that milk.”

“But you tried to get the glass away next morning, without being seen.”

“Who says I did?”

“Never mind that; you were seen. Why?”

“Well, sir, if I thought anybody was going to get into trouble because of it, I was only too glad to help, if I could, by removing it before it was noticed.” Estelle spoke slowly, as if weighing her words, and her furtive glances at Pauline bore only one significance. It was palpably apparent that she suspected Miss Stuart of the deed, and out of kindness had tried to remove the incriminating evidence.

Pauline stared at her with a glance that went through her or over her or around her, but gave not the slightest attention to the speaker.

“Did you put bromide in your aunt’s glass of milk, Miss Stuart?” asked the Coroner, and Pauline said, calmly, “Certainly not.”

Mr. Scofield sighed. It was a difficult matter to get at the truth when the witnesses were clever women, in whose veracity he had not complete confidence.

He gave up Estelle for the moment, and called Gray Haviland.

The young man’s appearance gave every promise of frankness and sincerity. He detailed the circumstances precisely as Pauline had told them. He denied having heard or seen anything suspicious during the night. He referred to the Coroner’s list of motives for crime, and added that he agreed with Miss Stuart that the present case could scarcely be ascribed to love or revenge. If the murder was committed for gain, it was, of course, a formal necessity to question all the beneficiaries of Miss Carrington’s will, but he was sure that all such inheritors were quite willing to be questioned. For his part, he believed that the criminal was some enemy of Miss Carrington, unknown to her immediate household, and he suggested that such a one be searched for.

“You’ve got that glove,” he reminded, “that was found clasped in the hand of the murdered woman. Why not trace that; or endeavor to learn in some way the reason for the many peculiar circumstances; or discover, at least, a way to look for further evidence; rather than to vaguely suspect those who lived under Miss Carrington’s roof?”

“I am not asking your assistance in conducting this inquiry, Mr. Haviland,” and the Coroner spoke shortly; “but pursuing my own plan of obtaining evidence in my own way. Will you kindly answer questions without comment on them?”

“Oh, all right; fire away. Only remember, that we relatives and friends are just as much interested in clearing up this mystery as you are, and we want to help, if we can be allowed to do so intelligently.”

Asked again if he saw or heard anything unusual in the night, Haviland replied, “You said ‘suspicious’ the other time. I did see something unusual. I saw Estelle go stealthily downstairs at three A.M. That’s unusual, but I don’t go so far as to call it suspicious.”

CHAPTER VIII

ANITA’S STORY

Instead of showing surprise at this statement, the Coroner broke the breathless silence that followed it, by saying:

“Will you please explain what you mean by ‘stealthily?’”

“Just what I say,” returned Haviland, bluntly. “She went slowly, now and then pausing to listen, twice drawing back around a corner and peeping out, and then coming forth again; she wore no shoes and carried no light; she went down the big staircase in the manner I have described, and after about ten minutes, returned in the same fashion. That’s what I mean by stealthily.”

“What was your errand?” asked Scofield of Estelle.

“Nothing. I didn’t go,” she replied, coolly.

“She tells an untruth,” said Gray, calmly. “She did go, just as I have described. But it was doubtless on an innocent errand. I have no idea she was implicated in Miss Carrington’s death. I am sure it is of casual explanation—or, I was sure, until Estelle denied it.”

“How was it you chanced to see her?”

“I was wakeful, and I was prowling around to find something to read. I went out in the hall and got a magazine from the table, and had returned to my room and was just closing the door, when I saw a white figure glide across the hall. She passed through a moonlit space or I could not have seen her. She was wrapped in a light or white kimono thing, and I should never have thought of it again if it were not for what has happened.”

“You knew it to be this Estelle?”

“Yes; her red hair was hanging in a braid.”

“’Tisn’t red!” snapped Estelle, but Mr. Scofield silenced her with a frown.

“Well, auburn, then,” said Haviland, easily. “You may as well own up, Estelle; what did you go down for?”

“I didn’t go,” repeated the maid, obstinately, and no cross-questioning could prevail on her to admit otherwise.

“All right,” and Haviland shrugged his shoulders; “I suppose it doesn’t matter, as the crime was committed about one o’clock. It’s up to you, Mr. Coroner, to find some person who acted suspiciously nearer that time. And, by the way, as man of business of this estate, unless some worthwhile evidence is forthcoming pretty soon, I’m going to round up a detective or two who will get somewhere.”

“Give us a little more time, Mr. Haviland,” said Scofield, suavely, “this inquest is only begun.”

“Well, get it over with, and then, if the truth hasn’t come to light, I’ll take a hand.”

Miss Frayne was called next, and Anita, with a look of importance on her pretty face, came forward.

Her evidence, at first, was merely a repetition of that already heard, and she corroborated Pauline’s recital of the scene as the two girls bade Miss Carrington good-night.

“And then?” prompted the Coroner.

“Then I went to my room, but I didn’t retire. I sat thinking over what Miss Carrington had said to me. And as I thought about it, I concluded that this time I was really dismissed from her secretaryship. And that made me feel very sorry, for it is a good position and I’ve no wish to lose it. So—after a time, I began to think I would go to Miss Carrington’s room and if she were still up, I would beg her forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness for what?”

“For any fancied grievance she might have against me. I have always tried to please her, but she was, er—difficult, and it was not easy to do the right thing at all times.”

“Did you go to her room?”

“I went to the door—”

“At what time?”

“Soon after one o’clock. Not more than five or ten minutes after.”

There was a rustle of excitement. The poison was said to be administered at about one! Did this fair doll-like girl know the secret of the tragedy?

“Proceed, Miss Frayne; tell the story of anything you saw at that time.”

“I saw nothing. But I heard a great deal.”

“What was it?”

“The door of Miss Carrington’s room was closed, and I was about to tap at it, when I heard talking inside. I paused, and I listened, in order to discover if her maid was still with her, or some one else. If it had been Estelle, I should have tapped for admittance. But it was not.”

“Who was it?”

“I cannot say. The voice I heard distinctly was that of Miss Carrington herself. Her voice was high-pitched, and of what is called a carrying sort. The things she said were so strange, I lingered, listening, for I was so surprised I couldn’t help it.”

“First, I heard her say, quite plainly, ‘Your face is the most beautiful I have ever seen! I wish mine were as beautiful.’ I assumed, then, she must be talking to Miss Stuart, for surely she would not say that to her maid. Then she said, ‘But, to-morrow, I shall be forever freed from this homely face of mine.’”

“Miss Frayne, this is very singular! Are you sure you heard correctly?”

“I am sure. But there is more. She next said, ‘To-morrow you will be glad!—glad!’ It was almost a scream, that. And she went on, ‘To-morrow all these jewels will be yours—if you—ah, but will you?’ and then her voice trailed off faintly, and I could hear no more.”

“You heard nothing more at all?”

“Yes; I waited—oh, I admit I was eavesdropping, but it was so strange I couldn’t help it—there was silence. It may well be some one else was replying to her, but I could not make out any other person’s words. A low voice would not be audible like a high-pitched one. But after a moment, Miss Carrington resumed; she said, ‘I shall change my will. Not Carr’s half, that must stand. But the other half shall never go to a niece who has no affection for me!’ Again I heard nothing, for the responses were inaudible. Then Miss Carrington said, in a musing tone: ‘I have already willed you ten thousand dollars of those United States bonds, but——’ And then, after quite a long pause, Miss Carrington cried out, not loudly, but tensely, ‘Henri, Henri! you are the mark I aim at!’ That frightened me so, I ran swiftly back to my room, and locked the door.”

“You assumed Henri to be Count Charlier?”

“I had no other construction to put upon the words.”

“You thought the gentleman was in Miss Carrington’s room?”

“I couldn’t think that! And yet, it sounded as if she were speaking to him, not of him.”

“This is a very strange story, Miss Frayne. Have you mentioned these things you overheard to any one before this?”

“No. I have thought them over, and concluded it was best to tell the story first to you.”

“And quite right. It is, then, your opinion that there was another person in Miss Carrington’s room, to whom she was speaking?”

“It seemed so to me.”

“But you did not hear this other person’s voice?”

Anita paused a moment and then said: “Not distinctly.”

“Did you hear it at all?”

“I cannot say. When I did not hear Miss Carrington’s voice clearly, there were sounds that might have been another person or her own voice speaking more inaudibly.”

“Might it not be that she was merely talking to herself—soliloquizing?”

“It could not have been that. She spoke definitely and decidedly to some one when she said ‘Your face is beautiful,’ and when she said, ‘I have willed you ten thousand dollars,’ indeed, every thing she said was as if spoken to some hearer; not as one who talks to herself.”

“After you regained your room, did you leave it again?”

“No, I did not.”

“H’m. Now, are you positive, Miss Frayne, that all these speeches were said just as you have repeated them? It is a great strain on the memory to repeat accurately a conversation as long as the one you have just rehearsed.”

“The speeches I heard are burned into my brain. I could not forget them if I would. I may have erred in some minor or unimportant words, but the most of what I heard is precisely as I have repeated it. Indeed, so thoroughly was I amazed at it all, I wrote it down as soon as I reached my room. I had then no thought of—of what was going to happen, but Miss Carrington had made peculiar remarks during the evening about something happening to her, and in connection with that the words I heard seemed so remarkable—not to say uncanny—that I made a note of them. This is not an unusual habit with me. I often make notes of conversations, as it has been useful in my services as secretary.”

“As how?”

“If a caller in a social or business way had conversation with Miss Carrington, and I was present, I often made a record, in case she asked me later just what had been said.”

“I see. And how do you interpret the words, ‘Henri, you are the mark I aim at?’”

“I can only think that Miss Carrington was in favor of considering a marriage between herself and the Count.”

“You made use of the word ‘uncanny.’ Do you imagine that Miss Carrington had any foreboding of her approaching doom?”

“When I heard her say, ‘To-morrow I will be forever freed from this homely face of mine,’ and ‘to-morrow all these jewels will be yours,’ I couldn’t help thinking—after the discovery of her death—that she must have anticipated it.”

“Did her voice sound like the despairing one of a person about to die?”

“On the contrary, it sounded full of life and animation.”

“Did she seem angry with the person to whom she was speaking?”

“At times, yes. And, again, no. Her voice showed varying emotions as she talked on.”

“Her speech was not continuous, then?”

“Not at all. It was broken, and in snatches. But, remember, I could not hear all of what she said, and the other person or persons not at all.”

“Did you not catch a word from the other voice?”

“I cannot say. Much, in a low tone, that I could not hear clearly, might have been Miss Carrington’s voice or another’s. The door was closed, and as soon as I realized there was some one there, not Estelle, I had no thought of knocking, and I soon went away. I ought to have gone away sooner, and would have done so, but I was so amazed and puzzled I stayed on involuntarily.”

“Your story, Miss Frayne, is very extraordinary. Can you suggest, from what you heard, who might have been in the room with Miss Carrington?”

“I can not, nor do I wish to. I have told you what I heard, it is for you to make deductions or discoveries.”

“I wish to say a word, Mr. Coroner,” and Pauline Stuart, with her dark eyes blazing, rose to her feet. “I am sorry to say this, but I must ask you to hesitate before you put too much faith in the amazing tale you have just listened to. I am sure Miss Frayne could not have heard all that nonsense! It is impossible, on the face of it, that my aunt should have received any one in her room after her maid left her. It is incredible that she should have made all those ridiculous and meaningless remarks! And it is despicable for any woman to imply or hint that Miss Carrington was receiving a gentleman caller! I am surprised that you even listened to what must be the ravings of a disordered mind!”

Pauline looked at Anita like an avenging goddess. But the darts of scorn from her dark eyes were met and returned in kind from the big blue ones of the secretary.

“I resent your tone and your words,” said Anita, deliberately; “but since you choose to adopt that attitude, I will go on to say what I had intended not to reveal, that I saw you coming from your aunt’s room, after the conversation I have told of took place.”

“Wait a minute,” said the Coroner; “you said that immediately after hearing the alleged conversation you went at once to your room, and did not leave it again.”

“Nor did I. But a few minutes later, unable to restrain my curiosity, I opened my door, and looked out. My position then commanded a full view of the hall, and I saw Miss Stuart go from her aunt’s room to her own.”

Pauline looked at the speaker. Coldly her glance swept back to the Coroner, and she said: “I deny that I was in my aunt’s room after leaving it at midnight in company with Miss Frayne. But she forces me to tell that I saw her going away from it at exactly quarter past one.”

“How do you fix the time so accurately?”

“I was sitting in the upper hall—it is really a sitting-room, at the bay-windowed end—looking at the moon. I, too, had been disturbed at my aunt’s attitude, and her threats to send me away to-day, and I had gone to the hall window-seat, a favorite haunt of mine, and had sat there for a half hour or more.”

“Could any one going through the hall see you?”

“Probably not, as the draperies are heavy, and I was in the deep window-seat. I was thinking I would go to my room, and then I saw Miss Frayne come from my aunt’s room and go to her own.”

“Are you sure she came from the room?”

“She was closing the door, her hand was on the knob. She did not see me, I am sure, for I drew back in the window and watched her. And just then I heard the hall clock chime the quarter after one.”

“You didn’t see Miss Frayne when she went to Miss Carrington’s room?”

“No; I suppose I was then looking out of the deep window.”

“Nor did you hear her?”

“No, the rugs are thick and a light foot-fall makes no sound.”

“What did you next do?”

“I went—I went straight to my own room.”

The slight hesitation told against Pauline. All through her testimony, all through her arraignment of Anita—for it amounted to that—she had been cool, calm and imperturbable. But now a momentary hesitation of speech, added perhaps, to the circumstantial story of Anita Frayne, caused a wave of doubt—not enough to call suspicion—but a questioning attitude to form in the minds of many of the audience.

To whom, if not Miss Stuart, could Miss Carrington’s remarks about beauty have been addressed? It was well known that Miss Lucy adored beauty and had all her life lamented her own lack of it. This was no secret woe of the poor lady’s. To any one who would listen, she would complain of her hard lot in having all the gifts of the gods except good looks. To whom else would she say ‘To-morrow all these jewels will be yours—if you—ah, but will you?’

And yet, after all, it did not make sense. Was it not far more likely to be a figment of Miss Frayne’s clever mind, for what purpose who might say?

At any rate, their stories were contradictory and moreover were garbled.

The jurymen sighed. The case had been mysterious enough before, now it was becoming inexplicable.

CHAPTER IX

FURTHER TESTIMONY

Count Henri Charlier was being questioned, and he was distinctly ill at ease. His French savoir faire was not proof against definite inquiries as to his intentions regarding the late Miss Carrington, and indefinite allusions concerning his movements on the night of her death.

He had related, straightforwardly enough, his visit at Garden Steps that evening and his departure at or about midnight. He denied his engagement of marriage, but admitted that he had paid Miss Carrington such attentions as might lead her to suspect an attachment.

“You did not return to this house after leaving on Tuesday night?”

“Most assuredly not.”

“You were not in Miss Carrington’s boudoir at one o’clock or thereabouts?”

Count Charlier’s black eyes snapped. But by a successful effort he controlled his indignation, and said, simply, “I was not.”

“But she was heard to address you.”

“Impossible, as I was not there.”

“She distinctly declared that you were the mark she aimed at. What construction do you put upon those words?”

“It is not for me to boast of my attraction for a lady.”

Count Charlier simpered a little, and Gray Haviland looked at him with a frown of undisguised scorn. Haviland had never liked the Count, indeed, he even doubted his right to the title, and especially had he feared a marriage between him and Miss Lucy. And, granting that this feeling was partly due to a consideration of his own interests, Haviland also distrusted the Frenchman and doubted Miss Lucy’s happiness as his wife.

“Did Miss Carrington leave you a bequest of ten thousand dollars in United States bonds?” went on the Coroner.

“I—I don’t know,” and the Count stammered in an embarrassed way.

“You do know!” shouted Haviland; “the will has been read, and you know perfectly well that such a bequest was left to you.”

“Why did you deny the knowledge?” asked Scofield, sternly.

“I’m—I’m not sure—”

“You are sure!” stormed Gray. “Now where were you when Miss Carrington spoke those words to you? If not in her boudoir, then on the balcony outside the window, perhaps.”

“Absurd,” said the Coroner.

“Not at all,” said Gray; “that window opens on a balcony enclosed by glass. It is easily reached from outside by a small staircase, mostly used in summer, but always available. How could Miss Carrington speak to the Count concerning the bonds and concerning her infatuation for himself, which is no secret, unless he were there before her? And how could he be in the room—in her boudoir—unknown to the servants? Moreover, Mr. Coroner, I believe the glove found in Miss Carrington’s hand to be the property of Count Charlier.”

“But no!” cried the witness, excitedly; “I have repeatedly disclaimed that glove. It is not mine, I know not whose it is. I know nothing of this sad affair, whatever. If the money is left to me, as I have been told, it is a—a surprise to me.”

“Surprise nothing!” murmured Haviland, but he said no more to the Count.

“If my story might be told now—” ventured Mrs. Frothingham.

After a moment’s hesitation, Coroner Scofield decided to let her tell it, as having a possible bearing on Count Charlier’s testimony.

The rather stunning-looking widow was fashionably dressed, and she fluttered with an air of importance as she took the stand. She related again the story she had told of the supposed burglar, whom she saw leaving the living-room by way of a window, at four o’clock on Wednesday morning.

“How can you be so sure it was a burglar?” asked Scofield.

“Oh, he looked like one. All huddled up, you know, and his face buried between a high coat collar and a drawn-down cap. And he walked slyly—sort of glided among the shrubs and trees, as if avoiding notice. No man on legitimate business would skulk like that.”

“Might it not have been Count Charlier?” asked the Coroner, bluntly.

“Certainly not!” and Mrs. Frothingham gave a little shriek. “The Count is a slim and elegant figure; this was a stocky, burly man; a marauder, I know.”

“It may be,” said the Coroner, wearily. “It may be that a burglar was concealed in the house, or let in by a servant, and that he attacked Miss Carrington as she was seated at her dressing table. It seems impossible that he should have administered poison to her, however, and the conjoined circumstances may indicate collusion between—”

“Between whom?” asked Inspector Brunt.

“I don’t know,” confessed Scofield. “Every way I try to think it out, I ran up against an impassable barrier.”

“That’s what I say,” began Haviland; “it is a most involved case. I shall cable Carrington Loria for authority to employ an expert detective.”

“Why cable him?” asked Pauline; “I am equally in authority now. Carr and myself each receive half the residuary estate of Aunt Lucy, and, of course, I am as anxious to find the—the murderer, as Carr can possibly be.”

“Well, somebody will have to authorize it who is willing to pay for it. As man of business in this home, I am willing to attend to all such matters, but I must have authority.”

“You seem to me a little premature, Mr. Haviland,” commented the Inspector. “Perhaps when the inquest is concluded, it may not be necessary to call on any other detective than our own Mr. Hardy.”

“Perhaps not,” agreed Haviland; “but unless you people all wake up, you’re not going to get anywhere. I admit the getting is difficult, but that’s just the reason a wise sleuth should be called in before the trails grow cold.”

And then the Coroner returned to his task of questioning Mrs. Frothingham.

The widow was not definitely helpful. Her statements were often contradictory in minor details, and when she corrected them they seemed to lose in weight. She stuck to the main points, however, that by the help of a strong field-glass she had discerned, in the bright moonlight, a man leave by way of the French window, at four o’clock, and had seen him make his way stealthily out by the great entrance gates of the place.

Cross-questioning on this brought no variations, and the jurymen wagged their heads in belief of her story.

But her accounts of her own doings on Tuesday evening were vague and indefinite.

“I was in my own home all the evening,” she said at one time; and again, “I went out for a short walk at eleven o’clock.” This last in refutation of Haskins, the Carrington butler, who deposed to having seen the lady walk across the lawns of Garden Steps.

“Where did you walk?”

“Oh, just around my own place; and for a moment I strolled over here because the Steps looked so beautiful in the moonlight.”

“You were alone?”

“I was. I have no house guests at present, save the Count; and as my brother, who lives with me, is on a Western trip, I was alone, and I walked about to kill time until Count Charlier should return after his bridge game over here.”

“Did you walk near the house, while on the Garden Steps’ estate?” asked Scofield, scenting a possible espionage of her titled visitor.

“Oh, no!” and the witness bristled with indignation; “why should I! I was not really an acquaintance of Miss Carrington, merely a neighbor.”

“Beg pardon, ma’am, but I saw you on the conservatory verandah,” said Haskins, in a deprecatory way.

“That is not true, Mr. Coroner,” said the lady, glancing scornfully at the butler. “I beg you will not accept a servant’s statement in preference to mine!”

“You are sure of this, Haskins?” said the Inspector gravely.

“Yes, sir. Sure, sir.” and the man looked doggedly certain, though a little scared.

“And you deny it?” went on Scofield to Mrs. Frothingham.

“I most certainly do! How absurd for me to be over here, and how more than absurd for me to deny it if I were!”

This seemed sensible. Why should she deny it? And mightn’t the butler be mistaken? Or deliberately falsifying?

If there were collusion or criminal assistance by any of the servants, surely the word of all of them must be mistrusted unless proven.

And, too, what could have brought Mrs. Frothingham to the verandah of a home where she was not an accepted guest? Or, could she have been spying on the Count?

For it had slowly entered the Coroner’s not very alert mind that perhaps the volatile widow had her own plans for the Count’s future, and Miss Carrington did not figure in them. The manner of the witness bore out this theory. She was self-conscious and at times confused. She frequently looked at the Count and then quickly averted her gaze. She blushed and stammered when speaking his name or referring to him. In a word, she acted as a woman might act in regard to a man of whom she was jealous. And the situation bore it out. If Mrs. Frothingham had matrimonial designs on her distinguished guest, would she not naturally resent his visits to a rich neighbor? Mrs. Frothingham was not rich, and she may well have been afraid of Miss Carrington’s charm of gold, which could cause many a man to overlook anything else that might be lacking.

Coroner Scofield was getting more and more tangled in the mazes of this extraordinary case. He was practically at his wits’ end. At last he blurted out: “It is impossible, it seems, to get a coherent, or even plausible story from a woman! Is there any man present, who knows any of the details of the happenings of Tuesday evening and night?”

There was a moment’s silence at this rather petulant speech, and then Stephen Illsley rose, and speaking very gravely, said:

“It seems to be my unpleasant duty to tell what little I know of these matters.”

The relieved Coroner heard this with satisfaction. Accepting his good fortune, he prepared to listen to Illsley’s testimony.

“I was spending the evening here,” the witness began, “and during my visit I was in the various rooms. At a late hour, perhaps something after eleven—I was crossing the hall, and I saw Mrs. Frothingham on the stairway.”

“On the stairway!” exclaimed the Coroner, in amazement.

“Yes,” returned Illsley, his grave eyes resting on the face of the widow, who stared at him as if stricken dumb. “Yes, I saw her distinctly. She was evidently coming downstairs, one hand rested on the banister, and she was looking upward at the ceiling.”

“Did she see you?”

“I think not. If so, she made no sign. But she was not looking my way, and I went on into the reception room, where I was going in search of a scarf Miss Stuart had left there. When I recrossed the hall, the lady had disappeared.”

“Did not this seem to you a strange circumstance?”

“I had no right to any opinion on the subject. It was not my affair what guests were at the house I was visiting, or what they might be doing.”

“But Mrs. Frothingham asserts she was not an acquaintance of Miss Carrington.”

“I did not know that, then; and even so, it gave me no right to speculate concerning the lady’s presence there. Nor should I refer to it now, except that in view of the subsequent tragedy it is due to every principle of right and justice that all truths be known as to that evening. Mrs. Frothingham will, of course, recall the episode and can doubtless explain it.”

“I should like to hear the explanation!” said Pauline, with flashing eyes. “As mistress here now, I am interested to know why a stranger should wander about this house at will.”

Mrs. Frothingham sat silent. Her face showed not so much consternation or dismay as a cold, calculating expression, as if debating just what explanation she should offer.

At last she spoke. “I may as well own up,” she said, and laughed nervously. “I was on the verandah, as the vigilant butler noticed. I did step inside the hall, as I had so often heard of the rare tapestries and paintings, and, in my ennui, I thought it no harm to take a peep. The great door was ajar, and I was a little chilled by my walk across the lawns. I said to myself, if I meet any one I will merely beg a few moments’ grace and then run away. Yes, I did take a step or two up the stair, to look at a picture on the landing. It was all innocent enough, perhaps not in the best of taste, but I was lonely, and the light and warmth lured me. In a moment I had slipped out and run away home, laughing over my escapade like a foolish child.”

Her light laugh rippled out as she concluded her story. She looked ingenuous and truthful, but the Coroner distrusted feminine fairy-tales, and this was a little too fanciful to be true.

Moreover, Mrs. Frothingham was looking at him sharply from the corner of her eye. Clearly, she was watching him to see how he took it.

He didn’t take it very well. The acknowledged presence of an outsider in the house, for a not very plausible reason, was illuminating in his estimation. She had been on the stairway. Had she been to Miss Carrington’s room? True, she said she went only to the landing—but pshaw, women had no regard for the truth! Had she and Count Charlier planned between them to—bah, why did this woman want to kill her neighbor? Even if she were jealous of the Count’s attention, would she go so far as crime? No, of course not! He must question her further. And yet, what good would that do, if she would not tell the truth?

Well, she was in the house at half-past eleven, that much was certain, for Stephen Illsley’s story and her own and also the butler’s testimony all coincided as to that.

And then, Detective Hardy, who had just returned from a short errand, made a startling statement. He declared that the glove which had been found clasped tightly in the dead fingers of the late Miss Carrington did belong to Count Henri Charlier.

Mr. Hardy had been searching the Count’s wardrobe, and though he did not find the mate to that particular glove, he found many others, some worn and some entirely unused, but all of the same size and made by the same firm as the one now in the Coroner’s possession!

Thus cornered Count Charlier reluctantly admitted that it was his glove.

“I denied it,” he thus excused himself, “because I have no idea how it came into Miss Carrington’s possession, and I did not wish to implicate her in an affair with my unworthy self.”

“H’m,” thought Gray Haviland, fixing his attention on the Count and on the flustered Mrs. Frothingham; “a precious pair of adventurers! I expect Scofield is right, we won’t need an expert detective.”

There was more of the inquest. But its continuance brought out no developments not already here transcribed. There was much cross-questioning and probing; there was much rather futile effort to make all the strange details fit any one theory; there was variance of opinion; and there was more or less dissension.

But as a final result, the Coroner’s jury brought in a verdict that Miss Lucy Carrington met her death by poison administered by a person or persons unknown, who thereafter, probably for the purpose of diverting attention from the poison, struck her a blow on the head. The jury in their deliberation felt that Count Henri Charlier was implicated. But not having sufficient evidence to make a charge, suggested to the detective force that he be kept under surveillance.

CHAPTER X

BIZARRE CLUES

It was Saturday. The funeral of Miss Carrington had been held the day before and the imposing obsequies had been entirely in keeping with her love of elaborate display in life. The casket was of the richest, the flowers piled mountain high, the music, the most expensive available; for the young people in charge had felt it incumbent on them to arrange everything as Miss Lucy would have desired it.

It was a pathetic commentary on the character of the dead woman that while all who mourned her felt the shock and horror of her death, they were not deeply bowed with sorrow. Pauline, as nearest relative, would naturally grieve most, but for the moment her affections were lost sight of in the paralyzing effects of the sudden tragedy.

Anita Frayne had practically “gone to pieces.” She was nervous, and jumped twitchingly if any one spoke to her.

Gray Haviland was reticent, an unusual thing for him, and devoted most of his time to matters of business connected with the estate.

Estelle, the maid, had succumbed to a nervous break-down, and had been taken to a nearby sanatorium, where she indulged in frequent and violent hysterics.

The household was in a continual excitement. Lawyers and detectives were coming and going, neighbors were calling, and reporters simply infested the place.

Pauline and Anita, though outwardly polite, were not on good terms, and rarely talked together.

But this morning the two girls and Haviland were called to a confab by Hardy, the detective.

“They’ve arrested the Count,” Hardy began, and Anita screamed an interruption:

“Arrested Count Charlier! Put him in jail?”

“Yes,” returned the detective. “I found the other one of that pair of gloves, the mate to the one in the lady’s hands—where, do you suppose?”

“Where?”

“Rolled up in a pair of socks, in the Count’s chiffonnier drawer; of course, to hide it, as it is not at all easy to destroy a thing like that while visiting.”

“I know it,” said Pauline, earnestly; “it is hard. I’ve often noticed that, when I’ve wanted to burn a letter or anything. You can’t do it, unknown to the servants or somebody.”

“Rubbish!” said Anita, “It would have been easy for the Count to dispose of a glove if he had wanted to. But he didn’t. He never committed that crime! If a glove was found, as you say, somebody else put it there to incriminate an innocent man. It’s too absurd to fasten the thing on Count Charlier! Do you suppose he went to the boudoir and gave Miss Carrington poison, and then shook hands good-evening, and left his glove in her grasp? Nonsense! The glove in her dead hand was put there by the criminal to implicate the Count, and the glove in the rolled-up socks for the same purpose and by the same person!”

“By Jove, Miss Frayne! You may be right!” cried Hardy. “Somehow I can’t see the Count’s hand in this thing, and yet—”

“And yet, he did it!” put in Haviland. “Have they really jailed him? I’m glad.”

“I’m sorry,” said Pauline, and her face was white; “Did he—did he—c-confess?” The girl’s voice trembled, and she could scarcely pronounce the words.

“Not he,” said Hardy; “he seemed dazed, and declared his innocence—but he was not convincing. He takes it very hard and talks wildly and at random. But you know what Frenchmen are; liable to go off their heads at any time.”

“But look at it,” reasoned Anita; “why would the Count kill Miss Carrington? Why, he thought of marrying her.”

“Not much he didn’t!” and Hardy smiled a little. “I size it up this way. Matters had gone so far that he had to propose to the lady or clear out. He didn’t want to clear out for then she would take back the little matter of ten thousand dollars already marked for him in her will. Moreover, he couldn’t realize that tidy little sum, which he very much wants, so long as she lived. To be sure, he would have had far more, had he married her, but that was not in ‘his nibs’’ plans. So he resorted to desperate measures. He’s a thorough villain, that man! Outwardly, most correct and honorable, but really, an adventurer, as is also his friend, the dashing young widow.”

“Mr. Hardy,” and Pauline spoke calmly, now, “do you know these things to be true of Count Charlier, or are you assuming them?”

“Well, Miss Stuart, I know human nature pretty well, especially male human nature, and if I’m mistaken in this chap, I’ll be surprised. But also, I’ve set afoot an investigation, and we’ll soon learn his record, antecedents and all that. At present, no one knows much about him; and what Mrs. Frothingham knows she won’t tell.”

“It was very strange for Aunt Lucy to give him that money—” began Pauline musingly.

“Not at all,” broke in Gray, “I know all about that. Miss Carrington had a certain bunch of bonds that amounted to just fifty thousand dollars. In one of her sudden bursts of generosity, and she often had such, she decided to give those bonds to five people. I mean, to devise them in her will, not to give them now. Well, four were Miss Stuart and Carr Loria, Miss Frayne and myself. And then, she hesitated for some time, but finally announced that the fifth portion should be named for the Count. I was there when the lawyer fixed it up, and Miss Carrington turned to me and said, laughingly, ‘I may change that before it comes due!’ Oh, she was always messing with her will. I’m glad there’s a tidy bit in it for me, as it is. Her demise might have taken place when I was for the moment cut out.”

“Was there ever such a time?” asked Hardy.

“There sure was! Only last month, she got firing mad with me, and crossed me off without a shilling. Then she got over her mad and restored me to favor.”

“You and Miss Frayne have other bequests than those particular bonds you mentioned?” asked the detective.

“Yes, we have each ten thou’ beside, which was all right of the old lady, eh, Anita?”

“None too much, considering what I have stood from her capricious temper and eccentric ways,” returned the girl.

“Your own temper is none too even,” said Pauline, quietly; “I’d rather you wouldn’t speak ill of my aunt, if you please.”

What might have been a passage at arms was averted by the appearance of a footman with a cablegram.

“It’s from Carr!” exclaimed Pauline, as she tore it open, and read:

Awful news just received. Shall I come home or will you come here? Let Haviland attend all business. Love and sympathy.

Carrington Loria.

“He’s in Cairo,” commented Haviland, looking at the paper; “that’s lucky. If he had been off up the Nile on one of his excavating tours, we mightn’t have had communication for weeks. Well, he practically retains me as business manager, at least for the present. And Lord knows there’s a lot to be done!”

“I don’t understand, Gray, why you look upon Carr as more in authority than I am,” said Pauline, almost petulantly; “I am an equal heir, and, too, I am here, and Carr is the other side of the world.”

“That’s so, Polly. I don’t know why, myself. I suppose because he is the man of the family.”

“That doesn’t make any difference. I think from now on, Gray, it will be proper for you to consider me the head of the house as far as business matters are concerned. You can pay Carr his half of the residuary in whatever form he wants it. I shall keep the place, at least for the present.”

“Won’t Mr. Loria come back to America?” asked Hardy.

“I scarcely think so,” replied Pauline. “There’s really no use of his doing so, unless he chooses. And I’m pretty sure he won’t choose, as he’s so wrapped up in his work over there, that he’d hate to leave unless necessary.”

“But won’t he feel a necessity to help investigate the murder?” urged Hardy.

“I don’t know,” and Pauline looked thoughtful. “You see what he says; when he asks if he shall come home, he means do I want him to. If I don’t request it, I’m fairly sure he won’t come. Of course, when he learns all the details, he will be as anxious as we that the murderer should be found. But if I know Carr, he will far rather pay for the most expensive detective service than come over himself. And, too, what could he do, more than we can? We shall, of course, use every effort and every means to solve the mysteries of the case, and he could advise us no better than the lawyers already in our counsel.”

“That’s all true,” said Haviland; “and I think Loria means that when he puts me in charge of it all. But after a week or so we’ll get a letter from him, and he’ll tell us what he intends to do.”

“I shall cable him,” said Pauline, thoughtfully, “not to come over unless he wants to. Then he can do as he likes. But he needn’t come for my benefit. The property must be divided and all that, but we can settle any uncertainties by mail or cable. And, I think I shall go on the trip as we had planned it.”

“You do!” said Gray, in amazement. “Go to Egypt?”

“Yes, I don’t see why not. I’d like the trip, and it would take my mind off these horrors. Our passage is booked for a February sailing. If necessary I will postpone it a few weeks, but I see no reason why I shouldn’t go. Do you?”

“No,” said Haviland, slowly.

Hardy seemed about to speak and then thought better of it, and said nothing.

“Of course I shall not go,” began Anita, and Pauline interrupted her with:

“You go! I should say not! Why should you?”

“Why shouldn’t I, if I choose?” returned Anita, and her pink cheeks burned rosy. “I am my own mistress, I have my own money. I am as free to go as you are.”

“Of course you are,” said Pauline, coldly. “Only please advise me on what steamer you are sailing.”

“That you may take another,” and Anita laughed shortly. “But I may prefer to go on the one you do. Aren’t you rather suddenly anxious to leave this country?”

Pauline faced her. “Anita Frayne,” she said, “if you suspect me of crime, I would rather you said so definitely, than to fling out these continual innuendoes. Do you?”

“I couldn’t say that Pauline. But there are—there certainly are some things to be explained regarding your interview with your aunt on Tuesday night. You know, I heard you in her room.”

“Your speech, Anita, is that of a guilty conscience. As you well know, I saw you come from her room at the hour you accuse me of being there.”

“Let up, girls,” said Haviland; “you only make trouble by that sort of talk.”

“But when an innocent man is arrested, Pauline ought to tell what she knows!”

“I have told, and it seems to implicate you!”

The impending scene was averted by Haviland, who insisted on knowing what word should be sent to Loria.

“May as well get it off,” he said; “it takes long enough to get word back and forth to him, anyway. What shall I say for you, Polly?”

“Tell him to come over or not, just as he prefers, but that I shall be quite content if he does not care to come; and that I shall go to Egypt as soon as I can arrange to do so. Put it into shape yourself—you know more about cabling than I do.”

Haviland went away to the library, and Hardy followed.

“Look here, Mr. Haviland,” said the latter, “what do these ladies mean by accusing each other of all sorts of things? Did either of them have any hand in this murder?”

“Not in a thousand years!” declared Gray, emphatically. “The girls never loved each other, but lately, even before the death of Miss Lucy, they have been at daggers drawn. I don’t know why, I’m sure!”

“But what do you make of this story of Miss Frayne’s about hearing Miss Stuart in her aunt’s room?”

“She didn’t hear her. I mean she didn’t hear Miss Stuart; what she heard was Miss Carrington talking to herself. The old lady was erratic in lots of ways.”

“Why do you all say the old lady? She wasn’t really old.”

“About fifty. But she tried so hard to appear young, that it made her seem older.”

“She was in love with the Count, of course?”

“Yes; as she was in love with any man she could attach. No, that’s not quite true. Miss Lucy cared only for interesting men, but if she could corral one of those, she used every effort to snare him.”

“Is the illustrious Count interesting?”

“She found him so. And, yes, he always entertained us. She made that bequest to attract his attention and lure him on. And then—”

“Well, and then?”

“Oh, then he couldn’t withstand the temptation and he shuffled her off, to make sure of the money now.”

“You think he killed her, then?”

“Who else? Those girls never used a black-jack—”

“But the poison?”

“Had it been poison alone, there might be a question. But that stunning blow has to be remembered. And neither Miss Stuart nor Miss Frayne can be thought of for a moment in connection with that piece of brutality.”

“But the snake? The queer costume?”

“The costume wasn’t so queer—for a boudoir garb. The snake is inexplicable—unless the man has a disordered mind, and used insane methods to cover his tracks. Then there’s the glove, you can’t get around that!”

“That glove might have been put in her hand by anybody.”

“That’s so! By a professional burglar, say! I really believe—”

“Oh, let up on that professional burglar business! No burglar is going off without his loot, when he has uninterrupted time enough to kill a person twice, with poison and then, to hide that, with a fractured skull! How do you explain, even in theory, those two murderous attacks?”

“Good Lord, man, I don’t know! It’s all the most inexplicable muddle. I don’t see how any of the things could happen, but they did happen! You’re the detective, not I! Aren’t you ever going to discover anything?”

“I may as well own up, Mr. Haviland, I am beyond my depth. There is a belief among detectives that the more bizarre and amazing the clues are, the easier the deduction therefrom. But I don’t believe that. This case is bizarre enough, in all conscience, yet what can one deduce from that paper snake and that squeezed-up glove? It was all up in a little wad, you know, not at all as if it were carelessly drawn from a man’s hand, or pulled off in a struggle.”

“There was no struggle. The features were composed, even almost smiling.”

“I know it. That proves it was no burglar. Well, I’m up a tree. I wish you felt inclined to call in Fleming Stone. He’s the only man on this continent who could unravel it all.”

“I want to get him, but Miss Stuart won’t hear of it. I’d have to have either her authority or Loria’s.”

“But Mr. Loria gave you full swing, in that cable.”

“Yes, for ordinary business matters. But this is different. I’d have to have assurance that he’d pay the bills before I engaged Stone. I’ve heard he’s some expensive.”

“I’ve heard that, too. But, by Jove, I’d like to work with him! Or under him. I say, I wish you could bring it about.”

“I might cable Loria on my own, and not mention it to Miss Stuart until I get the permission.”

“Do. For as you say, the two ladies cannot possibly be involved, and I, for one, don’t believe that nincompoop Count ever pulled off such a complicated affair all by himself.”

“What about the widow he’s visiting?”

“Ah, there you have it! Those two are in it, but there’s more mystery yet.”

“I’d like to have it straightened out,” said Haviland, thoughtfully. “In a way, I feel responsible to Loria, since he has put me in charge. And if he wants me to get Stone, I’ll be glad to do so. As you say, it can’t affect the girls—that stuff Anita made up was only to bother Pauline. You see, Pauline came back at her with a counter accusation. They’re both unstrung and upset, and they scarcely know what they’re saying.”

“Then there’s that French maid.”

“Oh, Estelle. She’s a negligible quantity. She’s hysterical from sheer nervousness, and she lies so fast she can hardly keep up with herself.”

“Well, think it over, and if you see your way clear to call in Stone, I’ll be mighty glad. If the Frenchman is the guilty party, Stone will nail him and prove it beyond all doubt. And if not, we surely don’t want an innocent man to swing.”

“That we don’t,” agreed Haviland.

CHAPTER XI

FLEMING STONE

“Yes, I have often heard the idea expressed that the more bizarre the clues appear, the easier the solution of the mystery. And this is frequently true.”

Fleming Stone looked from one to another of the interested group of listeners. They sat in the library—Pauline, Anita, Gray Haviland and the young detective, Hardy.

Haviland had carried out his plan of cabling Carrington Loria for authority to employ Mr. Stone, and had received a reply to use his own judgment in all such matters and charge the expense to Loria’s account.

Pauline had been opposed to the idea of calling Fleming Stone to the case, but as she seemed unable to put forth any valid objections, Haviland had insisted until she gave her consent. So arrangements had been quickly made, and the great Detective had reached Garden Steps on Wednesday afternoon, just a week after the discovery of the murder.

Previously unacquainted with Stone, the whole household was interested in his personality, and this preliminary conversation was by way of introduction.

A man of nearly fifty, Fleming Stone was tall and well proportioned, with a carriage and bearing that gave an impression of strength. His clear-cut face and firm jaw gave the same character indications as are seen in portraits of Lincoln, but his features were far more harmonious than those of our rugged-faced president.

Stone’s hair, thick and dark, was slightly grayed at the temples, and his deep-set eyes were now lustrous, and again, shadowed, like the water of a dark pool. His lean jaw and forceful mouth made his face in repose somewhat stern, but this effect was often banished by his delightful smile, which softened his whole countenance and gave him a distinct air of friendliness.

His manner was full of charm, and even Pauline became fascinated as she watched him and listened to his talk.

Fully at ease and skilfully directing the conversation, while he seemed merely sharing it, Stone was studying and classifying the new elements with which he had to deal. Not yet had he inquired as to the details of the case in hand, he was discussing detective work in general, much to the gratification of Tom Hardy, who listened as a pupil at the feet of Gamaliel.

“Yes,” went on Stone, settling back sociably in his easy chair, while the others unconsciously fell into more informal postures, “Yes, bizarre effects do often point the way to a successful quest. Why, once, a man was found dead, with his feet in a tub of cold water. It was discovered that his feet had been immersed after death had taken place. Obviously the tub of water had been used as a blind, to fog up the case. But the very character of the clue led at once to a man who was known as a ‘cold water fiend,’ and a fiend indeed he was. He was the murderer. You see, he was clever, but not clever enough. He had wit enough to think of the queer circumstance of the tub of water, but not enough to realize that the clue would lead directly to his own undoing.”

Everybody looked thoughtful, but it was Hardy who spoke; “Yes, Mr. Stone,” he said, “but that clue was put there on purpose. Do you think these strange effects connected with Miss Carrington’s murder were deliberately arranged?”

“That I can’t tell now, Mr. Hardy. In fact, I have not heard a connected and circumstantial account of the discoveries, as yet. Suppose we go over the case, leisurely, and let me get a complete account by means of a general conversation. I will ask questions, or you may volunteer information, as seems most enlightening. Tell me first of the character and characteristics of Miss Carrington. Was she timid, or fearful of burglars?”

“Not at all,” said Haviland. “She was careful to have the house locked up at night by the servants, but she had no burglar alarms or anything of that sort.”

“If a marauder had appeared, would she have been likely to scream out in affright?”

“No, I don’t think so,” volunteered Anita. “She would more likely demand to know what he wanted and order him out.”

“Yet the black-jack clearly indicates a burglar,” went on Stone; “I can’t imagine an ordinary citizen, of any calling, owning or using such a weapon.”

“Have you examined the thing?” asked Haviland.

“No; I should like to see it.”

Tom Hardy at once produced it, having brought it with him from Police Headquarters for the purpose.

“H’m,” said Fleming Stone, as he fingered the not very alarming-looking affair. In fact, it was merely a long, narrow bag, made of dark cloth and filled with shot. The bag was tied tightly at one end with a bit of twine to prevent the escape of the contents.

“Home-made affair,” Stone went on. “Made probably by a professional burglar, but an amateur murderer. See, it is merely a bit of heavy cloth, out from an old coat sleeve or trouser leg, sewed up in a bungling manner to make a bag. It is stitched with coarse black thread and the stitches are drawn hard and firm, evidently pulled through by a strong hand. Then, filled with shot, it is tied with a bit of old fish-line, which also is pulled and knotted by muscular fingers. And—” Stone paused abruptly.

“And—” prompted Anita, breathlessly, her eyes fixed on the speaker.

“Nothing much,” and Stone smiled; “only I should say the burglar lived in a house recently remodeled.”

Hardy nodded in satisfaction. This was the sort of deduction he was looking for. Next he hoped for the color of the man’s hair, and the sort of cigar he smoked. But he was doomed to disappointment.

“We seem to have drifted from the subject of Miss Carrington,” Stone said. “The evening before her death was she in her usual spirits? Evidently no premonition of her fate?”

“On the contrary,” said Gray, “she remarked during the evening that something would happen to her that night which would surprise and astound us all. She said distinctly that ‘to-morrow everything would be different.’”

“What did you understand her to mean by that?”

“We couldn’t understand it at all. It was most mysterious. Nor do we yet know what she meant. For surely she had no thought of dying. She spent the evening playing cards and listening to music, and conversation with the family and guests, quite as usual.”

“In amiable mood?” asked Stone.

“No,” replied Pauline, taking up the talk; “on the contrary she was exceedingly irritable and ill-tempered.”

“You saw her after she went to her room for the night?” and Stone turned his whole attention to Pauline.

“Yes; Miss Frayne and I always went to her room with her, to say good-night and to receive possible orders or suggestions for the next day’s occupations.”

“And you say she was unamiable?”

“That is a mild word,” and Pauline smiled a little. “She was in a high temper, and she told us both that we were to leave this house the next day.”

“You both left her in that mood?”

“Yes, we were obliged to do so. She dismissed us peremptorily and ordered us from the room.”

“And you saw her next, Miss Stuart, when?” asked Fleming Stone gently.

Pauline hesitated for a perceptible instant, then she said, with a slight air of bravado, “next morning.”

“I have been told the main facts,” went on Stone, “but I want to learn certain details. Please tell me, Miss Stuart, exactly how she then appeared.”

“Oh, I can’t!” and Pauline flung her face into her hands with a short, sharp cry.

“I should think you couldn’t!” exclaimed Anita, and her voice was distinctly accusing.

This seemed to rouse Pauline, and she looked up haughtily at the speaker. “I don’t wonder you think so!” she cried. “But since you ask, Mr. Stone, I will do the best I can. My aunt was seated at her dressing-table, but not in her usual chair—or indeed, as if she were in any way attending to her toilette—but in an easy chair, more as if she were sitting there in contemplation.”

“Was she given to such indications of vanity?” asked Stone, in a gentle way.

“Not at all. My aunt was not a beautiful woman, and she had no illusions about her personal appearance. I have never known her to look at herself in a mirror more than was necessary for her dressing. Her maid will tell you this.”

“Go on, please, Miss Stuart.”

“When I saw my aunt, she was sitting placidly, even smilingly—and I did not, for a moment, imagine she was not alive. Then I noticed her large tortoise-shell comb was broken to bits, and I noticed, too, her rigid, staring face. The next few moments are a confused memory to me, but I know I touched her hand and felt it cold, then I called to Mr. Haviland and he came.”

“Tell me of your aunt’s garb. I understand it was most unusual.”

“Only in the accessories. The gown she had on was a negligée of Oriental make and fabric, elaborate, but one of which she was fond and which she had worn several times. Round her shoulders was a scarf, one of those heavy Syrian ones, of net patterned with silver. Then, she had on quantities of jewelry. Not only her pearls, and a few pins, which she had worn during the evening, but she had added many brooches and bracelets and rings of great value.”

“She was wearing, let us say, a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry?”

“Far more than that. Her pearls alone are worth that amount. Her diamond sunburst is valued at fifty thousand dollars and her emerald brooch is equally valuable. My aunt believed in gems as an investment, and though she usually kept them in a safe deposit vault, she had recently taken them from there, and had them all in the house.”

“A strange proceeding?”

“Very. I have never known such a thing to occur before unless for some especial social occasion.”

“And the paper snake, of which I have been told—”

“That is the strangest part of all! My aunt was not only afraid of live snakes, but she had also a perfect horror of any picture or artificial representation of them. She could never, in her right mind, have placed that paper snake about her own neck, nor would she have allowed any one else to do it, without screaming out in horror. Yet, the doctors declare it must have been placed round her neck before death. Therefore, it is to me entirely unexplainable.”

“Is not that a bizarre clue that should make the case an easy one?” asked Anita, with an inquiring glance at Stone.

“It may be so,” he replied, with a thoughtful look at her. “Where could such a snake have come from?”

“It was brought by the burglar, of course,” said Pauline, quickly.

“I don’t mean that; but where could it be bought?”

“Oh, at Vantine’s or any Japanese shop,” said Pauline, “or at some of the department stores.”

“Could you, by inquiry, find out if Miss Carrington purchased it herself at any of those places?”

“I could inquire; but I am sure, Mr. Stone, that Aunt Lucy never bought such a thing.”

“It would simplify matters somewhat if you would kindly find out,” and Stone nodded at her, as if to stamp this suggestion a definite request.

The conversation went on, and no one noticed that so deftly did Fleming Stone guide it that only facts were brought out. No sooner did any one begin to formulate an opinion or theory than he skilfully turned the subject or changed the drift of the discussion.

He gathered from facial expressions and manners much that he wanted to know, he learned the attitudes of the various members of the household toward each other, and he came to the conclusion that as Gray Haviland had engaged him, and as he stood as business head of the estate by authority of Carrington Loria, to Haviland should his reports be made.

“Tell me more of Mr. Loria,” Stone said, at last, after many matters had been discussed.

“He and I are children of Miss Carrington’s two sisters,” said Pauline. “Our parents all died when we were young children and Aunt Lucy brought us both up. Carr, as we call him, lived with us, except for his college terms, until four years ago. Then he had an opportunity to go to Egypt and engage in excavation and ancient research work. He is absorbed in it, and has been home only twice in the four years. It was planned that my aunt and I should go to Egypt next month on a pleasure trip, and both he and we looked forward eagerly to it. Miss Frayne was to accompany us, and Mr. Haviland also.”

“Is it your intention to abandon the trip?”

“Speaking for myself, Mr. Stone, no,” and Pauline looked determined. “I cannot answer for the others, but it seems to me that such a visit to my cousin would be not only right and proper for me, but the only way for me to find relief and distraction from these dreadful scenes.”

“You won’t go, I assume,” said Stone, gently, “until the murderer of your aunt is apprehended with certainty?”

“I cannot say,” and suddenly Pauline flushed rosily and looked distinctly embarrassed.

“Rather not!” declared Anita, with an unpleasant glance, and Fleming Stone made haste to introduce a new phase of the subject.

CHAPTER XII

ESTELLE’S STORY

At the invitation of Haviland, Fleming Stone was a house guest at Garden Steps. Pauline had raised objections to this, but with Carr Loria’s authority back of him, Gray had insisted, and Pauline unwillingly consented.

Stone himself recognized the fact that Pauline disliked him, or at any rate disliked having him on the case, but he ignored it and showed to her the same gracious manner and pleasant attitude that he showed to all. Anita, on the other hand, seemed charmed with Stone. She lost no opportunity to talk with him, and she used every endeavor to attract his attention to herself. In fact, she tried to flirt with him, and much to the surprise of the others, Stone seemed ready to meet her advances and respond to them.

The morning after his arrival, breakfast over, Stone announced his intention of making a thorough examination of Miss Carrington’s rooms, and asked that he be permitted to go alone for the purpose.

“If Mr. Hardy comes, send him up,” he ordered, as Haviland unlocked the door to give him admittance.

Stone passed through the boudoir to the bedroom and from that to the elaborate dressing-room and bath. Quickly he noted the obvious details. Everything had been left practically untouched, and his rapid, trained gaze took in the bed, turned down but not slept in; the toilet accessories laid ready in the bathroom; and the fresh, unused towels, that proved the unfortunate victim had not prepared to retire, but had, for some reason, donned her jewels at that unusual hour.

Back to the boudoir Stone went and made there more careful scrutiny. Carefully he examined the white dust of powder on the floor. At Hardy’s orders, this had not been swept away, and Stone stood, with folded arms, looking at it. He saw the place where the powder had been smeared about—he had been told of this—but he saw other places where faint footprints were to his keen eye discernible. Not sufficiently clear to judge much of their characteristics, but enough to show that a stockinged foot had imprinted them.

“Well, what do you make of the tracks?” asked Hardy, coming in upon his meditations.

“Their tale is a short one but clear,” returned Stone, smiling a greeting to the younger detective. “As you see, they go out of the room only, they don’t come in.”

“Proving?”

“That the intruder came in at the door, accomplished his dreadful purpose, and then, stepped around here in front of his victim—here where the powder is spilt, and then went straight out of the room. Why did he do this?”

“He heard something to frighten him off?”

“He saw something that frightened him. I doubt if he heard anything. But he dropped his black-jack and fled. Did you bring the photographs of the scene?”

“Yes, here they are.” Hardy handed over a sheaf of the gruesome pictures, and Stone scanned them eagerly. Yet their gruesomeness lay largely in the idea that the subject of them was not a living person—for in appearance they were by no means unpleasant to look at. The face of Miss Carrington was serene and smiling, her wide-open eyes, though staring, were filled with a life-like wonder, not at all an expression of fright or terror.

“You see,” volunteered Hardy, “she was sitting here, admiring herself, and happily smiling, when the villain sneaked up behind her and gave her that crack over the head.”

“But she was already dead when she was hit on the head.”

“So the doctors think, but I believe they’re mistaken. Why, there’s no theory that would account for hitting a dead person!”

“And yet, that is what happened. No, Hardy, the doctors are not mistaken about the hour of death, and about the poison in her system and all that. But the most obvious and most important clue, for the moment, is that black-jack. Just where was it found?”

“Right here, Mr. Stone, under the edge of this couch. Hidden on purpose, of course.”

“No, I think not. Dropped by the burglar, rather, when he was startled by something unexpected. You see, he doubtless stood here, where the powder is dusted about, and to drop the thing quickly, it would fall or be flung just there where it was found.”

“Yes, but what scared him, if he didn’t hear anything?”

“Something that frightened him so terribly that he fled without taking the jewels he had come for! Something that made him make quick, straight tracks for the door and downstairs and out, by the way he had entered.”

“Good lord! Say, Mr. Stone, you think it was that make-believe Count, don’t you?”

“Why make-believe?”

“Oh, somehow, I feel sure he’s a fake. He’s not the real thing—or I’m greatly mistaken!”

“Let me see that glove found in her hand. Have you it with you?”

Hardy had brought some of the exhibits held by the police, and, taking the glove from his bag, he handed it to Fleming Stone.

Stone looked at the glove hastily, but, raising it to his nose, smelled of it very carefully.

“No,” he said, returning it, “no, the Count is not the man who wielded the black-jack. I’m fairly certain of that.”

“Well, I’m blessed if I can see how you know by smelling! By the way, Mr. Stone, I suppose you heard all about the conversation that Miss Frayne related as taking place in this room after one o’clock that night?”

“Yes, I’ve read the full account of it. What do you think about it?”

“Oh, I think it was the Count, talking to Miss Carrington before he killed her. He has a very low voice, and speaks almost inaudibly always. Then, you see, he is down in her will for ten thousand dollars of those bonds, and he’s very fond of pearls—”

“What’s that? Who said he was fond of pearls?”

“Oh, maybe you didn’t hear about that. Why, Miss Frayne remembered afterward, that another sentence she heard Miss Carrington say was, ‘I know how very fond you are of pearls.’ She forgot that speech in her evidence, but found it afterward in the written account she had of what she overheard at the door. And his Countship is fond of pearls. He talked a lot about those the lady wore that last evening. He says himself pearls are a hobby with him.”

“So you really think the Count was in this room that night?”

“Surely I do. It’s no insult to the lady’s memory to say so. She had a right to receive him in her boudoir if she chose to do so. It’s no secret that she was trying to annex him, and he was not entirely unwilling. You see—the way I dope it out—she had him up here to show off her stunning jewels, and so tempt him on to a declaration that she couldn’t seem to work him up to otherwise. You know she said, ‘To-morrow these may all be yours, if you will only——’ or some words to that effect. What could all that mean, except as I’ve indicated? And she said, ‘You are the game I’m after,’—those weren’t the words, I know, but it meant that.”

“However, I can’t think the Count struck that awful blow that fractured her skull. Villain he may be, even a murderous one, but that black-jack business, to my mind, points to a lower type of brain, a more thick-skinned criminal.”

Stone spoke musingly, looking about the room as he talked.

“Could it be,” he went on, “that she was talking to herself? or, say, to a picture—a photograph of somebody? I don’t see any photographs about.”

Both men looked around, but there were no portraits to be seen.

“Funny,” said Hardy: “most women have photographs of their family or relatives all over the place. Not even one of Miss Stuart or of her nephew, Loria.”

“No, nor any of absent friends or school-mates.” Stone looked over all the silver paraphernalia of the dressing-table and other tables for even a small framed photograph that might have escaped notice, but found none. On the walls hung only gilt-framed water colors or photographs of famous bits of art or architecture in dark wood frames. Many of these were of old world masterpieces, Italian cathedrals or Egyptian temples. Others were a well-known Madonna, a Venus of Milo, and one at which Hardy exclaimed, “She’s a sure enough peach! Who’s she?”

“That’s Cleopatra, starting on her Nile trip,” said Stone, smiling at Hardy’s evident admiration.

“’Tis, eh? Then Loria brought it to her. He’s daffy over anything Egyptian. And he’s mighty generous. The house is full of the stuff he brings or sends over; and it’s his money, Mr. Stone, that pays your damages. Miss Stuart, now, she’s none too free-handed, they say.”

But Fleming Stone paid little heed to this gossip. He was studying the photographs of the dead lady as being of far more interest than pictures on the boudoir walls.

“Where’s that maid?” he said suddenly; “the one who brought the breakfast tray—”

“She’s in the sanatorium,” returned Hardy; “we told you that, Mr. Stone.”

“Yes, yes, I know. But where? Can I see her? Now, at once!”

“Yes, I suppose so. It’s right near here. A small private affair, only a few patients. They needn’t really have sent her, but she carried on so, Miss Stuart wouldn’t have her about any longer.”

“Come, let us go there.” As he spoke, Fleming Stone left the room, and without waiting for the hurrying Hardy, ran downstairs, and was in the hall, getting into his great coat when the other joined him.

So great was Hardy’s faith in his superior, and so anxious was he to watch his methods, that he donned his own overcoat without a word, and the two set forth.

It was only a short walk, and on the way, Stone looked about in every direction, asking innumerable questions about the neighboring houses and their occupants.

After passing several large and handsome estates, they came to a district of less elaborate homes, and after that to a section of decidedly poorer residences. At one of these, Stone stared hard, but not till they were well past it, did he inquire who lived there.

“Dunno,” replied Hardy; “it’s a sort of boarding-house, I think, for the lower classes.”

“Is it?” said Stone, and they went on.

At the sanatorium they found Estelle. She was not hysterical now, but was in a sort of apathetic mood, and listless of manner.

Stone spoke to her with polite address, and a manner distinctly reassuring.

“It will be much better for you, Estelle,” he said, pleasantly, “if you will speak the truth. Better for you, and better for——you know whom.”

His significant tone roused her, “I don’t know who you mean,” she exclaimed.

“Oh, yes, you do! somebody whose name begins with H, or B, or S.”

“I don’t know any one beginning with S,” and Estelle frowned defiantly.

“But some one with—” Stone leaned forward, and in the tense pause that followed, Estelle’s lips half formed a silent ‘B’.

“Yes,” went on Stone, as if he had not paused. “If you will tell the whole truth, it will be better for Bates in the long run.”

Estelle began to tremble. “What do you know?” she cried out, and showed signs of hysteria.

“I know a great deal,” said Stone, gravely, “and, unless assisted by what you know, my knowledge will bring trouble to your friend.”

“What do you want me to tell you?” and Estelle, now on her guard, spoke slowly and clearly, but her fingers were nervously twining themselves in and out of her crumpled handkerchief.

“Only your own individual part in the proceedings. The rest we will learn from Bates himself.”

“How do you know it was Bates?”

“We have learned much since you left Garden Steps,” and now Stone spoke a little more sternly. Hardy looked at him in wonder. Who was this Bates, clearly implicated in the murder, and known to Estelle?

“You see, Mr. Haviland saw you go down to open the window for him to come in,” Stone went on, as casually as if he were retailing innocent gossip. “Did you go down again and close it?”

“I haven’t said I opened it yet,” and Estelle flashed an irate glance at her questioner.

“No, but you will do so when you realize how necessary it is. I tell you truly, when I say that only your honesty now can save your friend Bates from the electric chair.”

Estelle shuddered and began to cry violently.

“That only makes matters worse,” said Stone patiently. “Listen to me. This is your only chance to save Bates’ life. If I go to the police with what I know, they will convict him of the murder beyond all doubt. If you tell me what I ask—I think, I hope, between us, we can prove that he did not do it.”

“But didn’t he?” and Estelle looked up with hope dawning in her eyes.

“I think not. Now there’s no time to waste. Tell me what I ask or you will lose your chance to do so. You opened the living-room window for Bates to come in, at about three o’clock?”

“Yes,” admitted the girl.

“And went down and closed and fastened it at—”

“Five o’clock,” came in lowest tones.

“Not knowing that Miss Carrington was dead?”

“Oh, No!”

“For Bates went there only to steal the jewels?”

“Yes.”

“And so, when you took the breakfast tray, and found the lady—as you did find her—you were frightened out of your wits, and dropped the tray?”

“Yes.”

“And so, to shield Bates, who you thought had killed her, you lied right and left, even trying to incriminate Miss Stuart?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you seen Bates since?”

“No, sir.”

“And until now you have thought he killed your mistress?”

“I didn’t know.”

“Another thing, Estelle; you put bromide in the glass of milk in order that Miss Carrington might sleep soundly, and not hear Bates come in?”

“She didn’t drink that milk!”

“But you fixed it, thinking she would?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all. Come on, Hardy.” and somewhat unceremoniously, Stone took leave, and made for the nearest telephone station.

After that, matters whizzed. Stone had called the Police Headquarters and asked that an officer be sent with a warrant for the arrest of Bates.

“How do you know where he is?” asked Hardy, nearly bursting with curiosity.

“I’m not sure, but at least I know where to start looking for him,” Stone replied, as the two went back the way they had come.

Stone stopped at the boarding-house he had noticed on the way to the sanatorium, and rang the bell.

Sure enough, Bates lived there and Bates was at home.

At Stone’s first questions he broke down and confessed to the assault with the black-jack.

“But I didn’t kill her!” he cried, “she was already dead! Oh, my God! can I ever forget those terrible, staring eyes! The saints forgive me! I was half crazy. There she was, dead, and yet smiling and happy looking! Oh, sir, what does it all mean?”

CHAPTER XIII

BATES, THE BURGLAR

Brought before the magistrate, Bates told a coherent though amazing story.

It seems he was Estelle’s lover, and had long ago persuaded her to let him know when Miss Carrington had a quantity of jewelry in the house, that he might essay a robbery. The plan was simple. Estelle had promised to slip downstairs at three o’clock and raise a window for his entrance, and later, but before any one else was about, she was to slip down and lock it again. In the meantime, they assumed, the burglary would be quietly accomplished, their supposition being that Miss Carrington would be asleep in her bedroom, and the boudoir easy of access.

“You entered by the window, then, at what time?” asked Stone, who was doing most of the questioning.

“At quarter of four in the morning,” replied Bates, and all noted that this was shortly before the hour when Mrs. Frothingham saw through her field-glass a man leaving by the same window.

“You went directly up the stairs?”

“Yes; Estelle had often told me the lay of the rooms, and I went straight to the lady’s boodore.”

“You carried with you a ‘black-jack.’ Did you have murder in your heart?”

“That I did not! I took that, thinkin’ if the lady woke up and screamed, I’d just give her a tap that would put her to sleep without hurtin’ her at all, at all. I’m no murderer, Sir, and I’m confessin’ my attempt at burglary, and—and assault, so I won’t be accused of a greater crime.”

“That’s right, Bates, it’ll be better for you to be perfectly truthful. Now, what did you see when you entered the room?”

“I had stepped inside and shut the door before I saw anything, and then, I turned to see the lady’s face, but in the mirror. I was behind her, and in the glass I saw her smilin’ face, and of course, I thought she was alive, and that she saw me. I knew she’d scream in a minute, and the sight of all the jewels gleamin’ on her neck drove me fair crazy with greed, I suppose, and I up with my sandbag, and hit her head, not meanin’ to hit hard enough to kill her, but only to knock her unconscious-like.”

“And then?”

“The blow smashed the big comb she was wearin’ but she didn’t move nor fall over. She was leanin’ back in her big chair, and she jest sat there, and kept on smilin’. My knees shook like the ague, for I thought it was magic, or that my eyes was deceivin’ me. There was no sound anywhere, and I stood starin’ at that smilin’ face and she starin’ back at me! I nearly screamed out myself! But I bucked up, and thinkin’ that she was struck unconscious so quick, her face didn’t change, I made to take off some of the jewels I was after. I touched her neck and it was cold! The lady was dead! Had been dead some time, I was sure, ’cause she was so cold and stiff. I trembled all over, but my only thought then was to get out. Not for a million dollars would I touch them sparklers! There ain’t often a burglar who is ghoul enough to rob a corpse! Leastways, I’m not. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t! I’m a tough and a bad egg generally, but I wouldn’t steal from no corpse! Not I!”

“So you left the house at once?”

“That I did, as fast as my tremblin’ legs could get me downstairs. I was clean daft. I couldn’t make it out and I didn’t try. I thought it was the Devil’s own work, somehow, but how, I didn’t know. My mind was full, makin’ my escape. I ran like the old boy was after me, and reachin’ home, I hid under me bedclothes and groaned all night. Full a week went by, and I begun to breathe easy, thinkin’ I’d never be suspected of a hand in it, when up comes this gentleman, and says I done it. Well, I’ve told the truth now, and I’m relieved to get it off my chest.”

Bates heaved a deep sigh, as of a man eased of a great burden. His whole story bore the stamp of truth, and his manner of telling was straightforward and earnest. Nor was there reason for doubt. Though a startling tale, it entirely explained many of the strange conditions that had seemed so bewildering. It would never have occurred to Bates nor to any one to make up such a yarn, and what else could have deterred him from the contemplated robbery but the superstition that makes even the most hardened criminals refuse to steal from a dead person? Therefore, the narrative was accepted as probably true, and Bates was taken to the Tombs to await further proceedings against him.

“You’re a wonder!” said Gray Haviland, as, that same afternoon, he discussed the matter with Fleming Stone. “Would you mind telling me how you went straight to the criminal and walked him off to jail?”

“That was practically a bit of luck,” and Stone smiled. “It was the black-jack that gave me the clue. If the fellow hadn’t dropped that in his fright, we might never have traced him. Though we would perhaps have found him eventually, through the maid, Estelle. She is not good at keeping things secret. However, he did drop the weapon, and it led straight to him.”

“But how?”

“Well, the thing smelled strongly of creosote. Now, it was made from a bit of old cloth that looked like a piece of some discarded garment—a man’s coat, say. If the odor had been camphor or moth balls, I should have assumed a garment laid away in storage, but creosote is not used for that purpose. So I deduced a house recently remodeled by use of a certain kind of shingles. I know that the odor of those shingles clings to everything in the house for months. It is almost ineradicable. So I looked about for a house lately reshingled.”

“Why not a new house?” asked Hardy, who was present.

“A point well taken,” said Stone, nodding approval, “but in a new house the odor often is dispelled before the people move in. In a remodeled house, the furnishings stay there during the work and so are deeply impregnated with that unmistakable smell of creosote. At any rate, I worked on that, and when I found that a newly shingled old house was a boarding-house of the type Bates would be likely to live in, I went there to see, and found him.”

“Yes, but how did you know there was such a person as Bates? Where did you get his name?”

“From your cook,” returned Stone, simply. “I concluded there was no doubt that Estelle had let the man in and relocked the window afterward. So I deduced a friend of the girl’s so dear to her that she would do this for him. I asked the cook, Mrs. Haskins, as to Estelle’s admirers and learned that there were two, Bates and Higgins. Mrs. Haskins couldn’t say which one Estelle more favored, so I decided to try both. Bates—the cook told me—lived in a boarding-house near here, and Higgins over in New York. So when I asked Estelle a few leading questions I pretended to greater knowledge than I really had. I spoke of a name beginning with either B, H, or S. She fell into the trap and said quickly that she knew no one initialed S. Then I said, ‘but beginning with—’ and waited; she said no name, but involuntarily her lips form a silent ‘B,’ and I knew she had Bates in mind. The rest was easy. Bates, the boarding-house and the shingles formed a combination too indicative to be merely coincidence. And so we found him. And I, for one, believe his story. I know the strong superstition that imbues those people concerning a corpse, and the unexpected discovery that he had attacked one was enough to make that man beside himself. Indeed, it’s a wonder that he didn’t himself make an outcry in his terror and fright.”

“I have heard of your prowess in these matters,” said Haviland, “but I didn’t look for such quick work as this. Why, you hadn’t even interviewed Estelle when you came to your conclusions about Bates.”

“No, but remember, I have seen a full account of all the evidence, not only at the inquest, but all that has been gathered by the police and by Mr. Hardy here. Last night I read all this carefully, and it was enlightening on these points that led up to to-day’s work. But, now, I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Haviland, that a much more difficult and complicated problem faces us, to discover who gave to Miss Carrington the poison that killed her.”

“Have you any suspicions?” and Gray looked the Detective straight in the eyes.

“I have not, as yet,” and Fleming Stone returned the steady gaze. “Have you?”

Gray Haviland hesitated. Then he said: “I would rather not answer that question, Mr. Stone. If I should have suspicions, and they should be unjust or ill-founded, is it not better to leave them unmentioned, even to you? You are here to discover the criminal. I can not think my suspicions, if I have any, could help you, but they might easily hinder you by wrong suggestion.”

“Very well, Mr. Haviland, just as you please. But I assume you will tell me frankly anything you may know or learn in the way of direct evidence bearing on the matter?”

“That, certainly.” But though Haviland’s words were a definite promise, his tone and manner seemed hesitant, and a trifle vague.

“Am I to have the privilege of working with you, Mr. Stone?” inquired Hardy, his heart beating tumultuously lest he receive a negative answer.

“If you care to. And if you are willing to work in my way. I am somewhat impatient of interference or questioning. But, if you want to assist in investigating, under my absolute orders, I shall be glad to have you do so.”

Nothing was further from Hardy’s mind than to interfere or to show any undue curiosity concerning the work or methods of the great Detective. He was more than content to watch silently, to run errands, and to make himself useful in any way desired by his superior. He said this, and Stone nodded indulgently.

“I shall begin with this matter of the arrest of Count Charlier,” said Stone, as he looked over his note-book. “Either that man is the guilty party or he is not. If not, he must be released. If so, it must be proven. What do you know of his history, Mr. Haviland?”

“Very little, Mr. Stone. In the first place, I doubt his right to the title he assumes.”

“You do? And why?”

Haviland looked a little embarrassed. “I’m not sure I know why. But he doesn’t act like a real Count.”

“Yes? And how do real Counts act, I mean in ways that differ from this man’s habits?”

“You’re having fun with me, Mr. Stone,” and Gray blushed like a school-boy. “But I mean it. It’s this way. I’m not a Count, but if I wanted to pretend I was, I’d act just as Count Charlier does. There!”

“Good! That’s definite, at least. Now make it a little more so by describing some of these actions.”

“Well,” and Haviland’s brow wrinkled, “well, to begin with, his manners are too slick and polished.”

“A traditional trait of Frenchmen.”

“Yes, if real. But his seem artificially, purposely—oh, fakely polished! Have you seen him, Mr. Stone?”

“No, not yet.”

“When you do, you’ll see what I mean. He has shifty eyes, and he rubs his hands together, and if he’s standing, he half bows with every sentence he utters, and he smirks instead of smiling, and his whole attitude is a fifty-fifty of apology and bumptiousness.”

“Bravo! You’ve given a graphic picture of him at all events. I’ll reserve further consideration of his personality until I have seen him.”

“You believe implicitly all that story of Bates, do you, Mr. Stone?” and Haviland looked dubiously at the Detective.

“Yes, I do, at present. If anything turns up to disprove any part of it I may have to revise my ideas. But just now, it seems to me that Bates told the simple truth. To be sure, he only told it because he feared an accusation of murder, and he knew that to confess to the lesser crime would go far to help him deny the greater.”

“You may be right. But might there not be collusion between Friend Count and Bates?”

“Collusion?”

“Just that,” and Gray shook his head doggedly. “I’ve a vague idea that Frenchy is mixed up in this thing somehow. Now, he couldn’t possibly have administered the poison, himself, personally, nor could he have struck the blow personally, but couldn’t he have hired the man Bates to do it for him?”

“On the face of things, Mr. Haviland, does that look plausible? Is the Count, as you describe him, a man who would engage a burglar of the Bates type to commit a brutal crime? Again, if Bates were merely the Count’s tool, would he not, when caught, pass the blame on to his employer?”

“He sure would! You are right, Mr. Stone, those two never hooked up together! It’s out of the question. But as Estelle and Bates are in cahoots, why didn’t she give Miss Carrington the poison, herself?”

“Well, she did fix the bromide, hoping to make her mistress sleep soundly. But the lady never took it. Now, if the maid had given or expected to give the poison, why the bromide at all?”

“But, look here,” broke in Hardy, “mightn’t it be that Estelle did do the poisoning and arranged the bromide as a blind, to put us off the track, exactly as it has done?”

“There’s small use speculating about that poison,” said Stone thoughtfully, “we must go at that systematically. We must find out where it was bought and by whom. People can’t go round buying deadly poison without a record being made of the sale. We must inquire of druggists, until we find out these facts.”

“There’s no druggist about here who would sell aconitine,” said Hardy, “it doubtless was bought in New York.”

“That, of course, adds to the difficulty of tracing the sale, but it must be done. Mr. Hardy, I will ask you to do all you can to find out about that.”

“You want to look up a French apothecary,” advised Haviland. “That Count is at the bottom of this, as sure as shootin’, and he’s full clever enough to hide his tracks mighty closely. Why, that man is a fortune-hunter and an adventurer, and he wanted that ten thousand dollars, and he poisoned Miss Lucy to get it! That’s what he did! And he was on deck that night, after the jewels, that’s where he was! It was he in that room talking, it was he who left his glove there—of course, he didn’t know it—and now you’ve got him under lock and key, I hope you’ll keep him there, and not let this Bates discovery get him the slip. If the two were not working together, then, surely they are incriminated separately, and you want to look into the case of little old Mr. Count!”

“You may be right, Mr. Haviland,” and Fleming Stone smiled at him, “but I think you are assuming a lot because of your prejudice against the Frenchman. Was he very attentive to Miss Carrington? Had he proposed marriage to her?”

“That we don’t know. Of course, we had all been afraid he would—”

“Why afraid?”

“Oh, we didn’t want my cousin to marry an adventurer. Of course, he only wanted her fortune, and as her business manager, I had a right to interfere, or at least, to look after her interests enough to prevent that.”

“But was she not a capable woman, who could be supposed to know her own mind?”

“Ordinarily, yes. But, there’s no use mincing matters. Miss Carrington greatly desired to marry. However, she paid no attention to men whom she did not consider interesting. There were several such, and she sent them packing. The Count, though, she took to at once, partly because of his title and partly because—well, he has a way with him. He flattered her, and she took the bait like a hungry fish!”