THE MYSTERY OF THE SYCAMORE (Part 2)

CHAPTER XI

FLEMING STONE

Next day brought the advent of two men and a boy to Sycamore Ridge.

Samuel Appleby, determined to discover the murderer of his father and convinced that it was none of the Wheeler family, had brought Fleming Stone, the detective, to investigate the case. Stone had a young assistant who always accompanied him, and this lad, Terence McGuire by name, was a lively, irrepressible chap, with red hair and freckles.

But his quick thinking and native wit rendered him invaluable to Stone, who had already hinted that McGuire might some day become his successor.

The Wheeler family, Jeffrey Allen, Curtis Keefe, and Burdon, the local detective, were all gathered in Mr. Wheeler’s den to recount the whole story to Fleming Stone.

With grave attention, Stone listened, and young McGuire eagerly drank in each word, as if committing a lesson to memory. Which, indeed, he was, for Stone depended on his helper to remember all facts, theories and suggestions put forward by the speakers.

Long experience had made Fleming Stone a connoisseur in “cases,” and, by a classification of his own, he divided them into “express” and “local.” By this distinction he meant that in the former cases, he arrived quickly at the solution, without stop or hindrance. The latter kind involved necessary stops, even side issues, and a generally impeded course, by reason of conflicting motives and tangled clues.

As he listened to the story unfolded by the members of the party, he sighed, for he knew this was no lightning express affair. He foresaw much investigation ahead of him, and he already suspected false evidence and perhaps bribed witnesses.

Yet these conclusions of his were based quite as much on intuition as on evidence, and Stone did not wholly trust intuition.

Samuel Appleby was the principal spokesman, as he was the one chiefly concerned in the discovery of the criminal and the avenging of his father’s death. Moreover, he was positive the deed had not been done by any one of the Wheeler family, and he greatly desired to prove himself right in this.

“But you were not here at the time, Mr. Appleby,” Stone said, “and I must get the story from those who were. Mr. Keefe, you came withMr. Appleby, senior, and, also, as his confidential secretary you are in a position to know of his mental attitudes. Had he, to your knowledge, any fear, any premonition of evil befalling him?”

“Not at all,” answered Keefe, promptly. “If he had, I do not know of it, but I think I can affirm that he had not. For, when Mr. Appleby was anxious, he always showed it. In many ways it was noticeable, if he had a perplexity on his mind. In such a case he was irritable, quick-tempered, and often absent-minded. The day we came down here, Mr. Appleby was genial, affable and in a kindly mood. This, to my mind, quite precludes the idea that he looked for anything untoward.”

“How did he impress you, Mr. Wheeler?” Stone went on. “You had not seen him for some time, I believe.”

“Not for fifteen years,” Dan Wheeler spoke calmly, and with an air of determined reserve. “Our meeting was such as might be expected between two long-time enemies, but Appleby was polite and so was I.”

“He came to ask a favor of you?”

“Rather to drive a bargain. He offered me a full pardon in return for my assistance in his son’s political campaign. You, I am sure, know all this from Mr. Appleby, the son.”

“Yes, I do; I’m asking you if Mr. Appleby, the father, showed in his conversatiÈn with you, any apprehension or gave any intimation of a fear of disaster?”

“Mr. Stone,” returned Wheeler, “I have confessed that I killed Mr. Appleby; I hold, therefore, that I need say nothing that will influence my own case.”

“Well, you see, Mr. Wheeler, this case is unusual—perhaps unique, in that three people have confessed to the crime. So far, I am preserving an open mind. Though it is possible you and your wife and daughter acted in collusion, only one of you could have fired the fatal shot; yet you all three claim to have done so. There is no conclusion to be drawn from this but that one is guilty and the other two are shielding that one.”

“Draw any conclusion you wish,” said Wheeler, still imperturbably. “But I’ve no objection to replying to the question you asked me. Sam Appleby said no word to me that hinted at a fear for his personal safety. If he had any such fear, he kept it to himself.”

“He knew of your enmity toward him?”

“Of course. He did me an unforgivable injustice and I never pretended that I did not resent it.”

“And you refused to meet his wishes regarding his son’s campaign?”

“I most certainly did, for the same reasons I opposed his own election many years ago.”

“Yes; all those details I have from Mr. Appleby, junior. Now, Mr. Appleby does not believe that his father was killed by any member of your family, Mr. Wheeler.”

“Can he, then, produce the man whom he does suspect?”

“No; he suspects no one definitely, but he thinks that by investigation, I can find out the real criminal.”

“You may as well save your time and trouble, Mr. Stone. I am the man you seek, I freely confess my crime, and I accept my fate, whatever it be. Can I do more?”

“Yes; if you are telling the truth, go on, and relate details. What weapon did you use?”

“My own revolver.”

“Where is it?”

“I threw it out of the window.”

“Which window?”

“The—the bay window, in my den.”

“In this room?”

“Yes.”

“That window there?” Stone pointed to the big bay.

“Yes.”

“You were sitting there at the time of the shot, were you not, Miss Wheeler?” Stone turned to Maida, who, white-faced and trembling, listened to her father’s statements.

“I was sitting there before the shot,” the girl returned, speaking in quiet, steady tones, though a red spot burned in either cheek. “And then, when Mr. Appleby threatened my father, I shot him myself. My father is untruthful for my sake. In his love for me he is trying to take my crime on himself. Oh, believe me, Mr. Stone! Others can testify that I said, long ago, that I could willingly kill Mr. Appleby. He has made my dear father’s life a living grave! He has changed a brilliant, capable man of affairs to a sad and broken-hearted recluse. A man who had everything to live for, everything to interest and occupy his mind, was condemned to a solitary imprisonment, save for the company of his family! My father’s career would have been notable, celebrated; but that Samuel Appleby put an end to fifteen years ago, for no reason but petty spite and mean revenge! I had never seen the man, save as a small child, and when I learned he was at last coming here, my primitive passions were stirred, my sense of justice awoke and my whole soul was absorbed in a wild impulse to rid the world of such a demon in human form! I told my parents I was capable of killing him; they reproved me, so I said no more. But I brooded over the project, and made ready, and then—when Mr. Appleby threatened my father, talked to him brutally, scathingly, fairly turning the iron in his soul—I could stand it no longer, and I shot him down as I would have killed a venomous serpent! I do not regret the act—though I do fear the consequences.”

Maida almost collapsed, but pulled herself together, to add:

“That is the truth. You must disregard and disbelieve my father’s noble efforts to save me by trying to pretend the crime was his own.”

Stone looked at her pityingly. McGuire stared fixedly; the boy’s eyes round with amazement at this outburst of self-condemnation.

Then Stone said, almost casually: “You, too, Mrs. Wheeler, confess to this crime, I believe.”

“I am the real criminal,” Sara Wheeler asserted, speaking very quietly but with a steady gaze into the eyes of the listening detective. “You can readily understand that my husband and daughter are trying to shield me, when I tell you that only I had opportunity. I had possessed myself of Mr. Wheeler’s pistol and as I ran downstairs—well knowing the conversation that was going on, I shot through the doors as I passed and running on, threw the weapon far out into the shrubbery. It can doubtless be found. I must beg of you, Mr. Stone, that you thoroughly investigate these three stories, and I assure you you will find mine the true one, and the assertions of my husband and daughter merely loving but futile attempts to save me from the consequences of my act.”

Fleming Stone smiled, a queer, tender little smile.

“It is certainly a new experience for me,” he said, “when a whole family insist on being considered criminals. But I will reserve decision until I can look into matters a little more fully. Now, who can give me any information on the matter, outside of the identity of the criminal?”

Jeffrey Allen volunteered the story of the fire, and Keefe told of the strange bugle call that had been heard.

“You heard it, Mr. Keefe?” asked Stone, after listening to the account.

“No; I was with Mr. Appleby on a trip to Boston. I tell it as I heard the tale from the household here.”

Whereupon the Wheeler family corroborated Keefe’s story, and Fleming Stone listened attentively to the various repetitions.

“You find that bugler, and you’ve got your murderer,” Curtis Keefe said, bluntly. “You agree, don’t you, Mr. Stone, that it was no phantom who blew audible notes on a bugle?”

“I most certainly agree to that. I’ve heard many legends, in foreign countries, of ghostly drummers, buglers and bagpipers, but they are merely legends—I’ve never found anyone who really heard the sounds. And, moreover, those things aren’t even legends in America. Any bugling done in this country is done by human lungs. Now, this bugler interests me. I think, with you, Mr. Keefe, that to know his identity would help us—whether he proves to be the criminal or not.”

“He’s the criminal,” Keefe declared, again. “Forgive me, Mr. Stone, if my certainty seems to you presumptuous or forward, but I’m so thoroughly convinced of the innocence of the Wheeler family, that perhaps I am over enthusiastic in my theory.”

“‘A theory doesn’t depend on enthusiasm,” returned Stone, “but on evidence and proof. Now, how can we set about finding this mysterious bugler—whether phantom or human?”

“I thought that’s what you’re here to do,” Sam Appleby said, looking helplessly at Fleming Stone.

“We are,” piped up Terence McGuire, as Stone made no reply. “That’s our business, and, consequentially, it shall be done.”

The boy assumed an air of importance that was saved from being objectionable by his good-humored face and frank, serious eyes. “I’ll just start in and get busy now,” he went on, and rising, he bobbed a funny little bow that included all present, and left the room.

It was mid-afternoon, and as they looked out on the wide lawn they saw McGuire strolling slowly, hands in pockets and seemingly more absorbed in the birds and flowers than in his vaunted “business.”

“Perhaps McGuire needs a little explanation,” Stone smiled. “He is my right-hand man, and a great help in detail work. But he has a not altogether unearned reputation for untruthfulness. Indeed, his nickname is Fibsy, because of a congenital habit of telling fibs. I advise you of this, because I prefer you should not place implicit confidence in his statements.”

“But, Mr. Stone,” cried Maida, greatly interested, “how can he be of any help to you if you can’t depend on what he says?”

“Oh, he doesn’t lie to me,” Stone assured her; “nor does he tell whoppers at any time. Only, it’s his habit to shade the truth when it seems to him advisable. I do not defend this habit; in fact, I have persuaded him to stop it, to a degree. But you know how hard it is to reform entirely.”

“It won’t affect his usefulness, since he doesn’t lie to his employer,” Appleby said, “and, too, it’s none of our business. I’ve engaged Mr. Stone to solve the mystery of my father’s death, and I’m prepared to give him full powers. He may conduct his investigations on any plan he chooses. My only stipulation is that he shall find a criminal outside the Wheeler family.”

“A difficult and somewhat unusual stipulation,” remarked Stone.

“Why difficult?” Dan Wheeler said, quickly.

“Because, with three people confessing a crime, and no one else even remotely suspected, save a mysterious and perhaps mythical bugle-player, it does not seem an easy job to hunt up and then hunt down a slayer.”

“But you’ll do it,” begged Appleby, almost pleadingly, “for it must be done.”

“We’ll see,” Stone replied. “And now tell me more about the fare in the garage. It occurred at the time of the shooting, you say? What started it?”

But nobody knew what started it.

“How could we know?” asked Jeff Allen, “It was only a small fire and the most it burned was the robe in Mr. Appleby’s own car and a motor coat that was also in the car.”

“Whose coat?” asked Stone.

“Mine,” said Keefe, ruefully. “A bit of bad luck, too, for it was a new one. I had to get another in place of it.”

“And you think the fire was the result of a, dropped cigarette or match by Mr. Appleby’s chauffeur?”

“I don’t know,” returned Keefe. “He denies it, of course, but it must have been that or an incendiary act of some one.”

“Maybe the bugler person,” suggested Stone.

“Maybe,” assented Keefe, though he did not look convinced.

“I think Mr. Keefe thinks it was the work of my own men,” said Dan Wheeler. “And it may have been. There’s one in my employ who has an ignorant, brutal spirit of revenge, and if he thought Samuel Appleby was inimical to me, he would be quite capable of setting fire to the Appleby car. That may be the fact of the case.”

“It may be,” agreed Stone. “Doubtless we can find out—”

“How?” asked Allen. “That would be magician’s work, I think.”

“A detective has to be a magician,” Stone smiled at him. “We quite often do more astounding tricks than that.”

“Go to it, then!” cried Appleby. “That’s the talk I like to hear. Questions and answers any of us can put over. But the real detecting is like magic. At least, I can’t see how it’s done. Duff in, Mr. Stone. Get busy.”

The group dispersed then, Fleming Stone going to his room and the others straying off by twos or threes.

BurdoH, who had said almost nothing during the confab, declared he wanted a talk with the great detective alone, and would await his pleasure.

So Burdon sat by himself, brooding, on the veranda, and presently saw the boy, Fibsy, returning toward the house.

“Come here, young one,” Burdon called out.

“Nixy, old one,” was the saucy retort.

“Why not?” in a conciliatory tone.

“’Cause you spoke disrespectful like. I’m a detective, you know.”

“All right, old pal; come here, will you?”

Fibsy grinned and came, seating himself on a cushioned swing nearby.

“Whatcha want?” he demanded.

“Only a line o’ talk. Your Mr. Stone, now, do you think he’ll show up soon, or has he gone for a nap?”

“Fleming Stone doesn’t take naps,” Fibsy said, disdainfully; “he isn’t that sort.”

“Then he’ll be down again shortly?”

“Dunno. Maybe he’s begun his fasting and prayer over this phenomenal case.”

“Does he do that?’1

“How do I know? I’m not of a curious turn of mind, me havin’ other sins to answer for.”

“I know. Mr. Stone told us you have no respect for the truth.”

“Did he, now! Well, he’s some mistaken! P have such a profound respect for the truth that I never use it except on very special occasions.”

“Is this one?”

“It is not! Don’t believe a word I j6ay just now. In fact, I’m so lit up with the beauties and glories of this place, that I hardly know what I am a-saying! Ain’t it the show-place, though!”

“Yes, it is. Looky here, youngster, can’t you go up and coax Mr. Stone to see me—just a few minutes?”

“Nope; can’t do that. But you spill it to me, and if it’s worth it, I’ll repeat it to him. I’m really along for that very purpose, you see.”

“But I haven’t anything special to tell him—”

“Oh, I see! Just want the glory and honor of chinning with the great Stone!”

As this so nearly expressed Burdon’s intention, he grinned sheepishly, and Fibsy understood.

“No go, old top,” he assured him. “F. Stone will send for you if he thinks you’ll interest him in the slightest degree. Better wait for the sending—it’ll mean a more satisfactory interview all round.”” Well, then, let’s you and me chat a bit”

“Oho, coming round to sort of like me, are you? Well, I’m willing. Tell me this: how far from the victim did the shooter stand?”

“The doctor said, as nearly as he couW judge, about ten feet or so away.”

“H’m,” and Fibsy looked thoughtful. “That would just about suit all three of the present claimants for the honor, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes; and would preclude anybody not inside the room.”

“Unless he was dose to the window.”

“Sure. But it ain’t likely, is it now, that a rank outsider would come right up to the window and fire through it, and not be seen by anybody?”

“No; it isn’t. And, of course, if that had happened, and any one of the three Wheelers had seen it, they would be only too glad to tell of it. I wonder they haven’t made up some such yarn as that.”

“You don’t know the Wheelers. I do, and I can see how they would perjure themselves—any of them—and confess to a crime they didn’t commit, to save each other—but it wouldn’t occur to them to invent a murderer—or to say they saw some one they didn’t see. Do you get the difference?”

“Bang an expert in the lyin’ game, I do,” and Fibsy winked.

“It isn’t only that. It’s not only that they’re unwilling to lie about it, but they haven’t the—the, well, ingenuity to contrive a plausible yarn.”

“Not being lying experts, just as I said,” Fibsy observed. “Well, we all have our own kind of cleverness. Now, mine is finding things. Want to see an example?”

“Yes, I do.”

“All right. How far did you say the shooter person stood from his victim?”

“About ten feet—but I daresay it might be two or three feet, more or less.”

“No; they can judge closer’n that by the powder marks. The truth wouldn’t vary more’n a foot or so, from their say. Now, s’posin’ the shooter did throw the revolver out of the bay window, as the three Wheelers agree, severally, they did do, where would it most likely land?”

“In that clump of rhododendrons.”

“Yep; if they threw it straight ahead. I s’pose you’ve looked there for it?”

“Yes, raked the place thoroughly.”

“All right. Now if they slung the thing over toward the right, where would it land?”

“On the smooth lawn.”

“And you didn’t find it there!”

“No. What are you doing? Stringing me?”

“Oh, no, sir; oh, no! Now, once again. If they chanced to fling said revolver far to the left, where would it land?”

“Why—in that big bed of ferns—if they threw it far enough.”

“Looked there?”

“No; I haven’t.”

“C’mon, let’s take a squint.”

Fibsy rose and lounged over toward the fern bed, Burdon following, almost certain he was being made game of.

CHAPTER XII

THE GARAGE FIRE

“Now, watch me,” he said, and with a quick thrust of his arm down among the ferns, he drew forth a revolver, which he turned over to Burdon.

“Land o’ goodness!” exclaimed that worthy. “Howja know it was there?”

“Knew it must be—looked for it—saw it,” returned the boy, nonchalantly, and then, hearing a short, sharp whistle, he looked up at the house to see Fleming Stone regarding him from an upper window.

“Found the weapon, Fibs?” he inquired.

“Yes, Mr. Stone.”

“All right. Bring it up here, and ask Mr. Burdon to come along.”

Delighted at the summons, Burdon followed the boy’s flying feet and they went up to Stone’s rooms. A small and pleasant sitting-room had been given over to the detective, and he admitted his two visitors, then closed the door.

“Doing the spectacular, Terence?” Stone said, smiling a little.

“Just one grandstand play,” the boy confessed. As a matter of fact, he had located the pistol sometime earlier, but waited to make the discovery seem sensational.

“All right; let’s take a look at it.”

Without hesitation, Burdon pronounced the revolver Mr. Wheeler’s. It had no initials on it, but from Wheeler’s minute description, Burdon recognized it beyond reasonable doubt. One bullet had been fired from it, and the calibre corresponded to the shot that had killed Samuel Appleby.

“Oh, it’s the right gun, all right,” Burdon said, “but I never thought of looking over that way for it. Must have been thrown by a left-handed man.”

“Oh, not necessarily,” said Stone. “But it was thrown with a conscious desire to hide it, and not flung away in a careless or preoccupied moment.”

“And what do you deduce from that?” asked Burdon, quite prepared to hear the description of the murderer’s physical appearance and mental attainments.

“Nothing very definite,” Stone mused. “We might say it looked more like the act of a strong-willed man such as Mr. Wheeler, than of a frightened and nervously agitated woman.”

“If either of those two women did it,” Burdon offered, “she wasn’t nervous or agitated. They’re not that sort. They may go to pieces afterward, but whatever Mrs. Wheeler or Maida undertake to do, they put it over all right. I’ve known ’em for years, and I never knew either of them to show the white feather.”

“Well, it was not much of an indication, anyway,” Stone admitted, “but it does prove a steady nerve and a planning brain that would realize the advisability of flinging the weapon where it would not be probably sought. Now, as this is Mr. Wheeler’s revolver, there’s no use asking the three suspects anything about it. For each has declared he or she used it and flung it away. That in itself is odd—I mean that they should all tell the same story. It suggests not collusion so much as the idea that whoever did the shooting was seen by one or both of the others.”

“Then you believe it was one of the three Wheelers?” asked Burdon.

“I don’t say that, yet,” returned Stone. “But they must be reckoned with. I want to eliminate the innocent two and put the guilt on the third—if that is where it belongs.”

“And if not, which way are you looking?”

“Toward the fire. That most opportune fire in the garage seems to me indicative of a criminal who wanted to create a panic so he could carry out his murderous design with neatness and despatch.”

“And that lets out the women?”

“Not if, as you say, they’re of the daring and capable sort.”

“Oh, they are! If Maida Wheeler did this thing, she could stage the fire easily enough. Or Mrs. Wheeler could, either. They’re hummers when it comes to efficiency and actually doing things!”

“You surprise me. Mrs. Wheeler seems such a gentle, delicate personality.”

“Yep; till she’s roused. Then she’s full of tiger! Oh, I know Sara Wheeler. You ask my wife what Mrs. Wheeler can do!”

“Tell me a little more of this conditional pardon matter. Is it possible that for fifteen years Mr. Wheeler has never stepped over to the forbidden side of his own house?”

“Perfectly true. But it isn’t his house, it’s Mrs. Wheeler’s. Her folks are connected with the Applebys and it was the work of old Appleby that the property came to Sara with that tag attached, that she must live in Massachusetts. Also, Appleby pardoned Wheeler on condition that he never stepped foot into Massachusetts. And there they were. It was Sara Wheeler’s ingenuity and determination that planned the house on the state line, and she has seen to it that Dan Wheeler never broke parole. It’s second nature to him now, of course.”

“But I’m told that he did step over the night of the murder. That he went into the sitting-room of his wife—or maybe into the forbidden end of that long living-room—to see the fire. It would be a most natural thing for him to do.”

“Not natural, no, sir.” Burdon rubbed his brow thoughtfully. “Yet he might ’a’ done it. But one misstep like that ought to be overlooked, I think.”

“And would be by his friends—but suppose there’s an enemy at work. Suppose, just as a theory, that somebody is ready to take advantage of the peculiar situation, that seems to prove Dan Wheeler was either outside his prescribed territory—or he was the murderer. To my way of thinking, at present, that man’s alibi is his absence from the scene of the crime. And, if he was absent, he must have been over the line. I know this from talks I’ve had with the servants and the family and guests, and I’m pretty confident that Wheeler was either in the den or in the forbidden north part of the house at the moment of the murder.”

“Why don’t you know which it was?” asked Burdon, bluntly.

“Because,” said Stone, not resenting the question, “because I can’t place any dependence on the truth of the family’s statements. For three respectable, God-fearing citizens, they are most astonishingly willing, even eager, to perjure themselves. Of course, I know they do it for one another’s sake. They have a strange conscience that allows them to lie outright for the sake of a loved one. And, it may be, commit murder for the sake of a loved one! But all diis I shall straighten out when I get further along. The case is so widespread, so full of ramifications and possible side issues, I have to go carefully at first, and not get entangled in false clues.”

“Got any clue, sir? Any real ones?”

“Meaning dropped handkerchiefs and broken cuff-links?” Stone chaffed him. “Well, there’s the pistol. That’s a material clue. But, no, I can’t produce anything else—at present. Well, Terence, what luck?”

Fibsy, who had slipped from the room at the very beginning of this interview, now returned.

“It’s puzzlin’—that’s what it is, puzzlin’,” he declared, throwing himself astride of a chair. “I’ve raked that old garage fore and aft, but I can’t track down the startings of that fire. You see, the place is stucco and all that, and besides the discipline of this whole layout is along the lines of p’ison neatness! Everybody that works at Sycamore Ridge has to be a very old maid for keeping things clean! So, there’s no chance for accumulated rubbish or old rags or spontaneous combustion or anything of the sort. Nextly, none of the three men who have any call to go into the garage ever smoke in there. That’s a Mede and Persian law. Gee, Mr. Wheeler is some efficient boss! Well, anyway, after the fire, though they tried every way to find out what started it, they couldn’t find a thing! There was no explanation but a brand dropped from the skies, or a stroke of lightning! And there was no storm on. It wouldn’t all be so sure, but the morning after, it seems, Mr. Allen and Mr. Keefe were doin’ some sleuthin’ on their own, and they couldn’t find out how the fire started. So, they put it up to the garage men, and they hunted, too. It seems nothing was burnt but some things in Mr. Appleby’s car, which, of course, lets out his chauffeur, who had no call to burn up his own duds. And a coat of his was burned and also a coat of Mr. Keefe’s.”

“What were those coats doing in an unused car?” asked Stone.

“Oh, they were extra motor coats, or raincoats, or something like that, and they always staid in the car.”

“Where, in the car?”

“I asked that,” Fibsy returned, “and they were hanging on the coat-rail. I thought there might have been matches in the pockets, but they say no. There never had been matches in those coat pockets, nor any matches in the Appleby car, for that matter.”

“Well, the fire is pretty well mixed up in the murder,” declared Stone. “Now it’s up to us to find out how.”

“Ex-cuse me, Mr. Stone,” and Burdon shook his head; “you’ll never get at it that way.”

“Ex-cuse me, Mr. Burdon,” Fibsy flared back, “Mr. Stone will get at it that way, if he thinks that’s the way to look. You don’t know F. Stone yet—”

“Hush up, Fibs; Mr. Burdon will know if I succeed, and, perhaps he’s right as to the unimportance of the fire, after all.”

“You see,” Burden went on, unabashed, “Mr. Keefe—now, he’s some smart in the detective line—he said, find your phantom bugler, and you’ve got your murderer! Now, what nonsense that is! As if a marauding villain would announce himself by playing on a bugle!”

“Yet there may be something in it,” demurred Stone. “It may well be that the dramatic mind that staged this whole mysterious affair is responsible for the bugle call, the fire, and the final crime.”

“In that case, it’s one of the women,” Burdon said. “They could do all that, either of them, if they wanted to; but Dan Wheeler, while he could kill a man on provocation—it would be an impulsive act—not a premeditated one. No, sir! Wheeler could see red, and go Berserk, but he couldn’t plan out a complicated affair like you’re turning this case into!”

“I’m not turning it into anything,” Stone laughed. “I’m taking it as it is presented to me, but I do hold that the phantom bugler and the opportune fire are theatrical elements.”

“A theatrical element, too, is the big sycamore,” and Burdon smiled. “Now, if that tree should take a notion to walk over into Massachusetts, it would help out some.”

“What’s that?” cried Fibsy. “What do you mean?”

“Well, the Wheelers have got a letter from Appleby, written while he was still governor, and it says that when the big sycamore goes into Massachusetts, Wheeler can go, too. But it can’t be done by a trick. I mean, they can’t transplant the thing, or chop it down and take the wood over. It’s got to go of its own accord.”

“Mere teasing,” said Stone.

“Yes, sir, just that. Appleby had a great streak of teasing. He used to tease everybody just for the fun of seeing them squirm. This whole Wheeler business was the outcome of Appleby’s distorted love of fun. And Wheeler took it so seriously that Appleby kept it up. I’ll warrant, if Wheeler had treated the whole thing as a joke, Appleby would have let up on him. But Dan Wheeler is a solemn old chap, and he saw no fun in the whole matter.”

“I don’t blame him,” commented Stone. “Won’t he get pardoned now?”

“No, sir, he won’t. Some folks think he will, but I know better. The present governor isn’t much for pardoning old sentences—he says it establishes precedent and all that. And the next governor is more than likely to say the same.”

“I hear young Mr. Appleby isn’t going to run.”

“No, sir, he ain’t. Though I daresay he will some other time. But this death of his father and the mystery and all, is no sort of help to a campaign. And, too, young Appleby hasn’t the necessary qualifications to conduct a campaign, however good he might be as governor after he got elected. No; Sam won’t run.”

“Who will?”

“Dunno, I’m sure. But there’ll be lots ready and eager for a try at it.”

“I suppose so. Well, Burdon, I’m going down now to ask some questions of the servants. You know they’re a mine of information usually.”

“Kin I go?” asked Fibsy.

“Not now, son. You stay here, or do what you like. But don’t say much and don’t antagonize anybody.”

“Not me, F. Stone!”

“Well, don’t shock anybody, then. Behave like a gentleman and a scholar.”

“Yessir,” Fibsy ducked a comical bow, and Burdon, understanding he was dismissed, went home.

To the dining-room Stone made his way, and asked a maid there if he might see the cook.

Greatly frightened, the waitress brought the cook to the dining-room.

But the newcomer, a typical, strong-armed, strong-minded individual, was not at all abashed.

“What is it you do be wantin”, sor?” she asked, civilly enough, but a trifle sullenly.

“Only a few answers to direct questions. Where were you when you first heard the alarm of the garage fire?”

“I was in me kitchen, cleanin’ up after dinner.”

“What did, you do?”

“I ran out the kitchen door and, seein’ flames, I ran toward the garage.”

“Before you ran, you were at the rear of the house—I mean the south side, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sor, I was.”

“You passed along the south veranda?”

“Not along it,” the cook looked at him wonderingly—” but by the end of it, like.”

“And did you see any one on the veranda? Any one at all?”

The woman thought hard. “Well, I sh’d have said no—first off—but now you speak of it, I must say I do have a remimbrance of seein’ a figger—but sort of vague like.”

“You mean your memory of it is vague—you don’t mean a shadowy figure?”

“No, sor. I mean I can’t mind it rightly, now, for I was thinkin’ intirely of the fire, and so as I was runnin’ past the end of the verandy all I can say is, I just glimpsed like, a person standin’ there.”

“Standing?”

“Well, he might have been moving—I dunno.”

“Are you sure it was a man?”

“I’m not. I’m thinkin’ it was, but yet, I couldn’t speak it for sure.”

“Then you went on to the fire?”

“Yes, sor.”

“And thought no more about the person on the veranda?”

“No, sor. And it niver wud have entered me head again, savin’ your speakin’ of it now. Why—was it the—the man that—”

“Oh, probably not. But everything I can learn is of help in discovering the criminal and perhaps freeing your employers from suspicion.”

“And I wish that might be! To put it on the good man, now! And worse, upon the ladies—angels, both of them!”

“You are fond of the family, then?”

“I am that! I’ve worked here for eight years, and never a cross word from the missus or the master. As for Miss Maida—she’s my darlint.”

“They’re fortunate in having you here,” said Stone, kindly. “That’s all, now, cook, unless you can remember anything more of that person you saw.”

“Nothin’ more, sor. If I do, I’ll tell you.”

Thinking hard, Stone left her.

It was the most unusual case he had ever attempted. If he looked no further for the murderer than the Wheeler family, he still had enough to do in deciding which one of the three was guilty. But he yearned for another suspect. Not a foolish phantom that went around piping, or a perhaps imaginary prowler stalking on the piazza., but a real suspect with a sound, plausible motive.

Though, to be sure, the Wheelers had motive enough. To be condemned to an absurd restriction and then teased about it, was enough to make life gall and wormwood to a sensitive man like Wheeler.

And who could say what words had passed between them at that final interview? Perhaps Appleby had goaded him to the breaking point; perhaps Wheeler had stood it, but his wife, descending the stairs and hearing the men talk, had grown desperate at last; or, and Stone knew he thought this most plausible of all, perhaps Maida, in her window-seat, had stood as long as she could the aspersions and tauntings directed at her adored father, and had, with a reckless disregard of consequences, silenced the enemy forever.

Of young Allen, Stone had no slightest suspicion. To be sure, his interests were one with the Wheeler family, and moreover, he had hoped for a release from restrictions that would let the Wheelers go into Massachusetts and thereby make possible his home there with Maida.

For Maida’s vow that she would never go into the state if her father could not go, too, was, Allen knew, inviolable.

All this Stone mulled over, yet had no thought that Allen was the one he was seeking. Also, Curtis Keefe had testified that Allen was with him at the fire, during the time that included the moment of shooting.

Strolling out into the gardens, the detective made his way to the great tree, the big sycamore.

Here Fibsy joined him, and at Stone’s tacit nod of permission, the boy sat down beside his superior on the bench under the tree.

“What’s this about the tree going to Massachusetts?” Fibsy asked, his freckled face earnestly inquiring.

“One of old Appleby’s jokes,” Stone returned. “Doubtless made just after a reading of Macbeth. You know, or if you don’t, you must read it up for yourself, there’s a scene there that hinges on Birnam Wood going to Dunsinane. I can’t take time to tell you about it, but quite evidently it pleased the old wag to tell Mr. Wheeler that he could go into his native state when this great tree went there.”

“Meaning not at all, I s’pose.”

“Of course. And any human intervention was not allowed. So though Birnam Wood was brought to Dunsinane, such a trick is not permissible in his case. However, that’s beside the point just now. Have you seen any of the servants?”

“Some. But I got nothing. They’re willing enough to talk, but they don’t know anything. They say I’d better tackle the ladies’ maid, a fair Rachel. So I’m going for her. But I bet I won’t strike pay-dirt.”

“You may. Skip along, now, for here comes Miss Maida, and she’s probably looking for me.”

Fibsy departed, and Maida, looking relieved to find Stone alone, came quickly toward him.

“You see, Mr. Stone,” she began, “you must start straight in this thing. And the only start possible is for you to be convinced that I killed Mr. Appleby.”

“But you must admit, Miss Wheeler, that I am not too absurd in thinking that though you say you did it, you are saying it to shield some one else—some one who is near and dear to you.”

“I know you think that—but it isn’t so. How can I convince you?”

“Only by circumstantial evidence. Let me question you a bit. Where did you get the revolver?”

“From my father’s desk drawer, where he always keeps it.”

“You are familiar with firearms?”

“My father taught me to shoot years ago. I’m not a crack shot—but that was not necessary.”

“You premeditated the deed?”

“For some time I have felt that I wanted to kill that man.”

“Your conscience?”

“Is very active. I deliberately went against its dictates for my father’s sake.”

“And you killed Mr. Appleby because he hounded your father in addition to the long deprivation he had imposed on him?”

“No, not that alone. Oh, I don’t want to tell you—but, if you won’t believe me otherwise, Mr. Stone, I will admit that I had a new motive—”

“A new one?”

“Yes, a secret that I learned only a day or so before—before Mr. Appleby’s death.”

“The secret was Appleby’s?”

“Yes; that is, he knew it. He told it to me. If any one else should know it, it would mean the utter ruin and desolation of the lives of my parents, compared to which this present condition of living is Paradise itself!”

“This is true, Miss Wheeler?”

“Absolutely true. Now, do you understand why I killed him?”

CHAPTER XIII

SARA WHEELER

Fleming Stone was deeply interested in the Appleby case.

While his logical brain could see no possible way to look save toward one of the three Wheelers, yet his soul revolted at the thought that any one of them was the criminal.

Stone was well aware of the fact that the least seemingly guilty often proved to be a deep-dyed villain, yet he hesitated to think that Dan Wheeler had killed his old enemy, and he could not believe it was a woman’s work. He was impressed by Maida’s story, especially by the fact that a recent development had made her more strongly desirous to be rid of old Appleby. He wondered if it did not have something to do with young Appleby’s desire to marry her, and determined to persuade her to confide further in him regarding the secret she mentioned.

But first, he decided to interview Mrs. Wheeler. This could not be done offhand, so he waited a convenient season, and asked for a conference when he felt sure it would be granted.

Sara Wheeler received the detective in her sitting-room, and her manner was calm and collected as she asked him to make the interview as brief as possible.

“You are not well, Mrs. Wheeler?” Stone asked, courteously.

“I am not ill, Mr. Stone, but naturally these dreadful days have upset me, and the horror and suspense are still hanging over me. Can you not bring matters to a crisis? Anything would be better than present conditions!”

“If some member of your family would tell me the trut i,” Stone said frankly, “it would help a great deal. You know, Mrs1. Wheeler, when three people insist on being regarded as the criminal, it’s difficult to choose among them. Now, won’t you, at least, admit that you didn’t shoot Mr. Appleby?”

“But I did,” and the serene eyes looked at Stone calmly.

“Can you prove it—I mean, to my satisfaction? Tell me this: where did you get a pistol?”

“I used Mr. Wheeler’s revolver.”

“Where did you get it?”

“From the drawer in his desk, where he always keeps it.”

Stone sighed. Of course, both Maida and her mother knew where the revolver was kept, so this was no test of their veracity as to the crime.

“When did you take it from the drawer?”

Sara Wheeler hesitated for an instant and from that, Stone knew that she had to think before she spoke. Had she been telling the truth, he argued, she would have answered at once.

But immediately she spoke, though with a shade of hesitation.

“I took it earlier in the day—I had it up in my own room.”

“Yes; where did you conceal it there?”

“In—in a dresser drawer.”

“And, when you heard the alarm of fire, you ran downstairs in consequence—but you paused to get the revolver and take it with you!”

This sounded absurd, but Sara Wheeler could see no way out of it, so she assented.

“Feeling sure that you would find your husband and Mr. Appleby in such a desperate quarrel that you would be called upon to shoot?”

“I—I overheard the quarrel from upstairs,” she faltered, her eyes piteous now with a baffled despair.

“Then you went down because of the quarreling voices—not because of the fire-alarm?”

Unable to meet Stone’s inexorable gaze, Mrs. Wheeler’s eyes fell and she nervously responded: “Well, it was both.”

“Now, see here,” Stone said, kindly; “you want to do anything you can, don’t you, to help your husband and daughter?”

“Yes, of course!” and the wide-open eyes now looked at him hopefully.

“Then will you trust me far enough to believe that I think you will best help them by telling the truth?”

“Oh, I can’t!” and with a low moan the distracted woman hid her face in her hands.

“Please do; your attitude proves you are concealing important information. I am more than ever sure you are not the guilty one—and I am not at all sure that it was either of the other two.”

“Then who could it have been?” and Sara Wheeler looked amazed.

“That we don’t know. If I had a hint of any direction to look I’d be glad. But if you will shed what light you can, it may be of great help.”

“Even if it seems to incriminate my—”

“What can incriminate them more than their own confessions?”

“Their confessions contradict each other. They can’t both be guilty.”

“And you don’t know which one is?”

“N-no,” came the faltering reply.

“But that admission contradicts your own confession. Come now, Mrs. Wheeler, own up to me that you didn’t do it, and I’ll not tell any one else, unless it becomes necessary.”

“I will tell you, for I can’t bear this burden alone any longer! I did go downstairs because of the alarm of fire, Mr. Stone. Just before I came to the open door of the den, I heard a shot, and as I passed the door of the den, I saw Mr. Appleby, fallen slightly forward in his chair, my husband standing at a little distance looking at him, and Maida in the bay window, also staring at them both.

“What did you do? Coin?”

“No; I was so bewildered, I scarcely knew which way to turn, and in my fear and horror I ran into my own sitting-room and fell on the couch there in sheer collapse.”

“You stayed there?”

“Until I heard voices in the den—the men came back from the fire and discovered the—the tragedy. At least, I think that’s the way it was. It’s all mixed up in my mind. Usually I’m very clear-headed and strong nerved, but that scene seemed to take away all my will-power—all my vitality.”

“I don’t wonder. What did you do or say?”

“I had a vague fear that my husband or daughter would be accused of the crime, and so, at once, I declared it was the work of the phantom bugler. You’ve heard about him?”

“Yes. You didn’t think it was he, though, did you?”

“I wanted to—yes, I think I did. You see, I don’t think the bugler was a phantom, but I do think he was a criminal. I mean, I think it was somebody who meant harm to my husband. I—well—I think maybe the shot was meant for Mr. Wheeler.”

Stone looked at her sharply, and said: “Please, Mrs. Wheeler, be honest with me, whatever you may pretend to others. Are you not springing that theory in a further attempt to direct suspicion away from Mr. Wheeler?”

She gave a gesture of helplessness. “I see I can hide nothing from you, Mr. Stone! You are right—but may there not be a chance that it is a true theory after all?”

“Possibly; if we can find any hint of the bugler’s identity. Mr. Keefe says, find the bugler and you’ve found the murderer.”

“I know he does, but Keefe is—as I am—very anxious to direct suspicion away from the Wheeler family. You see, Mr. Keefe is in love with my daughter—”

“As who isn’t? All the young men fall down before her charms!”

“It is so. Although she is engaged to Mr. Allen, both Mr. Keefe and Mr. Sam Appleby are hopeful of yet winning her regard. To me it is not surprising, for I think Maida the very flower of lovely girlhood, but I also think those men should recognize Jeffrey Allen’s rights and cease paying Maida such definite attentions.”

“It is hard to repress an ardent admirer,” Stone admitted, “and as you say, that is probably Keefe’s intent in insisting on the finding of the bugler. You do not, then, believe in your old legend?”

“I do and I don’t. My mind has a tendency to revere and love the old traditions of my family, but when it comes to real belief I can’t say I am willing to stand by them. Yet where else can we look for a criminal—other than my own people?”

“Please tell me just what you saw when you looked into the den immediately after you heard the shot. You must realize how important this testimony is.”

“I do,” was the solemn reply. “I saw, as I told you, both my husband and my daughter looking at Mr. Appleby as he sat in his chair. I did not know then that he was dead, but he must have been dead or dying. The doctors said the death was practically instantaneous.”

“And from their attitude or their facial expression could you assume either your husband or daughter to have been the guilty one?”

“I can only say they both looked stunned and horrified. Just as one would expect them to look on the occasion of witnessing a horrible tragedy.”

“Whether they were responsible for it or not?”

“Yes. But I’m not sure the attitude would have been different in the case of a criminal or a witness. I mean the fright and horror I saw on their faces would be the same if they had committed a crime or had seen it done.”

Stone considered this. “You may be right,” he said; “I daresay absolute horror would fill the soul in either case, and would produce much the same effect in appearance. Now, let us suppose for a moment, that one or other of the two did do the shooting—wait a moment!” as Mrs. Wheeler swayed uncertainly in her chair. “Don’t faint. I’m supposing this only in the interests of you and yours. Suppose, I say, that either Mr. Wheeler or Miss Wheeler had fired the weapon—as they have both confessed to doing—which would you assume, from their appearance, had done it?”

Controlling herself by a strong effort, Sara Wheeler answered steadily, “I could not say. Honestly, to my startled eyes they seemed equally horrified and stunned.”

“Of course they would. You see, Mrs. Wheeler, the fact that they both confess it, makes it look as if one of them did do it, and the other having witnessed the deed, takes over the blame to save the guilty one. This sounds harsh, but we have to face the facts. Then, if we can get more or different facts, so much the better.”

“You’re suggesting, then, that one of my people did do it, and the other saw it done?”

“I’m suggesting that that might be the truth, and so far as we can see now, is the most apparent solution. But I’m not saying it is the truth, nor shall I relax my efforts to find another answer to our problem. And I want to tell you that you have helped materially by withdrawing your own confession. Every step I can take toward the truth is helpful. You have lessened the suspects from three to two; now if I can eliminate another we will have but one; and if I can clear that one, we shall have to look elsewhere.”

“That is specious argument, Mr. Stone,” and Sara Wheeler fixed her large, sad eyes upon his face.

“For, if you succeeded in elimination of one of the two, it may be you cannot eliminate the third—and then—”

“And then your loving perjuries will be useless. True, but I must do my duty—and that means my duty to you all. I may tell you that Mr. Appleby, who employed me, asked me to find a criminal outside of your family, whether the real one or not.”

“He put it that way!”

“He did; and while I do want to find the outside criminal, I can’t find him if he doesn’t exist.”

“Of course not. I daresay I shall regret what I’ve told you, but—”

“But you couldn’t help it, I know. Don’t worry, Mrs. Wheeler. If you’ve no great faith in me, try to have a hopeful trust, and I assure you I will not betray it.”

“Well, Mr. McGuire,” Stone said to his adoring satellite, a little later, “there’s one out.”

“Mother Wheeler?”

“Yes, you young scamp; how did you know?”

“Saw you hobnobbing with her—she being took with a sudden attack of the confidentials—and, anyhow, two of ’em—at least—has got to cave in. You can ferret out which of ’em is George Washingtons and which isn’t.”

“Well, here’s the way it seems to stand now. Mind, I only say seems to stand.”

“Yessir.”

“The father and daughter—both of whom confess to the shooting, were seen in the room immediately after the event. Now, they were on opposite sides of the room, the victim being about midway between them. Consequently, if one shot, the other was witness thereto. And, owing to the deep devotion obtaining between them, either father or daughter would confess to the crime to save the other.”

“Then,” Fibsy summed up, “Mr. Wheeler and Maida don’t suspect each other; one did it, and both know which one.”

“Well put. Now, which is which?” “More likely the girl did the shooting. She’s awful impulsive, awful high strung and awful fond of her father. Say the old Appleby gentleman was beratin’ and oratin’ and iratin’ against Friend Wheeler, and say he went a leetle too far for Miss Maida to stand, and say she had that new secret, or whatever it is that’s eatin’ her—well, it wouldn’t surprise me overly, if she up and shot the varmint.” “Having held the pistol in readiness?” “Not nec’ess’rily. She coulda sprung across the room, lifted the weapon from its ’customed place in the drawer, and fired, all in a fleetin’ instant o’ time. And she’s the girl to do it! That Maida, now, she could do anything! And she loves the old man enough to do anything. Touch and go—that’s what she is! Especially go!”

“Well, all right. Yet, maybe it was the other way. Maybe, Wheeler, at the end of his patience, and knowing the ‘secret,’ whatever it may be, flung away discretion and grabbed up his own pistol and fired.”

“Coulda been, F. Stone. Coulda been—easily. But—I lean to the Maida theory. Maida for mine, first, last, and all the time.”

“For an admirer of hers, and you’re not by yourself in that, you seem cheerfully willing to subscribe to her guilt.”

“Well, I ain’t! But I do want to get the truth as to the three Wheelers. And once I get it fastened on the lovely Maida, I’ll set to work to get it off again. But, I’ll know where I’m at.”

“And suppose we fasten it on the lovely Daniel?”

“That’s a serious proposition, F. Stone. For, if he did it, he did it. And if Maida did it—she didn’t do it. See?”

“Not very clearly; but never mind, you needn’t expound. It doesn’t interest me.”

Fibsy looked comically chagrined, as he often did when Stone scorned his ideas, but he said nothing except:

“Orders, sir?”

“Yes, Terence. Hunt up Rachel, the maid, and find out all she knows. Use your phenomenal powers of enchantment and make her come across.”

“’Tis the same as done, sir!” declared the boy, and he departed at once in search of Rachel.

He sauntered out of the north door and took a roundabout way to the kitchen quarters.

Finally he found the cook, and putting on his best and most endearing little boy effects, he appealed for something to eat.

“Not but what I’m well treated at the table,” he said, “but, you know what boys are.”

“I do that,” and the good-natured woman furnished him with liberal pieces of pie and cake.

“Great,” said Fibsy, eating the last crumb as he guilefully complimented her culinary skill, “and now I’ve got to find a person name o’ Rachel. Where might she be?”

“She might be ’most anywhere, but she isn’t anywhere,” was the cryptic reply.

“Why for?”

“Well, she’s plain disappeared, if you know what that means.”

“Vamoosed? Skipped? Faded? Slid? Oozed out?”

“Yes; all those. Anyway, she isn’t on the place.”

“Since when?”

“Why, I saw her last about two hours ago. Then when Mrs. Wheeler wanted her she wasn’t to be found.”

“And hasn’t sence ben sane?”

“Just so. And as you are part and parcel of that detective layout that’s infestin’ the house an’ grounds, I wish you’d find the hussy.”

“Why, why, what langwitch! Why call her names?”

“She’s a caution! Get along now, and if you can’t find her, at least you can quit botherin’ me.”

“All right. But tell me this, before we part. Did she confide to your willin’ ears anything about the murder?”

“Uncanny you are, lad! How’d you guess it?”

“I’m a limb of Satan. What did she tell you? and when?”

“Only this morning; early, before she flew off.”

“Couldn’t very well have told you after she started.”

“No impidence now. Well, she told me that the night of the murder, as she ran from here to the garage, she saw on the south veranda a man with a bugle pipe!”

“A pipe dream!”

“I dunno. But she told it like gospel truth.”

“Just what did she say?”

“Said she saw a man—a live man, no phantom foolishness, on the south veranda, and he carried a bugle.”

“Did he play on it?”

“No; just carried it like. But she says he musta been the murderer, and by the same token it’s the man I saw!”

“Oho, you saw him, too?”

“As I told your master, I saw him, but not plain, as I ran along to the fire. Rachel, now, she saw him plain, so he musta been there. Well, belike, he was the murderer, and that sets my people free.”

“Important if true, but are you both sure? And why, oh, why does the valuable Rachel choose this time to vanish? Won’t she come back?”

“Who knows? She didn’t take any luggage—”

“How did she go?”

“Nobody knows. She walked, of course—”

“Then she couldn’t have gone far.”

“Oh, well, she could walk to the railway station. It’s only a fairish tramp. But why did she go?”

“I ask you why.”

“And I don’t know. But I suppose it was because she didn’t want to be questioned about the man who shot.”

“What! You didn’t say she saw him shoot!”

“Yes, I did. Or I meant to. Anyway that’s what Rachel said. The man with the bugle shot through the window and that’s what killed Mr. Appleby.”

“Oh, come now, this is too big a yarn to be true, especially when the yarner lights out at once after telling it!”

“Well, Rachel has her faults, but I never knew her to lie. And if it was the man I saw—why, that proves, at least, there was a man there.”

“But you didn’t see him clearly.”

“But I saw him.”

“Then he must be reckoned with. Now, Cookie, dear, we must find Rachel. We must! Do you hear? You help me and I bet we’ll get her.”

“But I’ve no idea where she went—”

“Of course you haven’t. But think; has she any friends or relatives nearby?”

“Not one.”

“Are there any trains about the time she left?”

“I don’t know what time she left, but there’s been no train since nine-thirty, and I doubt she was in time for that.”

“She took no luggage?”

“No, I’ll vouch for that.”

“Then she’s likely in the neighborhood. Is there any inn or place she could get a room and board?”

“Oh, land, she hasn’t gone away to stay. She’s scart at something most likely, and she’ll be back by nightfall.”

“She may and she may not. She must be found. Wait, has she a lover?”

“Well, they do say Fulton, the chauffeur, is sweet on her, but I never noticed it much.”

“Who said he was?”

“Mostly she said it herself.”

“She ought to know! Me for Fulton. Goodbye, Cookie, for the nonce,” and waving a smiling farewell, Fibsy went off toward the garage.

CHAPTER XIV

RACHEL’S STORY

“Hello, Fult,” Fibsy sang out gaily to the chauffeur, and received a pleasant response, for few could resist the contagious smile of the round, freckled face of the boy.

“Hello, Mr. Fibsy,” the other returned, “how you getting on with your detective work?”

“Fine; but I want a little help from you,”

“Me? I don’t know anything about anything.”

“Well, then tell me what you don’t know. That fire now, here in the garage, the night of the murder, did you ever find out how it started?”

Fulton’s face took on a perplexed look and he said: “No, we didn’t—and it’s a queer thing. It must have been started by some one purposely, for there’s no way it could have come about by accident.”

“Spontaneous combustion?”

“Whatever made you think of that? And it couldn’t have been from old paint rags, or such, for there’s nothing like that about. But—well, here’s what I found.”

Fulton produced a small bottle. It was empty and had no label or stopper, and Fibsy looked at it blankly.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Never see one like it?”

“No; have you?”

“Yes, I have. I was in the war, and bottles like that contained acid which, when combined with another acid, caused spontaneous combustion.”

“Combined—how?”

“Well, they used to saturate some cloth or old clothes with the other acid, and throw them about. Then, when the time came they threw a little bottle like that, filled with acid, and with only a paper stopper, in among the clothes. The acid slowly ate out the paper stopper, and then the two acids caused combustion. So, by the time the fire started, the man who was responsible for it was far away from the scene.”

“Whew! And you think that happened here?”

“There’s the bottle. The fire began in Mr. Appleby’s car. Two coats and a rug were burned—now, mightn’t they have been sprinkled with the other acid—”

“Of course that’s what happened! Why haven’t you told this before?”

“I only found the bottle this morning. It had been kicked under a bench, and the sweeper found it. Then I fell a-thinking, for it’s the very same sort of bottle I saw used over there. Somebody who knew that trick did it.”

“And whoever did it is either Mr. Appleby’s murderer, or an accomplice.”

“You think the two crimes are connected, then?”

“Haven’t a doubt of it. You’re a clever chap, Fulton, to dope this out—”

“Well, there was no other explanation. Anything else hinted at carelessness of my management of this place, and that hurt my pride, for I like to think this garage the pink of perfection as to cleanliness and order.”

“Mr. Wheeler is fortunate in having such a man as you. Now, one more thing, Fulton; where is Rachel?”

“Rachel!”

“Yes, your blush gives you away. If you know where she is, tell me. If she’s done nothing wrong it can do no harm to find her. If she has done anything wrong, she must be found.”

“I don’t know where she is, Mr. Fibsy—”

“Call me McGuire. And if you don’t know where she is, you know something about her disappearance. When did she go away?”

“I saw her last night. She said nothing about going away, but she seemed nervous and worried, and I couldn’t say anything to please her.”

“Can’t you form any idea of where she might have gone? Be frank, Fulton, for much depends on getting hold of that girl.”

“I can only say I’ve no idea where she is, but she may communicate with me. In that case—”

“In that case, let me know at once,” Fibsy commanded, and having learned all he could there, he went off to think up some other means of finding the lost Rachel.

Meantime Sam Appleby was taking his departure.

“I have to go,” he said, in response to the Wheelers’ invitation to tarry longer; “because Keefe is coming down tomorrow. One of us ought to be in father’s office all the time now, there’s so much to attend to.”

“Why is Mr. Keefe coming here?” asked Maida.

“Mr. Stone wants to see him,” Appleby informed her. “You know, Keefe is more or less of a detective himself, and Mr. Stone thinks he may be helpful in finding the criminal. Miss Lane is coming also, she begged to, mostly, I think, because she took such a liking to you.”

“I liked her, too,” returned Maida; “she’s a funny girl but a sincere, thorough nature.”

“Yes, she is. Well, they’ll only stay over a day or two, I can’t spare them longer. Of course, they may be of help to Mr. Stone, and they may not. But I don’t want to miss a trick in this investigation. What a queer little chap that boy of Stone’s is!”

“Fibsy?” and Maida smiled. “Yes, he’s a case! And he’s my devoted slave.”

“As who isn’t?” exclaimed Appleby. “Oh, Maida, do give me a little encouragement. After this awful business is all over, mayn’t I come back with a hope that you’ll smile on me?”

“Don’t talk that way, Sam. You know I’m engaged to Jeffrey.”

“Oh, no, you’re not. I mean, it can be possible for you to change your mind. Girls are often engaged to several men before they marry.”

“I’m not that sort,” and Maida smiled a little sadly.

“Be that sort, then.”

“You seem to forget that I may be openly accused of crime at any moment. And a crime that hits you pretty closely.”

“Don’t say such things, dear. Neither you nor any of your people are responsible for the dreadful thing that happened to father—or, if you are, I never want to know it. And I do want you, Maida dear—so much—”

“Hush, Sam; I won’t listen to anything like that from you.”

“Not now, but later on,” he urged. “Tell me that I may come back, Maida dear.”

“Of course you may come here, whenever you like, but I hold out no hope of the sort you ask for.”

“I shall hope all the same. I’d die if I didn’t! Good-bye, Maida, for this time.”

He went away to the train, and later, came Keefe and Genevieve Lane.

“Oh,” the girl cried, “I’m so glad to be back here again, Maida. My, but you’re prettier than ever! If you’d only touch up those pale cheeks—just a little bit—here, let me—”

She opened her ever-ready vanity box, and was about to apply a touch of rouge, but Maida sprang away from her.

“No, no, Genevieve, I never use it.”

“Silly girl! You don’t deserve the beauty nature gave you, if you’re not willing to help it along a little yourself! How do you do, Mrs. Wheeler and Mr. Wheeler?”

She greeted them prettily, and Keefe, too, exchanged greetings with the family.

“Anything being done?” he asked, finally. “Has Mr. Stone discovered anything of importance?”

“Nothing very definite, I fear,” returned Daniel Wheeler. He spoke wearily, and almost despairingly. Anxiety and worry had aged him, even in the last few days. “I do hope, Keefe, that you can be of assistance. You have a keen eye for details, and may know or remember some points that escaped our notice.”

“I’m hoping I can help,” Keefe returned with a serious face. “Can I see Stone shortly?”

“Yes, now. Come along into the den, he’s in here.”

The two men went to the den, where Stone and Fibsy were in deep consultation.

“Very glad to see you, Mr. Keefe,” Fleming Stone acknowledged the introduction. “This is McGuire, my young assistant. You may speak frankly before him.”

“If I have anything to speak,” said Keefe. “I don’t really know anything I haven’t told, but I may remind Mr. Wheeler of some points he has forgotten.”

“Well, let’s talk it all over,” Stone suggested, and they did.

Keefe was greatly surprised and impressed by the story of the cook’s having seen a man on the south veranda at the time of the shooting.

“But she didn’t see him clearly,” Fibsy added.

“Couldn’t she describe him?”

“No; she didn’t see him plain enough. But the maid, Rachel, told cook that she saw the man, too, and that he carried a bugle. Cook didn’t see the bugle.”

“Naturally not, if she only saw the man vaguely,” said Wheeler. “But, it begins to look as if there must have been a man there and if so, he may have been the criminal.”

“Let us hope,” said Keefe, earnestly. “Now, can you find this man, Mr. Stone?”

“We’ve got to find him,” Stone returned, “whether we can or not. It’s really a baffling case. I think we’ve discovered the origin of the fire in the garage.”

He told the story that Fibsy had learned from the chauffeur, and Keefe was greatly interested.

“What are the acids?” he asked.

“I don’t know the exact names,” Stone admitted, “but they are of just such powers as Fulton described, and the thing is plausible. Here’s the bottle.” He offered the little vial for inspection and Keefe looked at it with some curiosity.

“The theory being,” he said, “that the murderer first arranged for a fire in our car—in Mr. Appleby’s car—and then waited for the fire to come off as planned. Then, at the moment of greatest excitement, he, being probably the man the servants saw—shot through the bay window and killed Mr. Appleby. You were fortunate, Miss Maida, that you weren’t hit first!”

“Oh, I was in no danger. I sat well back in the window-seat, and over to one side, out of range of a shot from outside. And, too, Mr. Keefe, I can scarcely discuss this matter of the shot from outside, as I am, myself, the confessed criminal.”

“Confessing only to save me from suspicion,” said her father, with an affectionate glance. “But it won’t do any good, dear. I take the burden of the crime and I own up that I did it. This man on the veranda—if, indeed, there was such a one, may have been any of the men servants about the place, startled by the cry of fire, and running to assure himself of the safety of the house and family. He, doubtless, hesitates to divulge his identity lest he be suspected of shooting.”

“That’s all right,” declared Fibsy, “but if it was one of your men, he’d own up by this time. He’d know he wouldn’t be suspected of shooting Mr. Appleby. Why should he do it?”

“Why should anybody do it, except myself?” asked Dan Wheeler. “Not all the detectives in the world can find any one else with a motive and opportunity. The fact that both my wife and daughter tried to take the crime off my shoulders only makes me more determined to tell the truth.”

“But you’re not telling the truth, dad,” and Maida looked at him. “You know I did it—you know I had threatened to do it—you know I felt I just could not stand Mr. Appleby’s oppression of you another day! And so—and so, I—”

“Go on, Miss Wheeler,” urged Stone, “and so you—what did you do?”

“I ran across the den to the drawer where father keeps his pistol; I took it and shot—then I ran back to the window-seat—”

“What did you do with the pistol?”

“Threw it out of the window.”

“Toward the right or left?”

“Why, I don’t know.”

“Try to think. Stand up there now, and remember which way you flung it.”

Reluctantly, Maida went to the bay window, and stood there thinking.

“I don’t know,” she said, at last. “I can’t remember.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Keefe. “I think we can prove that it was none of the Wheelers, but there was a man, an intruder, on the veranda who shot. Even if we never find out his identity, we may prove that he was really there. Where is this maid who saw him clearly? Rachel—is that her name?”

“That’s a pretty thing, too!” Fibsy spoke up. “She has flew the coop.”

“Gone! Where?” Keefe showed his disappointment.

“Nobody knows where. She just simply lit out. Even her lover doesn’t know where she is.”

“Who is her lover?”

“Fulton, the chauffeur. He’s just about crazy over her disappearance.”

“Oh, she’ll return,” surmised Stone. “She became frightened at something and ran off. I think she’ll come back. If not, we’ll have to give chase. We must find her, as she’s the principal witness of the man on the veranda. Cook is not so sure about him.”

“Who could he have been?” Keefe said. “Doubtless some enemy of Mr. Appleby, in no way connected with the Wheelers.”

“Probably,” agreed Stone.

“We found the pistol, you know, Mr. Keefe,” remarked Fibsy.

“You did! Well, you have made progress. Where was it?”

“In the fern bed, not far from the veranda railing.”

“Just where the man would have thrown it!” exclaimed Keefe.

“Or where I threw it,” put in Daniel Wheeler.

“I’d like to see the exact place it was found,” Keefe said.

“Come on, I’ll show you,” offered Fibsy and the two started away together.

“Here you are,” and Fibsy showed the bed of ferns, which, growing closely together, made a dense hiding place.”

“A wonder you ever found it,” said Keefe. “How’d you happen to?”

“Oh, I just snooped around till I came to it. I says to myself, ‘Either the murderer flung it away or he didn’t. If he did, why it must be somewheres,’ and it was.”

“I see; and does Mr. Stone think the finding of it here points to either of the Wheelers?”

“Not necess’rily. You see, if the man we’re looking for did the shooting, he’s the one who threw the pistol in this here fern bed. And, you know yourself, it’s more likely a man threw this farther than a woman.”

“Miss Wheeler is athletic.”

“I know, but I’m convinced that Miss Wheeler didn’t do the deed. Ain’t you?”

“Oh, I can’t think she did it, of course. But it’s all very mysterious.”

“Not mysterious a bit. It’s hard sleddin’, but there ain’t much mystery about it. Why, look a-here... If either the father or daughter did it, they both know which one it was. Therefore, one is telling the truth and one isn’t. It won’t be hard to find out which is which, but F. Stone, he’s trying to find some one that’ll let the Wheelers both out.”

“Oh, that’s his idea? And a mighty good one. I’ll help all I can. Of course, the thing to do is to trace the pistol.”

“Oh, it was Mr. Wheeler’s pistol, all right.”

“It was!” Keefe looked dismayed. “Then how can we suspect an outsider?”

“Well, he could have stolen Mr. Wheeler’s pistol for the purpose of casting suspicion on him.”

“Yes; that’s so. Now to find that Rachel.”

“Oh, do find her,” Maida cried, overhearing the remark as she and Genevieve crossed the lawn toward Keefe and Fibsy.

The lad had not yet seen Miss Lane and he frankly admired her at once. Perhaps a sympathetic chord was struck by the similarity of their natures. Perhaps they intuitively recognized each other’s gay impudence, for they engaged in a clash of words that immediately made them friends.

“Maybe Rachel’d come back if she knew you were here,” he said. “I’m sure she’d admire to wait on such a pretty lady.”

“Just tell her that you saw me,” Genevieve said, “and I’ll be glad to have her back. She’s a first-class ladies’ maid.”

“Oh, then she only waits on first-class ladies?”

“Yes; that’s why she’s so fond of me. Do hunt her up.”

“Well, cutie, just for you, I’ll do that same. Where shall I go to look for her?”

“How should I know? But you keep watch of Fulton, and I’ll bet he gets some word from her.”

“Yes, they’re sweethearts. Now, how do sweethearts get word to each other? You ought to know all about sweethearting.”

“I don’t,” said Genevieve, demurely.

“Pshaw, now, that’s too bad. Want me to teach you?”

“Yes—if you don’t mind.”

“Saunter away with me, then,” and the saucy boy led Miss Lane off for a stroll round the grounds.

“Honest, now, do you want to help?” he asked.

“Yes, I do,” she asserted. “I’m downright fond of Maida, and though I know she didn’t do it, yet she and her father will be suspected unless we can find this other person. And the only way to get a line on him, seems to be through Rachel. Why do you suppose she ran away?”

“Can’t imagine. Don’t see how she could get scared.”

“No; what would scare her? I think she’s at some neighbor’s.”

“Let’s you and me go to all the neighbors and see.”

“All right. We’ll go in the Wheelers’ little car. Fulton will take us.”

“Don’t we get permission?”

“Nixy. They might say no, by mistake for a yes. Come on—we’ll just hook Jack.”

To the garage they went and easily persuaded Fulton to take them around to some of the neighboring houses.

And at the third one they visited they found Rachel. A friend of hers was a maid there, and she had taken Rachel in for a few days.

“Why did you run off?” queried Fulton.

“Oh, I don’t know,” and Rachel shuddered. “It all got on my nerves. Who’s over there now?”

“Just the family, and the detectives and Mr. Keefe,” Fulton answered. “Will you come home?”

“She will,” Fibsy answered for her. “She will get right into this car and go at once—in the name of the law!” he added sternly, as Rachel seemed undecided.

Fibsy often used this phrase, and, delivered in an awe-inspiring tone, it was usually effective.

Rachel did get into the car, and they returned to Sycamore Lodge in triumph.

“Good work, Fibs,” Stone nodded his approval. “Now, Rachel, sit right down here on the veranda, and tell us about that man you saw.”

The girl was clearly frightened and her voice trembled, but she tried to tell her story.

“There’s nothing to fear,” Curtis Keefe said, kindly. “Just tell slowly and simply the story of your seeing the man and then you may be excused.”

She gave him a grateful look, and seemed to take courage.

“Well, I was passing the veranda—”

“Coming from where and going where?” interrupted Stone, speaking gently.

“Why, I—I was coming from the—the garage—”

“Where you had been talking to Fulton?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, go on.”

“And I was going—going to go up to Mrs. Wheeler’s room. I thought she might want me. And as I went by the veranda, I saw the man. He was a big man, and he carried a bugle.”

“He didn’t blow on it?”

“No, sir. Just waved it about like.”

“You didn’t see that he had a pistol?”

“I—I couldn’t say, sir.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” said Keefe. “Men with pistols don’t brandish them until they get ready to shoot.”

“But you saw this man shoot?” went on Stone.

“Yes, sir,” Rachel said; “I saw him shoot through the bay window and then I ran away.”

Whereupon, she repeated the action at the conclusion of her statement, and hurried away.

“Humph!” said Fleming Stone.

CHAPTER XV

THE AWFUL TRUTH

“Well, Fibs,” said Stone, as the two sat alone in conclave, “what about Rachel’s story?”

“You know, F. Stone, how I hate to doubt a lady’s word, but—not to put too fine a point upon it, the fair Rachel lied.”

“You think so, too, eh? And just why?”

“Under orders. She was coached in her part. Told exactly what to say—”

“By whom?”

“Oh, you know as well as I do. You’re just leading me on! Well, he coached her, all right, and she got scared before the performance came off and that’s why she ran away.”

“Yes, I agree to all that. Keefe, of course, being the coach.”

“Yessir. He doing it, to save the Wheelers. You see, he’s so desperately in love with Miss Maida, that it sort of blinds his judgment and cleverness,”

“Just how?”

“Well, you know his is love at first sight—practically.”

“Look here, Terence, you know a great deal about love.”

“Yessir, it—it comes natural to me. I’m a born lover, I am.”

“Had much experience?”

“Not yet. But my day’s coming. Well, never mind me—to get back to Friend Keefe. Here’s the way it is. Miss Wheeler is sort of engaged to Mr. Allen, and yet the matter isn’t quite settled, either. I get that from the servants—mean to gossip, but all’s fair in love and sleuthing. Now, Mr. Keefe comes along, sees the lovely Maida, and, zip! his heart is cracked! All might yet be well, but for the wily Genevieve. She has her cap set for Keefe, and he knows it, and was satisfied it should be so, till he saw Miss Wheeler. Now, the fat’s in the fire, and no pitch hot.”

“You do pick up a lot of general information.”

“It’s necess’ry, sir.” The red-head nodded emphatically. “These sidelights often point the way to the great and shinin’ truth! For, don’t you see, Mr. Keefe, being so gone on Miss Maida, naturally doesn’t want her or her people suspected of this crime—even if one of them is guilty. So he fixes up a cock-and-bull story about a bugler man—on the south veranda. This man, he argues, did the shooting. He gets Rachel—he must have some hold on her, bribery wouldn’t be enough—and he fair crams the bugler yarn down her throat, and orders her to recite it as Gospel truth.”

“Then she gets scared and runs away.”

“Exactly. You see it that way, don’t you, Mr. Stone?”

The earnest little face looked up to the master. Terence McGuire was developing a wonderful gift for psychological detective work, and sometimes he let his imagination run away with him. In such cases Stone tripped him up and turned him back to the right track. Both had an inkling that the day might eventually come when Stone would retire and McGuire would reign in his stead. But this was, as yet, merely a dream, and at present they worked together in unison and harmony.

“Yes, Fibsy—at least, I see it may have been that way. But it’s a big order to put on—to Mr. Keefe.”

“I know, but he’s a big man. I mean a man of big notions and projects. Anybody can see that. Now, he’s awful anxious Miss Wheeler and Mr. Wheeler shall be cleared of all s’picion—even if he thinks one of ’em is guilty. He doesn’t consider Mrs. Wheeler—I guess nobody does now.”

“Probably not. Goon.”

“Well, so Keefie, he thinks if he can get this bugler person guaranteed, by a reliable and responsible witness—which, of course, Rachel would seem to be—then, Mr. Keefe thinks, he’s got the Wheelers cleared. Now, Rachel, getting cold feet about it all, goes back on Keefe—oh, I could see it in his face!”

“Yes, he looked decidedly annoyed at Rachel’s failure of a convincing performance.”

“He did so! Now, Mr. Stone, even if he bolsters up Rachel’s story or gets her to tell it more convincingly—we know, you and I, that it isn’t true. There wasn’t any man on the south veranda.”

“Sure, Terence?”

“Yessir, I’m pretty sure. For, what became of him? Where did he vanish to? Who was he? There never was any bugler—I mean as a murderer. The piper who piped some nights previous had nothing to do with the case!”

“Sure, Terence?”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Stone—I was sure, till you say that at me, so dubious like—and then I’m not...”

“Well, go on with your theory, and let’s see where you come out. You may be on the right track, after all. I’m not sure of many points myself yet.”

“All right. To my mind, it comes back to a toss-up between Miss Maida and her father, with the odds in favor of the old gentleman. Agree?”

“I might, if I understood your English. The odds in favor of Mr. Wheeler indicating his guilt or innocence?”

“His guilt, I meant, F. Stone. I can’t ^hink that sweet young lady would do it, and this isn’t because she is a sweet young lady, but because it isn’t hardly plausible that she’s put the thing1 over, even though she was willing enough to do so.”

“It seems so to me, too, but we can’t bank on that. Maida Wheeler is a very impulsive girl, very vigorous and athletic, and very devoted to her father. She worships him, and she has been known to say she would willingly kill old Mr. Appleby. These things must be remembered, Fibsy.”

“That’s so. But I’ve noticed that when folks threaten to kill people they most generally don’t do it.”

“I’ve also noticed that. But, striking out Maida’s name, leaves us only Mr. Wheeler.”

“Well, ain’t he the one? Ain’t he the downtrodden, oppressed victim, who, at last, has opportunity, and who is goaded to the point of desperation by the arguments of his enemy?”

“You grow oratorical! But, I admit, you have an argument.”

“’Course I have. Now, say we’ve got to choose between Miss Wheeler and Mr. Wheeler, how do we go about it?”

“How?”

“Why, we find out how Mr. Appleby was sitting, how Mr. Wheeler was facing at the moment, and also Miss Maida’s position. Then, we find out the direction from which the bullet entered the body, and then we can tell who fired the shot.”

“I’ve done all that, Fibs,” Stone returned, with no note of superiority in his voice. “I found out all those things, and the result proves that the bullet entered Mr. Appleby’s body from the direction of Miss Maida, in the bay window, and directly opposite from what would have been its direction if fired by Mr. Wheeler, from where he stood, when seen directly after the shot.”

Fibsy looked dejected. He made1 no response to this disclosure for a moment, then he said:

“All right, F. Stone. In that case I’m going over to Mr. Keefe’s side, and I’m going to hunt up the bugler.”

“A fictitious person?”

“Maybe he ain’t so fictitious after all,” and the red-head shook doggedly.

A tap at the door of Stone’s sitting-room was followed by a “May I come in?” and the entrance of Daniel Wheeler.

“The time has come, Mr. Wheeler,” Stone began a little abruptly, “to put all our cards on the table. I’ve investigated things pretty thoroughly, and, though I’m not all through with my quest, I feel as if I must know the truth as to what you know about the murder.”

“I have confessed,” Wheeler began, but Stone stopped him.

“That won’t do,” he said, very seriously. “I’ve proved positively that from where you stood, you could not have fired the shot. It came from the opposite direction. Now it’s useless for you to keep up that pretence of being the criminal, which, I’ve no doubt, you’re doing to shield your daughter. Confide in me, Mr. Wheeler, it will not harm the case.”

“God help me, I must confide in somebody,”cried the desperate man. “She did do it! I saw Maida fire the shot! Oh, can you save her? I wouldn’t tell you this, but I think—I hope you can help better if you know. You’d find it out anyway—”

“Of course I should. Now, let us be strictly truthful. You saw Miss Maida fire the pistol?”

“Yes; I was sitting almost beside Appleby; he Was nearer Maida than I was, and she sat in the bay window, reading. She sits there much of the time, and I’m so accustomed to her presence that I don’t even think about it. We were talking pretty angrily, Appleby and I, really renewing the old feud, and adding fuel to its flame with every word. I suppose Maida, listening, grew more and more indignant at his injustice and cruelty to me—those terms are not too strong!—and she being of an impulsive nature, even revengeful when her love for me is touched, and I suppose she, somehow, possessed herself of my pistol and fired it.”

“You were not looking at her before the shot?”

“Oh, no; the shot rang out, Appleby fell forward, and even as I rose to go to his aid, I instinctively turned toward the direction from which the sound of the shot had come. There I saw Maida, standing white-faced and frightened, but with a look of satisfied revenge on her dear face. I felt no resentment at her act, then—indeed, I was incapable of coherent thought of any sort. I stepped! to Appleby’s side, and I saw at once that he was dead—had died instantly. I cannot tell you just what happened next. It seemed ages before anybody came, and then, suddenly the room was full of people. Allen and Keefe came, running—the servants gathered about, my wife appeared, and Maida was there. I had a strange undercurrent of thought that kept hammering at my brain to the effect that I must convince everybody that I did it, to save my girl. I was clear-headed to the extent of planning my words in an effort to carry conviction of my guilt, but that effort so absorbed my attention that I gave no heed to what happened otherwise.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wheeler, for your kindness. I assure you you will not regret it.”

“You’re going to save her? You can save my little girl? Oh, Mr. Stone, I beg of you—”

The agonized father broke down completely, and Stone said, kindly:

“Keep up a good heart, Mr. Wheeler. That will help your daughter more than anything else you can do. I assumed that if one of you were guilty the other was shielding the criminal, but your story has straightened out the tangle considerably.”

“Lemme ask something, please,” broke in Fibsy. “Say, Mr. Wheeler, did you see the pistol in Miss MaMa’s hands?”

“I can’t say I did or didn’t,” Wheeler replied, listlessly. “I looked only at her face. I know my daughter’s mind so well, that I at once recognized her expression of horror mingled with relief. She had really desired the death of her father’s enemy, and she was glad it had been accomplished! It’s a terrible thing to say of one’s own child, but I’ve made up my mind to be honest with you, Mr. Stone, in the hope of your help. I should have persisted in my own story of guilt, had I not perceived it was futile in the face of your clear-sighted logic and knowledge of the exact circumstances.”

“You did wisely. But say nothing to any one else, for the present. Do not even talk to Miss Maida about it, until I have time to plan our next step. It is still a difficult and a very delicate case. A single false move may queer the whole game.”

“You think, then, you can save Maida—oh, do give a tortured father a gleam of hope!”

“I shall do my best. You know they rarely, if ever, convict a woman—and, too, Miss Wheeler had great provocation. Then—what about self-defence?”

“Appleby threatened neither of us,” Wheeler said. “That can’t be used.”

“Well, we’ll do everything we can, you may depend on that,” Stone assured him. And Wheeler went away, relieved at the new turn things had taken, though also newly concerned for Maida’s safety.

“Nice old chap,” said Fibsy to Stone. “He stuck to his faked yarn as long as the sticking was good, and then he caved in.”

“Open and shut case, Terence?”

“Open—but not yet shut, F. Stone. Now, where do we go from here?”

“You go where you like, boy. Leave me to grub at this alone.”

Without another word Fibsy left the room. He well knew when Stone spoke in that serious tone that great thoughts were forming in that fertile brain and sooner or later he would know of them. But at present his company was not desired.

The boy drifted out on the terraced lawn and wandered about among the gardens. He, too, thought, but he could see no light ahead.

“S’long as the old man saw her,” he observed to himself, “there’s no more to be said. He never’d say he saw her shoot, if he hadn’t seen her. He’s at the end of his rope, and even if they acquit the lady I don’t want to see her dragged through a trial. But where’s any way of escape? What can turn up to contradict a straight story like that? Who else can testify except the eye-witness who has just spoken? I wonder if he realized himself how conclusive his statement was? But he trusted in F. Stone to get Maida off, somehow. Queer, how most folks think a detective is a magician, and can do the impossible trick!”

In a brown study he walked slowly along the garden paths, and was seen by Keefe and Maida, who sat under the big sycamore tree.

“Crazy idea, Stone bringing that kid,” Keefe said, with a laugh.

“Yes, but he’s a very bright boy,” Maida returned. “I’ve been surprised at his wise observations.”

“Poppycock! He gets off his speeches with that funny mixture of newsboy slang and detective jargon, and you think they’re cleverer than they are.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Maida, not greatly interested. “But what a strange story Rachel told. Do you believe it, Mr. Keefe?”

“Yes, I do. The girl was frightened, I think; first, at the information she tried to divulge, and second, by finding herself in the limelight. She seems to be shy, and I daresay the sudden publicity shook her nerves. But why shouldn’t her story be true? Why should she invent all that?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. But it didn’t sound like Rachel—the whole thing, I mean. She seemed acting a part.”

“Nonsense! You imagine that. But never mind her, I’ve something to tell you. I know—Maida, mind you, I know what Mr. Appleby meant by the speech which I took to be ‘Mr. Keefe and the airship.’”

Maida’s face went white.

“Oh, no!” she cried, involuntarily. “Oh, no!”

“Yes,” Keefe went on, “and I know now he said heirship. Not strange I misunderstood, for the words are of the same sound—and, then I had no reason to think of myself in connection with an heirship!”

“And—and have you now?”

“Yes, I have. I’ve been over Mr. Appleby’s papers—as I had a right to do. You know I was his confidential secretary, and he kept no secrets from me—except those he wanted to keep!”

“Go on,” said Maida, calm now, and her eyes glistening with an expression of despair.

“Need I go on? You know the truth. You know that I am the rightful heir of this whole place. Sycamore Ridge is mine, and not your mother’s.”

“Yes.” The word was scarce audible. Poor Maida felt as if the last blow had fallen. She had seared her conscience, defied her sense of honor, crucified her very soul to keep this dreadful secret from her parents for their own sake, and now all her efforts were of no avail!

Curtis Keefe knew that the great estate was legally his, and now her dear parents would be turned out, homeless, penniless and broken down by sorrow and grief.

Even though he might allow them to stay there, they wouldn’t, she knew, consent to any such arrangement.

She lifted a blanched, strained face to his, as she said: “What—what are you going to do?”

“Just what you say,” Keefe replied, drawing closer to her side. “It’s all up to you, Maida dear. Don’t look offended; surely you know I love you—surely you know my one great desire is to make you my wife. Give your consent; say you will be mine, and rest assured, dearest, there will be no trouble about the ‘heirship.’ If you will marry me, I will promise never to divulge the secret so long as either of your parents live. They may keep this place, and, besides that, darling, I will guarantee to get your father a full pardon. I—well, I’m not speaking of it yet—but I’ll tell you that there is a possibility of my running for governor myself, since young Sam is voluntarily out of it. But, in any case, I have influence enough in certain quarters—influence increased by knowledge that I have gleaned here and there among the late Mr. Appleby’s papers—to secure a full and free pardon for your father. Now, Maida, girl, even if you don’t love me very much yet, can’t you say yes, in view of what I offer you?”

“How can you torture me so? Surely you know that I am engaged to Mr. Allen.”

“I didn’t know it was a positive engagement—but, anyway,” his voice grew hard, “it seems to me that any one so solicitous for her parents’ welfare and happiness as you have shown yourself, will not hesitate at a step which means so much more than others you have taken.”

“Oh, I don’t know what to do—what to say—let me think.”

“Yes, dear, think all you like. Take it quietly now. Remember that a decision in my favor means also a calm, peaceful and happy life insured to your parents. Refusal means a broken, shattered life, a precarious existence, and never a happy day for them again. Can you hesitate? I’m not so very unpresentable as a husband. You may not love me now, but you will! I’ll be so good to you that you can’t help it. Nor do I mean to win your heart only by what I shall do for you. For, Maida dearest, love begets love, and you will find yourself slowly perhaps, but surely, giving me your heart. And we will be so happy! Is it yes, my darling?”

The girl stared at him, her big brown eyes full of agony.

“You forget something,” she said, slowly. “I am a murderess!”

“Hush! Don’t say that awful word! You are not—and even if you were, I’ll prove you are not! Listen, Maida, if you’ll promise to marry me, I’ll find the real murderer—not you or your father, but the real murderer. I’ll get a signed confession—I’ll acquit you and your family of any implication in the deed, and I’ll produce the criminal himself. Now, will you say yes?”

“You can’t do all that,” she said, speaking in an awestruck whisper, as if he had proposed to perform a miracle.

“I can—I swear it!”

“Then, if you can do that, you ought to do it, anyway! In the interests of right and justice, in common honesty and decency, you ought to tell what you know!”

“Maida, I am a man and I am in love with you. That explains much. I will do all I have promised, to gain you as my bride—but not otherwise. As to right and justice—you’ve confessed the crime, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you confess it to me, now? Do you say to me that you killed Samuel Appleby?”

There was but a moment’s pause, and then Maida said, in a low tone: “Yes—I confess it to you, Mr. Keefe.”

“Then, do you see what I mean when I say I will produce the murderer? Do you see that I mean to save you from the consequences of your own rash act—and prove you, to the world at large, innocent?”

Keefe looked straight into Maida’s eyes, and her own fell in confusion.

“Can you do it?” she asked, tremulously.

“When I say I will do a thing, I’ve already proved to my own satisfaction that I can do it. But, I’ll do it only at my own price. The price being you—you dear, delicious thing! Oh, Maida, you’ve no idea what it means to be loved as I love you! I’ll make you happy, my darling! I’ll make you forget all this horrible episode; I’ll give you a fairyland life. You shall be happier than you ever dreamed of.”

“But—Jeffrey—oh, I can’t.”

“Then—Miss Wheeler, you must take the consequences—all the consequences. Can you do that?”

“No,” Maida said, after an interval of silence, “I can’t. I am forced to accept your offer, Mr. Keefe—”

“You may not accept it with that address.”

“Curtis, then. Curtis, I say, yes.”

CHAPTER XVI

MAIDA’S DECISION

“Maida, it cannot be. I shall never let you marry Mr. Keefe when I know how you love Jeffrey.” Sara Wheeler spoke quietly, but her agonized face and tear-filled eyes told of her deep distress. Though not demonstrative, she loved her daughter, her only child, with an affection that was almost idolatry, and she had been glad of the idea of Maida’s marriage to Jeffrey, for she knew of his sterling worth, and she knew the depth and sincerity of their attachment.

“Don’t say you won’t let me, mother,” Maida spoke in a dull, sad tone—a tone of calm despair. “It must be so. I’m not saying I love him—I’m not saying much about it all—but I tell you solemnly—it must be. And you must not raise a single word of objection—if you do, you will only make my hard lot harder.”

“But, dear, you must explain. I am your mother—I’ve always had your confidence, and I ought to be told why you are doing this thing.”

“That’s just the trouble, mother. I can’t tell you. And because of the confidence that has always been between us, you must trust me and believe that I am doing right—and doing the only possible thing. Oh, it is all hard enough, without having to argue about it. Why, my will power may give out! My soul strength may break down! Mother! don’t—don’t combat me! Don’t tempt me aside from the only straight line of duty and of right!”

“Child, you are not doing right! You cannot have a duty of which I know nothing! Of which your father knows nothing! Maida, my little girl, what is this thing that has warped your sense of right and wrong? Has Curtis Keefe won your heart away from Jeffrey—”

“No—oh, no! Never that! But it would be a wrong to Jeffrey for me to marry him—it would be a wrong to—to all of us! By marrying Mr. Keefe I can make everything right—and—” she suddenly assumed an air of cold, stern determination. “Mother, my mind is made up. You cannot change it, nor can you help me by trying. You only make it harder for me, and I beg of you to stop. And then—you know, mother—I killed Mr. Appleby—”

“Hush, Maida, you never did! I know you didn’t!”

“But it was either I or father! You don’t believe he did, do you?”

“God help me! I don’t know what to believe! But I tried to say I did it—only I couldn’t carry it out—nor can you, dear.”

“Nor can father, then. Oh, mother, I did do that shooting! I did! I did!”

“Every assertion like that makes me more certain you didn’t,” and Mrs. Wheeler fondly caressed the head that lay on her breast. Maida was not hysterical, but so deeply troubled that she was nervously unstrung and now gave way to torrents of tears, and then ceased crying and bravely announced her plans.

“Please, mother darling, don’t talk about that. Suppose I tell you that even that matter will be all set right if I marry Curtis Keefe—and by no other means. Even Mr. Stone can’t find any other suspect than us three Wheelers. He doesn’t at all believe in the ‘bugler.’ Nobody does.”

“I do.”

“Only as a last chance to free father and me. Mother it’s an awful situation. Worse, far worse than you know anything about. Won’t you trust me to do what I know to be right—and when I tell you I must marry Mr. Keefe, won’t you believe me?And not only believe me but help me. Help me in every way you can—for God knows I need help.”

“What can I do, darling,” asked Sara Wheeler, awed by the look of utter hopelessness on Maida’s face.

“Stand by me, mother. Urge father not to oppose this marriage. Help me to tell Jeffrey—you tell him, can’t you, mother? I can’t—oh, I can’t!”

Again Sara Wheeler broke out into protestations against this sacrifice of her loved daughter, and again Maida had to reaffirm her decision, until, both worn out, they separated, Sara promising to do just as Maida wished in all things.

And in fulfillment of this promise, Sara told young Allen.

As she expected, he was stunned by the news, but where she had supposed he would show anger or rage, he showed only a deep sympathy for Maida.

“Poor little girl,” he said, the quick tears springing to his eyes; “what dreadful thing can that man have held over her to force her to this? And what is the best way for me to go about remedying the situation? You know, Mrs. Wheeler, Maida wouldn’t talk like that unless she had arrived at a very desperate crisis—”

“If she killed Mr. Appleby—”

“She never did! No power on earth can make me believe that! Why, when Maida’s own confession doesn’t convince me, what else could? No; there’s some deep mystery behind that murder. I mean something far deeper and more mysterious than any of us yet realize. I think Mr. Stone is on track of the solution, but he cannot have made much progress—or, if he has, he hasn’t told of it yet. But, I’m not a detective—nor is any needed when Mr. Stone is on the case, but I am out to protect and clear my Maida—my darling. Poor child, how she is suffering! Where is she?”

“Don’t go to her, Jeff. At least, not just now. She begged that you wouldn’t—”

“But I must—I’ve got to!”

“No; for her sake—Jeffrey dear, for our Maida’s sake, leave her alone for the present. She is so worried and anxious, so wrought up to the very verge of collapse, that if you try to talk to her she will go all to pieces.”

“But that’s all wrong. I ought to soothe her, to comfort her—not make her more troubled!”

“You ought to, I know, but you wouldn’t. Oh, it isn’t your fault—it isn’t that you don’t love her enough—not that she doesn’t love you enough—in fact, that’s just the trouble. Try to see it, Jeff. Maida is in the clutch of circumstances. I don’t know the facts, you don’t; but it is true that the kindest thing we can do for her just now is to leave her alone. She will do right—”

“As she sees it, yes! But she sees wrong, I know she does! The child has always been over conscientious—and I’m positive that whatever she is up to, it’s something to save her father!”

“Oh, Jeff—then you believe he is—”

“Why, Mrs. Wheeler, don’t you know whether your husband killed Mr. Appleby or not?”

“I don’t know! Heaven help me—how can I know? The two of them, shielding each other—”

“Wait a minute, if they are shielding each other—they’re both innocent!”

“But it isn’t that way. Mr. Wheeler said to me, at first: “Of course, either Maida or I did it. We both know which one did it, but if we don’t tell, no one else can know.”

“I see that point; but I should think, knowing both so closely as you do, you could discern the truth—and—” he gazed at her steadily—“you have.”

“Yes—I have. Of course, as you say, in such intimacy as we three are, it would be impossible for me not to know.”

“And—it was Maida?”

“Yes, Jeffrey.”

“How are you certain?”

“Her father saw her.”

“Saw her shoot?”

“Yes.”

“Then, I’m glad you told me. I’m going to marry her at once, and have all rights of her protection through the trial—if it comes to that. Nothing else could have convinced me of her act! Poor, dear little Maida. I’ve known her capability for sudden, impulsive action but—oh, well, if Mr. Wheeler saw her—that’s all there is to be said. Now, dear Mrs. Wheeler, you must let me go to my Maida!”

“But, Jeffrey, I only told you that to persuade you to let her alone. Let her have her own way. She says that to marry Curtis Keefe will save her from prosecution—even from suspicion. She says he can free her from all implication in the matter.”

“By a fraud?”

“I don’t know—”

“I won’t have it! If Maida did that shooting she had ample excuse—motive, rather. Not a man on a jury would convict her. And I’d rather she’d stand trial and—”

“Oh, no, Jeffrey, don’t talk like that! I’d consent to anything to save that girl from a trial—oh, you can’t mean you want her tried!”

“Rather than to see her married to any man but me, I’d—”

“Wait, Jeff. We mustn’t be selfish. I’m her mother, and much as I’d hate to see her marry Keefe, I’d far prefer it—for her sake, than—”

“No! a thousand times, no! Why, I won’t give her up! Keefe is a fine man—I’ve nothing against him—but she’s my Maida—my own little sweetheart—”

“And for that reason—for your own sake—you’re going to claim her?”

“It isn’t only for my own sake “—Jeff spoke more humbly; “but I know—I know how she loves me. To let her marry another would be to do her a grievous wrong—”

“Not if she wants to—look there!”

Mrs. Wheeler pointed from the window, and they saw Maida walking across the lawn in deep and earnest conversation with Curtis Keefe. He was tall and handsome and the deferential air and courteous attitude all spoke in his favor. Maida was apparently listening with interest to his talk, and they went on slowly toward the old sycamore and sat down on the bench beneath it.

“Our trysting—place!” Jeffrey murmured, his eyes fastened on the pair.

It did not require over-close observation to see that Maida was listening willingly to Keefe. Nor was there room for doubt that he was saying something that pleased her. She was brighter and more cheerful than she had been for days.

“You see,” said Sara Wheeler, sadly. “And he is a worth-while man. Mr. Appleby thought very highly of him.”

“I don’t!” said Allen, briefly, and unable to stand any more, he left the room.

He went straight to the two who were sitting under the big tree, and spoke directly:

“What does this mean, Maida? Your mother tells me you—”

“Let me answer,” spoke up Keefe, gaily; “it means that Miss Wheeler has promised to marry me. And we ask your congratulations.”

“Are you not aware,” Jeff’s face was white but his voice was controlled and steady, “that Miss Wheeler is my fiancee?”

“Hardly that,” demurred Keefe. “I believe there was what is called an understanding, but I’m assured it has never been announced. However, the lady will speak for herself.”

“Go away, Jeff,” Maida pleaded; “please, go away.”

“Not until you tell me yourself, Maida, what you are doing. Why does Mr. Keefe say these things?”

“It is true.” Maida’s face was as white as Allen’s. “I am going to marry Mr. Keefe. If you considered me bound to you, I hereby break it off. Please go away!” the last words were wrung from her in a choked, agonized voice, as if she were at the end of her composure.

“I’m going,” Allen said, and went off in a daze.

He was convinced of one thing only. That Maida was in the power of something or some person—some combination of circumstances that forced her to this. He had no doubt she meant what she said; had no doubt she would really marry Keefe—but he couldn’t think she had ceased to love him—her own Jeffrey! If he thought that, he was ready to die!

He walked along half blindly, thinking round in circles, always coming back to the possibility—now practically a certainty—of Maida being the murderer, and wondering how Keefe meant to save her from the clutches of the law. He was perturbed—almost dazed, and as he went along unseeingly, Genevieve Lane met him, turned and walked by his side.

“What’s Curtis Keefe doing with your girl?” she asked, for the rolling lawn was so free of trees, the pair beneath the sycamore could be plainly seen.

“I don’t know!” said Allen, honestly enough, as he looked in the good-humored face of the stenographer.

“I don’t want him making love to her,” Miss Lane went on, pouting a little, “first, because she’s altogether too much of a belle anyway; and second—because—”

She paused, almost scared at the desperate gaze Allen gave her.

“I hope you mean because you look upon him as your property,” he said, but without smiling.

“Now, just why do you hope that?”

“Because in that case, surely you can get him back—”

“Oh, what an aspersion on Miss Wheeler’s fascinations!”

“Hush; I’m in no mood for chaffing. Are you and Keefe special friends?”

Genevieve looked at him a moment, and then said, very frankly: “If we’re not, it isn’t my fault. And to tell you the bald truth, we would have been, had not Miss Wheeler come between us.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“How rude you are! But, yes—I’m practically sure. Nobody can be sure till they’re certain, you know.”

“Don’t try to joke with me. Look here, Miss Lane, suppose you and I try to work together for our respective ends.”

“Meaning just what, Mr. Allen?”

“Meaning that we try to separate Keefe and Maida—not just at this moment—but seriously and permanently. You, because you want him, and I, because I want her. Isn’t it logical?”

“Yes; but if I could get him back, don’t you suppose I would?”

“You don’t get the idea. You’re to work for me, and I for you.”

“Oh—I try to make Maida give him up—and you—”

“Yes; but we must have some pretty strong arguments. Now, have you any idea why Maida has—”

“Has picked him up with the tongs? I have a very decided idea! In fact, I know.”

“You do! Is it a secret?”

“It is. Such a big secret, that if it leaked out, the whole universe, so far as it affects the Wheeler family, would be turned topsy-turvy!”

“Connected with the—the death of Mr. Appleby?”

“Not with the murder—if that’s what you mean. But it was because of the death of Mr. Appleby that the secret came to light.”

“Can you tell me?”

“I can—but do I want to?”

“What would make you want to?”

“Why—only if you could do what you sort of suggested—make Mr. Keefe resume his attentions to poor little Genevieve and leave the lovely Maida to you.”

“But how can I do that?”

“Dunno, I’m sure! Do you want me to tell you the secret, and then try to get my own reward by my own efforts?”

“Oh, I don’t know what I want! I’m nearly distracted. But—” he pulled himself together—“I’m on the job! And I’m going to accomplish something—a lot! Now, I’m not going to dicker with you. Size it up for yourself. Don’t you believe that if you told me that secret—confidentially—except as it can be used in the furtherance of right and happiness for all concerned—don’t you believe that I might use it in a way that would incidentally result in a better adjustment of the present Keefe-Wheeler combination?” He nodded toward the two under the sycamore.

“Maybe,” Genevieve said, slowly and thoughtfully, “I thought of telling Mr. Stone—but—”

“Tell me first, and let me advise you.”

“I will; I have confidence in you, Mr. Allen, and, too, it may be a good thing to keep the secret in the family. The truth is, then, that Mrs. Wheeler is not legally the heir to this estate.”

“She is, if she lives in Massachusetts, and the house is so built—”

“Oh, fiddlesticks! I don’t mean that part of it. The estate is left with the proviso that the inheritor shall live in Massachusetts—but, what I mean is, that it isn’t left to Mrs. Wheeler at all. She thought it was, of course—but there is another heir.”

“Is there? I’ve often heard them speak of such a possibility but they never could find a trace of one,”

“I know it, and they’re so honest that if they knew of one they’d put up no fight. I mean if they knew there is a real heir, and that Sara Wheeler is not the right inheritor.”

“Who is?”

“Curtis Keefe!”

“Oh, no! Miss Lane, are you sure?”

“I am. I discovered it from Mr. Appleby’s private papers, since his death.”

“Does Keefe know it?”

“Of course; but he doesn’t know I know it. Now, see here, Mr. Allen, get this. Mr. Appleby knew it when he came down here. He—this is only my own theory, but I’ll bet it’s the right one—he had discovered it lately; Keefe didn’t know it. My theory is, that he came down here to hold that knowledge as a dub over the head of Mr. Wheeler to force him to do his, Appleby’s, bidding in the campaign matters. Well, then—he was killed to prevent the information going any farther.”

“Killed by whom?”

Genevieve shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t say. Any one of the three Wheelers might have done it for that reason.”

“No; you’re wrong. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Wheeler would have. They’d give up the place at once.”

“Your mental reservation speaks for itself! That leaves Maida! Suppose she knew it and the rest didn’t. Suppose, in order to keep the knowledge from her parents—”

“Don’t go on!” he begged. “I see it—maybe it was so. But—what next?”

“Next—alas, Curt Keefe has fallen a victim to Maida’s smiles. That’s what’s making more trouble than anything else. I’m positive he is arguing that if she will marry him he will keep quiet about his being the heir. Then, her parents can live here in peace for the rest of their lives.”

“I begin to see.”

“I knew you would. Now, knowing this, and being bound to secrecy concerning it, except, as you agreed, if it can serve our ends, where do we go from here?”

Allen looked at her steadily. “Do you expect, Miss Lane, that I will consent to keep this secret from the Wheelers?”

“You’ll have to,” she returned, simply. “Maida knows it, therefore it’s her secret now. If she doesn’t want her parents told—you can’t presume to tell them!”

Allen looked blank. “And you mean, she’d marry Keefe, to keep the secret from her parents?”

“Exactly that; and there’d be no harm in keeping the secret that way, for if Curt Keefe were her husband, it wouldn’t matter whether he was the rightful heir or not, if he didn’t choose to exercise or even make known his rights.”

“I see. And—as to the—”

“The murder?” Genevieve helped him. “Well, I don’t know. If Maida did it—and I can’t see any way out of that conclusion, Curt will do whatever he can to get her off easily. Perhaps he can divert suspicion elsewhere—you know he made up that bugler man, and has stuck to him—maybe he can get a persons unknown verdict—or maybe, with money and influence, he can hush the whole thing up—and, anyway—Maida would never be convicted. Why, possibly, the threat of Mr. Appleby—if he did threaten—could be called blackmail. Anyhow, if there’s a loophole, Curtis Keefe will find it! He’s as smart as they make ’em. Now, you know the probabilities—almost the inevitabilities, I might say, what are we going to do about it?”

“Something pretty desperate, I can tell you!”

“Fine talk, but what’s the first step?”

“Do you want to know what I think?”

“I sure do.”

“Then, I say, let’s take the whole story to Fleming Stone—and at once.”

CHAPTER XVII

MAIDA AND HER FATHER

Genevieve hesitated. Although she had thought of doing this herself, yet she was not quite sure she wanted to.

But Allen insisted.

“Come with me or not, as you choose,” he said; “but I’m going to tell Stone. A secret like that must be divulged—in the interests of law and justice and—”

“Justice to whom?” asked Genevieve.

“Why, to all concerned.” Allen stopped to think. “To—to Keefe, for one,” he concluded, a little lamely.

“Yes, and to yourself for two!” Genevieve exclaimed. “You want the secret to come out so Maida won’t marry Curt to keep it quiet! Own up, now.”

Allen couldn’t deny this, but back of it was his instinctive desire for justice all round, and he doggedly stuck to his determination of laying the matter before Fleming Stone.

Genevieve accompanied him, and together they sought Stone in his sitting-room.

Fibsy was there and the two were in deep consultation.

“Come in,” Stone said, as his visitors appeared. “You have something to tell me, I gather from your eager faces.”

“We have,” Allen returned, and he began to tell his story.

“Let me tell it,” Miss Lane interrupted him, impatiently. “You see, Mr. Stone, Mr. Allen is in love with Miss Wheeler, and he can’t help coloring things in her favor.”

“And you’re in love with Mr. Keefe,” Stone said, but without a smile, “and you can’t help coloring things in his favor.”

The girl bridled a little, but was in no way embarrassed at the assertion.

“Take your choice, then,” she said, flippantly. “Who do you want to tell you the secret we’re ready to give away?”

“Both,” Fibsy spoke up. “I’ll bet it’s a worthwhile yarn, and we’ll hear both sides—if you please. Ladies first; pipe up, Miss Lane.”

“The actual secret can be quickly told,” the girl said, speaking a little shortly. “The truth is, that Mrs. Wheeler is not the legal heir to this estate of Sycamore Ridge—but, Mr. Keefe is.”

“Curtis Keefe!” Stone exclaimed, and Fibsy gave a sharp, explosive whistle.

“Yes,” said Genevieve, well pleased at the sensation her words had produced.

Not that her hearers made any further demonstration of surprise. Stone fell into a brown study, and Fibsy got up and walked up and down the room, his hands in his pockets, and whistling softly under his breath.

“Well!” the boy said, finally, returning to his chair. “Well, F. Stone, things is changed since gran’ma died! Hey?”

“In many ways!” Stone assented. “You’re sure of this, of course?” he asked Genevieve. “How do you know?”

“Well, I learned it from Mr. Appleby’s papers—”

“Private papers?”

“Yes, of course. He didn’t have ’em framed and hanging on his wall. You see, Mr. Keefe, being Mr. Appleby’s confidential secretary, had access to all his papers after the old gentleman died.”

“His son?”

“Of course, young Sam is the heir, and owns everything, but he kept Curt on, in the same position, and so, Curt—Mr. Keefe went over all the papers. As stenographer and general assistant, I couldn’t very well help knowing the contents of the papers and so I learned the truth, that Mr. Keefe, who is of another branch of the family, is really the principal heir to the estate that is now in Mrs. Wheeler’s possession. I can’t give you all the actual details, but you can, of course, verify my statements.”

“Of course,” mused Stone. “And Mr. Keefe hasn’t announced this himself—because—”

“That’s it,” Genevieve nodded assent to his meaning glance. “Because he wants to marry Maida, and if she’ll marry him, he’ll keep quiet about the heirship. Or, rather, in that case, it won’t matter, as the elder Wheelers can live here if it’s the property of their son-in-law. But, if not, then when Mr. Keefe walks in—the Wheeler family must walk out. And where would they go?”

“I can take care of them,” declared Allen. “Maida is my promised wife; if she consents to marry Keefe, it will be under compulsion. For she knew this secret, and she dared not tell her people because it meant poverty and homelessness for them. You know, Mr. Wheeler is incapable of lucrative work, and Mrs. Wheeler, brought up to affluence and comfort, can’t be expected to live in want. But I can take care of them—that is, I could—if they could only live in Boston. My business is there, and we could all live on my earnings if we could live together.”

The boy—for young Allen seemed scarcely more than a boy—was really thinking aloud as he voiced these plans and suggestions. But he shook his head sadly as he realized that Daniel Wheeler couldn’t go to Boston, and that a marriage between Keefe and Maida was the only way to preserve to them their present home.

“Some situation!” remarked Fibsy. “And the secret is no secret really, for if Miss Wheeler doesn’t marry Mr. Keefe, he’ll tell it at once. And if she does, the whole matter doesn’t matter at all! But I think she will, for what else can she do?”

Jeffrey Allen looked angrily at the boy, but Fibsy’s funny little face showed such a serious interest that it was impossible to chide him.

“I think she won’t!” Allen said, “but I’m not sure just yet how I’m going to prevent it.”

“You won’t have to,” said Stone; “Miss Wheeler will prevent it herself—or I miss my guess!” He looked kindly at the young man, but received only a half smile in return.

“If we all do our share in the matter, perhaps we can arrange things,” Genevieve said, speaking very seriously. “I’ve something to say, for I am engaged to Curtis Keefe myself.”

“Does he think you are?” Stone said, rather casually.

Miss Lane had the grace to blush, through her rouge, but she declared: “He doesn’t want to,” and added, “but he ought to. He has made love to me, and he once asked me to marry him. But since then he has said he didn’t mean it. I don’t suppose I’ve enough evidence for a breach of promise suit, but—oh, well,” and she tossed her pretty head, “I’ve not the least doubt that if Miss Wheeler were out of the question—say, safely married to Mr. Allen, I’d have no trouble in whistling my Turtle back.”

“I’ll bet you wouldn’t!” Fibsy looked at her admiringly. “If I were only a few years older—”

“Hush, Terence,” said Fleming Stone, “don’t talk nonsense.”

Immediately Fibsy’s face became serious and he turned has attention away from the fascinating Genevieve.

“But all this is aside the question of the murderer, Mr. Stone,” said Allen. “How are you progressing with that investigation?”

“Better than I’ve disclosed as yet,” Stone returned, speaking slowly; “recent developments have been helpful, and I hope to be ready soon to give a report.”

“You expect Mr. Appleby down?”

“Yes; tonight or tomorrow. By that time I hope to be ready to make an arrest.”

“Maida!” cried Jeffrey, the word seeming wrung from him against his will.

“Forgive me, if I do not reply,” said Stone, with an earnest glance at the questioner. “But I’d like to talk to Miss Wheeler. Will you go for her, Mr. Allen?”

“I’d—I’d rather not—you see—”

“Yes, I see,” said Stone, kindly. “You go, Fibs.”

“I’ll go,” offered Genevieve, with the result that she and McGuire flew out of the room at the same time.

“All right, Beauteous One, we’ll both go,” Fibsy said, as they went along the hall side by side. “Where is the lady?”

“Donno; but we’ll find her. I say, Terence, come down on the veranda just a minute, first.”

Leading him to a far corner, where there was no danger of eavesdroppers, Genevieve made another attempt to gain an ally for her own cause.

“I say,” she began, “you have a lot of influence with your Mr. Stone, don’t you?”

“Oh, heaps!” and Fibsy’s sweeping gesture indicated a wide expanse of imagination, at least.

“No fooling; I know you have. Now, you use that influence for me and I’ll do something for you.”

“What’ll you do?”

“I don’t know; nothing particular. But, I mean if, at any time I can help you in any way—I’ve influence, too, with big men in the financial and business world. I haven’t always worked for the Applebys, and wherever I’ve been I’ve made friends that I can count on.”

“Oh, you mean a tip on the stock market or something of that sort?”

“Yes, or a position in a big, worth-while office. You’re not always going to be a detective’s apprentice, are you?”

“You bet I am! Watcha talking about? Me leave F. Stone! Not on your fleeting existence! But, never mind that part of the argument, I’ll remember your offer, and some day, when I have a million dollars to invest, I’ll ask your advice where to lose it. But, now, you tell me what you want.”

“Only for you to hint to Mr. Stone that he’d better advise Miss Wheeler not to marry Mr. Keefe.”

“So’s you can have him.”

“Never mind that. There are other reasons—truly there are.”

“Well, then, my orders are to advise F. Stone to advise M. Wheeler not to wed one C. Keefe.”

“That’s just it. But don’t say it right out to him. Use tact, which I know you have—though nobody’d guess it to look at you—and sort of argue around, so he’ll see it’s wiser for her not to marry him—”

“Why?”

Miss Lane stamped her foot impatiently. “I’m not saying why. That’s enough for me to know. You’ll get along better not knowing.”

“Does he know she’s the—the—”

“I don’t wonder you can’t say it! I can’t, either. Yes, he knows she’s—it—but he’s so crazy about her, he doesn’t care. What is there in that girl that gets all the men!”

“It’s her sweetness,” said Fibsy, with a positive nod of his head, as if he were simply stating an axiom. “Yep, Keefe is clean gone daffy over her. I don’t blame him—though, of course my taste runs more to—”

“Don’t you dare!” cried Genevieve, coquettishly.

“To the rouged type,” Fibsy went on, placidly. “To my mind a complexion dabbed on is far more attractive than nature’s tints.”

Miss Lane burst into laughter and, far from offended, she said:

“You’re a darling boy, and I’ll never forget you—even in my will; now, to come back to our dear old brass tacks. Will you tip a gentle hint to the great Stone?”

“Oh, lord, yes—I’ll tip him a dozen—tactfully, too. Don’t worry as to my discretion. But I don’t mind telling you I might as well tip the Washington monument. You see, F. S. has made up his mind,”

“As to the murderer?”

“Yep.”

“Who is it?”

“Haven’t an idea—and if I had, I’d say I hadn’t. You see, I’m his trusty.”

“Oh, well, in any case, you can put in a word against Mr. Keefe, can’t you?”

But Genevieve had lost interest in her project. She realized if Mr. Stone had accomplished his purpose and had solved the murder mystery he would be apt to take small interest in the love affairs of herself or Maida Wheeler, either.

“He won’t think much of his cherished trusty, if you don’t do the errand he sent you on,” she said, rather crossly.

Fibsy gave her a reproachful glance, “This, from you!” he said, dramatically. “Farewell, fair but false! I go to seek a fairer maiden, and I know where to find her!”

He went flying across the lawn, for he had caught a glimpse of Maida in the garden.

“Miss Wheeler,” he said, as he reached her, “will you please come now to see Mr. Stone? He wants you.”

“Certainly,” she replied, and turning, followed him.

Genevieve joined them, and the three went to Stone’s rooms.

“Miss Wheeler,” the detective said, without preamble, “I want you to tell me a few things, please. You’ll excuse me if my questions seem rather pointed, also, if they seem to be queries already answered. Did you kill Mr. Appleby?”

“Yes,” said Maida, speaking wearily, as if tired of making the assertion.

“You know no one believes that statement?”

“I can’t help that, Mr. Stone,” she said, with a listless manner.

“That is, no one but one person—your father. He believes it.”

“Father!” exclaimed the girl in evident amazement.

“Yes; he believes you for the best of all possible reasons: He saw you shoot.”

“What, Mr. Stone? My father! Saw me shoot Mr. Appleby!”

“Yes; he says so. That is net strange, when, as you say, you fired the pistol from where you stood in the bay window, and Mr. Wheeler stood by or near the victim.”

“But—I don’t understand. You say, father says he saw me?”

“Yes, he told me that.”

Maida was silent, but she was evidently thinking deeply and rapidly.

“This is a trap of some sort, Mr. Stone,” she said at last. “My father didn’t see me shoot—he couldn’t have seen me, and consequently he couldn’t say he did! He wouldn’t lie about it!”

“But he said, at one time, that he did the shooting himself. Was not that an untruth?”

“Of a quite different sort. He said that in a justifiable effort to save me. But this other matter—for him to say he saw me shoot—when he didn’t—he couldn’t—”

“Why couldn’t he, Miss Wheeler? Why was it so impossible for your father to see you commit that crime, when he was right there?”

“Because—because—oh, Mr. Stone, I don’t know what to say! I feel sure I mustn’t say anything, or I shall regret it.”

“Would you like your father to come here and tell us about it?”

“No—or, yes. Oh, I don’t know. Jeffrey, help me!”

Allen had sat silently brooding all through this conversation. He had not looked at Maida, keeping his gaze turned out of the window. He was sorely hurt at her attitude in the Keefe matter; he was puzzled at her speech regarding her father; and he was utterly uncertain as to his own duty or privilege in the whole affair. But at her appeal, he turned joyfully toward her.

“Oh, Maida,” he cried, “let me help you. Do get your father here, now, and settle this question. Then, we’ll see what next.”

“Call him, then,” said Maida, but she turned very white, and paid no further attention to Allen. She was still lost in thought, when her father arrived and joined the group.

“You said, Mr. Wheeler,” Stone began at once, “that you saw your daughter fire the shot that killed Mr. Appleby?”

“I did say that,” Daniel Wheeler replied, “because it is true. And because I am convinced that the truth will help us all better than any further endeavor to prove a falsehood. I did see you, Maida darling, and I tried very hard to take the blame myself. But it has been proved to me by Mr. Stone that my pretence is useless, and so I’ve concluded that the fact must come out, in hope of a better result than from concealment. Do not fear, my darling, no harm shall come to you.”

“And you said you did it, father, and mother said she did it.”

“Yes, of course, I told your mother the truth, and we plotted—yes, plotted for each of us to confess to the deed, in a wild hope of somehow saving our little girl”

“And you saw me shoot, father?”

“Why, yes, dear—that is, I heard the shot, and looked up to see you standing there with consternation and guilt on your dear face. Your arm had then dropped to your side, but your whole attitude was unmistakable. I couldn’t shut my eyes to the evident fact that there was no one else who could have done the deed.”

“There must have been, father—for—I didn’t do it.”

“I knew you didn’t! Oh, Maida!” With a bound Allen was at her side and his arm went round her. But she moved away from him, and went on talking—still in a strained, unnatural voice, but steadily and straightforwardly.

“No; I didn’t shoot Mr. Appleby. I’ve been saying so, to shield my father. I thought he did it.”

“Maida! Is it possible?” and Daniel Wheeler looked perplexed. “But, oh, I’m so glad to hear your statement.”

“But who did do it, then?” Miss Lane asked, bluntly.

“Who cares, so long as it wasn’t any of the Wheelers!” exclaimed Jeffrey Allen, unable to contain his gladness. “Oh, Maida—”

But again she waved him away from her.

“I don’t understand, Mr. Stone,” she began; “I don’t know where these disclosures will lead. I hope, not back to my mother—”

“No, Maida,” said her father, “there’s no fear of that.”

Reassured, Maida went on. “Perhaps I can’t be believed now, after my previous insistence on my guilt, but God knows it is the truth; I am utterly innocent of the crime.”

“I believe it,” said Fleming Stone. “There was little evidence against you, except your own confession. Now you’ve retracted that it only remains for me to find the real criminal.”

“Can you,” cried Fibsy excitedly, “can you, F. Stone?”

“Don’t you know which way to look, Terence?”

“I do—and I don’t—” the boy murmured; “oh, lordy! I do—and—I don’t!”

“But there’s another matter to be agreed upon,”said Maida, who had not at all regained her normal poise or appearance. Her face was white and her eyes blurred with tears. But she persisted in speech.

“I want it understood that I am engaged to marry Mr. Keefe,” she said, not looking at Jeffrey at all. “I announce my engagement, and I desire him to be looked upon and considered as my future husband.”

“Maida!” came simultaneously from the lips of her father and Allen.

“Yes, that is positive and irrevocable. I have my own reasons for this, and one of them is “—she paused—” one very important one is, that Mr. Keefe knows who shot Mr. Appleby, and can produce the criminal and guarantee his confession to the deed.”

“Wow!” Fibsy remarked, explosively, and Fleming Stone stared at the girl.

“He used this as an argument to persuade you to marry him, Miss Wheeler?”

“I don’t put it that way, Mr. Stone, but I have Mr. Keefe’s assurance that he will do as I told you, and also that he will arrange to have a full and free pardon granted to my father for the old sentence he is still suffering under.”

“Well, Maida, I don’t wonder you consented,” said Miss Lane, her round eyes wide with surprise. “And I suppose he’s going to renounce all claim to this estate?”

“Yes,” said Maida, calmly.

“Anything else?” said Allen, unable to keep an ironic note out of his voice.

“Yes,” put in Fibsy, “he’s going to be governor of Massachusetts.”

“Oh, my heavens and earth!” gasped Genevieve, “what rubbish!”

“Rubbish, nothing!” Fibsy defended his statement. “You know he’s after it.”

“I felt sure he would, when Sam Appleby gave up the running—but—I didn’t know he had taken any public steps.”

“Never mind what Mr. Keefe is going to do, or not going to do,” said Maida, in a tone of finality, “I expect to marry him—and soon.”

“Well,” said Stone, in a business-like way, “I think our next one to confer with must be Mr. Keefe.”

CHAPTER XVIII

A FINAL CONFESSION

Inquiry for Keefe brought the information that he had gone to a nearby town, but would be back at dinner-time.

Mr. Appleby was also expected to arrive for dinner, coming from home in his motor car.

But in the late afternoon a severe storm set in. The wind rose rapidly and gained great velocity while the rain fell steadily and hard. Curtis Keefe arrived, very wet indeed, though he had protecting clothing. But a telephone message from Sam Appleby said that he was obliged to give up all idea of reaching Sycamore Ridge that night. He had stopped at a roadhouse, and owing to the gale he dared not venture forth again until the storm was over. He would therefore not arrive until next day.

“Lucky we got his word,” said Mr. Wheeler. “This storm will soon put many telephone wires out of commission.”

When Keefe came down at the dinner hour, he found Maida alone in the living-room, evidently awaiting him.

“My darling!” he exclaimed, going quickly to her side, “my own little girl! Are you here to greet me?”

“Yes,” she said, and suffered rather than welcomed his caressing hand on her shoulder. “Curtis, I told them you would tell them who killed Mr. Appleby.”

“So I will, dearest, after dinner. Let’s not have unpleasant subjects discussed at table. I’ve been to Rushfield and I’ve found out all the particulars that I hadn’t already learned, and—I’ve got actual proofs! Now, who’s a cleverer detective than the professionals?”

“Then that’s all right. Now, are you sure you can also get father freed?”

“I hope to, dear. That’s all I can say at present. Do you take me for a magician? I assure you I’m only an ordinary citizen. But I—”

“But you promised—”

“Yes, my little love, I did, and I well know that you promised because I did! Well, I fancy I shall keep every promise I made you, but not every one as promptly as this exposure of the criminal.”

“But you’ll surely fix it so father can go into Massachusetts—can go to Boston?”

“Well, rather! I expect—though you mustn’t say anything about it—but I’ve an idea that you may yet be a governor’s wife! And it wouldn’t do then to have your father barred from the state!”

Maida sighed. The hopes Keefe held out were the realization of her dearest wishes—but, oh, the price she must pay! Yet she was strong-willed. She determined to give no thought whatever to Jeffrey, for if she did she knew her purpose would falter. Nor did she even allow herself the doubtful privilege of feeling sorry for him. Well she knew that that way madness lay. And, thought the poor child, sad and broken-hearted though Jeff may be, his sadness and heartbreak are no worse than mine. Not so bad, for I have to take the initiative! I have to take the brunt of the whole situation.

The others assembled, and at dinner no word was said of the tragedy. Save for Maida and Jeffrey Allen, the party was almost a merry one.

Daniel Wheeler and his wife were so relieved at the disclosure of Maida’s innocence that they felt they didn’t care much what happened next. Fibsy flirted openly with Genevieve and Fleming Stone himself was quietly entertaining.

Later in the evening they gathered in the den and Keefe revealed his discoveries.

“I felt all along,” he said, “that there was—there must have been a man on the south veranda who did the shooting. Didn’t you think that, Mr. Stone?”

“I did at times,” Stone replied, truthfully. “I confess, though my opinion changed once or twice.”

“And at the present moment?” insisted Keefe.

“At the present moment, Mr. Keefe, your attitude tells me that you expect to prove that there was such a factor in the case, so I would be foolish indeed to say I doubted it. But, to speak definitely—yes, I do think there was a man there, and he was the murderer. He shot through the window, past Miss Wheeler, and most naturally, her father thought she fired the shot herself. You see, it came from exactly her direction.”

“Yes; “agreed Keefe, “and moreover, you remember, Rachel saw the man on the veranda—and the cook also saw him—”

“Yes—the cook saw him!” Fibsy put in, and though the words were innocent enough, his tone indicated a hidden meaning.

But beyond a careless glance, Keefe didn’t notice the interruption and went on, earnestly:

“Now, the man the servants saw was the murderer. And I have traced him, found him, and secured his signed confession.”

With unconcealed pride in his achievement, Keefe took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Daniel Wheeler.

“Why the written confession? Where is the man?” asked Stone, his dark eyes alight with interest.

“Gee!” muttered Fibsy, under his breath, “going some!”

Genevieve Lane stared, round-eyed and excited, while Allen and the Wheelers breathlessly awaited developments.

“John Mills!” exclaimed Mr. Wheeler, looking at the paper. “Oh, the faithful old man! Listen, Stone This is a signed confession of a man on his death-bed—”

“No longer that,” said Keefe, solemnly, “he died this afternoon.”

“And signed this just before he died?”

“Yes, Mr. Wheeler. In the hospital. The witnesses, as you see, are the nurses there.”

The paper merely stated that the undersigned was the slayer of Samuel Appleby. That the deed was committed in order to free Daniel Wheeler from wicked and unjust molestation and tyranny. The signature, though faintly scrawled, was perfectly legible and duly witnessed.

“He was an old servant of mine,” Wheeler said, thoughtfully, “and very devoted to us all. He always resented Appleby’s attitude toward me—for Mills was my butler when the trouble occurred, and knew all about it. He has been an invalid for a year, but has been very ill only recently.”

“Since the shooting, in fact,” said Keefe, significantly.

“It must have been a hard task for one so weak,” Wheeler said, “but the old fellow was a true friend to me all his life. Tell us more of the circumstances, Mr. Keefe.”

“I did it all by thinking,” said Keefe, his manner not at all superior, nor did he look toward Fleming Stone, who was listening attentively. “I felt sure there was some man from outside. And I thought first of some enemy of Mr. Appleby’s. But later, I thought it might have been some enemy of Mr. Wheeler’s and the shot was possibly meant for him.”

Wheeler nodded at this. “I thought that, too,” he observed.

“Well, then later, I began to think maybe it was some friend—not an enemy. A friend, of course, of Mr. Wheeler’s. On this principle I searched for a suspect. I inquired among the servants, being careful to arouse no suspicion of my real intent. At last, I found this old Mills had always been devoted to the whole family here. More than devoted, indeed. He revered Mr. Wheeler and he fairly worshipped the ladies. He has been ill a long time of a slow and incurable malady, and quite lately was taken to the hospital. When I reached him I saw the poor chap had but a very short time to live.”

“And you suspected him of crime with no more evidence than that?” Fleming Stone asked.

“I daresay it was a sort of intuition, Mr. Stone,” Keefe returned, smiling a little at the detective. “Oh, I don’t wonder you feel rather miffed to have your thunder stolen by a mere business man—and I fear it’s unprofessional for me to put the thing through without consulting you, but I felt the case required careful handling—somewhat psychological handling, indeed—”

“Very much so,” Stone nodded.

“And so,” Keefe was a little disconcerted by the detective’s demeanor, but others set it down to a very natural chagrin on Stone’s part.

Fibsy sat back in his chair, his bright eyes narrowed to mere slits and darting from the face of Keefe to that of Stone continually.

“And so,” Keefe went on, “I inquired from the servants and also, cautiously from the members of the family, and I learned that this Mills was of a fiery, even revengeful, nature—”

“He was,” Mr. Wheeler nodded, emphatically.

“Yes, sir. And I found out from Rachel that—”

“Rachel!” Fibsy fairly shot out the word, but a look from Stone made him say no more.

“Yes, Rachel, the maid,” went on Keefe, “and I found that the man she saw on the veranda was of the same general size and appearance as Mills. Well, I somehow felt that it was Mills—and so I went to see him.”

“At the hospital?” asked Wheeler.

“Yes; some days ago. He was then very weak, and the nurses didn’t want me to arouse him to any excitement. But I knew it was my duty—”

“Of course,” put in Stone, and Keefe gave him a patronizing look.

“So, against the wishes of the nurses and doctors, I had an interview alone with Mills, and I found he was the criminal.”

“He confessed?” asked Stone.

“Yes; and though he refused to sign a written confession, he agreed he would confess in the presence of Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Stone. But—that was only this morning—and the doctor assured me the man couldn’t live the day out. So I persuaded the dying man to sign this confession, which I drew up and read to him in the presence of the nurses. He signed—they witnessed—and there it is.”

With evident modesty, Keefe pointed to the paper still in Wheeler’s hands, and said no more.

For a moment nobody spoke. The storm was at its height. The wind whistled and roared, the rain fell noisily, and the elements seemed to be doing their very worst.

Genevieve shuddered—she always was sensitive to weather conditions, and that wind was enough to disturb even equable nerves.

“And this same Mills was the phantom bugler?” asked Stone.

“Yes—he told me so,” returned Keefe. “He knew about the legend, you see, and he thought he’d work on the superstition of the family to divert attention from himself.”

Genevieve gasped, but quickly suppressed all show of agitation.

Fibsy whistled—just a few notes of the bugle call that the “phantom “had played.

At the sound Keefe turned quickly, a strange look on his face, and the Wheelers, too, looked startled at the familiar strain.

“Be quiet, Terence,” Stone said, rather severely, and the boy subsided.

“Now, Mr. Keefe,” Fleming Stone said, “you must not think—as I fear you do—that I grudge admiration for your success, or appreciation of your cleverness. I do not. I tell you, very sincerely, that what you have accomplished is as fine a piece of work as I have ever run across in my whole career as detective. Your intuition was remarkable and your following it up a masterpiece! By the way, I suppose that it was Mills, then, who started the fire in the garage?”

“Yes, it was,” said Keefe. “You see, he is a clever genius, in a sly way. He reasoned that if a fire occurred, everybody would run to it except Mr. Wheeler, who cannot go over the line. He hoped that, therefore, Mr. Appleby would not go either—for Mr. Appleby suffered from flatfoot—at any rate, he took a chance that the fire would give him opportunity to shoot unnoticed. Which it did.”

“It certainly did. Now, Mr. Keefe, did he tell you how he set that fire?”

“No, he did not,” was the short reply. “Moreover, Mr. Stone, I resent your mode of questioning. I’m not on the witness stand. I’ve solved a mystery that baffled you, and though I understand your embarrassment at the situation, yet it does not give you free rein to make what seem to me like endeavors to trip me up!”

“Trip you up!” Stone lifted his eyebrows. “What a strange expression to use. As if I suspected you of faking his tale.”

“It speaks for itself,” and Keefe glanced nonchalantly at the paper he had brought. “There’s the signed confession—if you can prove that signature a fake—go ahead.”

“No,” said Daniel Wheeler, decidedly; “that’s John Mills’ autograph. I know it perfectly. He wrote that himself. And a dying man is not going to sign a lie. There’s no loophole of doubt, Mr. Stone. I think you must admit Mr. Keefe’s entire success.”

“I do admit Mr. Keefe’s entire success,” Stone’s dark eyes flashed, “up to this point. From here on, I shall undertake to prove my own entire success, since that is the phrase we are using. Mr. Wheeler, your present cook was here when John Mills worked for you?”

“She was, Mr. Stone, but you don’t need her corroboration of this signature. I tell you I know it to be Mills’.”

“Will you send for the cook, please?”

Half unwillingly, Wheeler agreed, and Maida stepped out of the room and summoned the cook.

The woman came in, and Stone spoke to her at once.

“Is that John Mills’ signature?” he asked, showing her the paper.

“It is, sir,” she replied, looking at him in wonder.

A satisfied smile played on Keefe’s face, only to be effaced at Stone’s next question.

“And was John Mills the person you saw—vaguely—on the south veranda that night of Mr. Appleby’s murder?”

“That he was not!” she cried, emphatically. “It was a man not a bit like Mills, and be the same token, John Mills was in his bed enable to walk at all, at all.”

“That will do, Mr. Wheeler,” and Stone dismissed the cook with a glance. “Now, Mr. Keefe?”

“As if that woman’s story mattered,” Keefe sneered, contemptuously, “she is merely mistaken, that’s all. The word of the maid, Rachel, is as good as that of the cook—”

“Oh, no, it isn’t!” Stone interrupted, but, paying no heed to him, Keefe went on; “and you can scarcely doubt the signature after Mr. Wheeler and your friend the cook have both verified it.”

Though his demeanor was quiet, Keefe’s face wore a defiant expression and his voice was a trifle blustering.

“I do not doubt the signature,” Stone declared, “nor do I doubt that you obtained it at the hospital exactly as you have described that incident.”

Keefe’s face relaxed at that, and he recovered his jaunty manner, as he said: “Then you admit I have beaten you at your own game, Mr. Stone?”

“No, Mr. Keefe, but I have beaten you at yours.”

A silence fell for a moment. There was something about Stone’s manner of speaking that made for conviction in the minds of his hearers that he said truth.

“Wait a minute! Oh, wait a minute!” It was Genevieve Lane who cried out the words, and then she sprang from her chair and ran to Keefe’s side.

Flinging her arms about him, she whispered close to his ear.

He listened, and then, with a scornful gesture he flung her off.

“No!” he said to her; “no! a thousand times, no! Do your worst.”

“I shall!” replied Genevieve, and without another word she resumed her seat.

“Yes,” went on Stone, this interruption being over, “your ingenious ‘success’ in the way of detecting is doomed to an ignominious end. You see, sir,” he turned to Daniel Wheeler, “the clever ruse Mr. Keefe has worked, is but a ruse—a stratagem, to deceive us, all and to turn the just suspicion of the criminal in an unjust direction.”

“Explain, Mr. Stone,” said Wheeler, apparently not much impressed with what he deemed a last attempt on the part of the detective to redeem his reputation.

“Yes, Mr. Stone,” said Keefe, “if my solution of this mystery is a ruse—a stratagem—what have you to offer in its place? You admit the signed confession?”

“I admit the signature, but not the confession. John Mills signed that paper, Mr. Keefe, but he is not the murderer.”

“Who is, then?”

“You are!”

Keefe laughed and shrugged his shoulders, but at that moment there was such a blast of wind and storm, accompanied by a fearful crash, that what he said could not be heard.

“Explain, please, Mr. Stone,” Wheeler said again, after a pause, but his voice now showed more interest.

“I will. The time has come for it. Mr. Wheeler, do you and Mr. Allen see to it, that Mr. Keefe does not leave the room. Terence—keep your eyes open.”

Keefe still smiled, but his smile was a frozen one. His eyes began to widen and his hands clenched themselves upon his knees.

“Curtis Keefe killed Samuel Appleby,” Stone went on, speaking clearly but rapidly. “His motive was an ambition to be governor of Massachusetts. He thought that with the elder Appleby out of the way, his son would have neither power nor inclination to make a campaign. There were other, minor motives, but that was his primary one. That, and the fact that the elder Appleby had a hold on Mr. Keefe, and of late had pressed it home uncomfortably hard. The murder was long premeditated. The triphere brought it about, because it offered a chance where others might reasonably be suspected. Keefe was the man on the veranda, whom the cook saw—but not clearly enough to distinguish his identity. Though she did know it was not John Mills.”

“But—Mr. Stone “interrupted Wheeler, greatly perturbed, “think what you’re saying! Have you evidence to prove your statements?”

“I have, Mr. Wheeler, as you shall see. Let me tell my story and judge me then. A first proof is—Terence, you may tell of the bugle.”

“I went, at Mr. Stone’s orders,” the boy stated, pimply, “to all the shops or little stores in this vicinity where a bugle might have been bought; I found one was bought in a very small shop in Rushfield and bought by a man who corresponded to Mr. Keefe’s description, and who, when he stopped at the shop, was in a motor car whose description and occupants were the Appleby bunch. Well, anyway—Miss Lane here knows that Mr. Keefe bought that bugle—don’t you?” He turned to Genevieve, who, after a glance at Keefe, nodded affirmation.

“And so,” Stone went on, “Mr. Keefe used that bugle—”

“How did he get opportunity?” asked Wheeler.

“I’ll tell you,” offered Genevieve. “We all staid over night in Rushfield, and I heard Mr. Keefe go out of doors in the night. I watched him from my window. He returned about three hours later.”

It was clear to all listening, that when Genevieve had whispered to Keefe and he had told her to do her worst, they were now hearing the “worst.”

“So,” Stone narrated, “Mr. Keefe came over here and did the bugling as a preliminary to his further schemes. You admit that, Mr. Keefe?”

“I admit nothing. Tell your silly story as you please.”

“I will. Then, the day of the murder, Mr. Keefe arranged for the fire in the garage. He used the acids as the man Fulton described, and as Keefe’s own coat was burned and his employer’s car he felt sure suspicion would not turn toward him. When the fire broke out—which as it depended on the action of those acids, he was waiting for, Keefe ran with Mr. Allen to the garage. But—and this I have verified from Mr. Allen, Keefe disappeared for a moment, and, later was again at Allen’s side. In that moment—Mr. Wheeler, that psychological moment, Curtis Keefe shot and killed Samuel Appleby.”

“And Mills?”

“Is part of the diabolically clever scheme. Mills was dying; he was leaving a large family without means of support. He depended, and with reason, on hope of your generosity, Mr. Wheeler, to his wife and children. But Curtis Keefe went to him and told him that you were about to be dispossessed of your home and fortune, and that if he would sign the confession—knowing what it was—that he, Keefe, would settle a large sum of money on Mrs. Mills and the children at once. And he did.”

“You fiend! You devil incarnate!” cried Keefe, losing all control. “How do you know that?”

“I found it all out from Mrs. Mills,” Stone replied; “your accomplices all betrayed you, Mr. Keefe. A criminal should beware of accomplices. Rachel turned state’s evidence and told how you bribed her to make up that story of the bugler—or rather, to relate parrot-like—the story you taught to her.”

“It’s all up,” said Keefe, flinging out his hands in despair. “You’ve outwitted me at every point, Mr. Stone. I confess myself vanquished—”

“And you confess yourself the murderer?” said Stone, quickly.

“I do, but I ask one favor. May I take that paper a moment?”

“Certainly,” said Stone, glancing at the worthless confession.

Keefe stepped to the table desk, where the paper lay, but as he laid his left hand upon it, with his right he quickly pulled open a drawer, grasped the pistol that was in it, and saying, with a slight smile: “A life for a life!” drew the trigger and fell to the floor.

From the gruesome situation, its silence made worse by the noise of the storm outside, Daniel Wheeler led his wife and daughter. Jeffrey Allen followed quickly and sought his loved Maida.

Reaction from the strain made her break down, and sobbing in his arms she asked and received full forgiveness for her enforced desertion of him.

“I couldn’t do anything else, Jeff,” she sobbed. “I had to say yes to him for dad’s sake—and mother’s.”

“Of course you did, darling; don’t think about it. Oh, Maida, look! The wind has torn up the sycamore! Unrooted it, and it has fallen over—”

“Over into Massachusetts!” Maida cried; “Jeffrey, think what that means!”

“Why—why!” Allen was speechless.

“Yes; the sycamore has gone into Massachusetts—and father can go!”

“Is that real, Maida—is it truly a permission?”

“Of course it is! We’ve got Governor Appleby’s letter, saying so—written when he was governor, you know! Jeffrey—I’m so happy! It makes me forget that awful—”

“Do forget it all you can, dearest,” and beneath her lover’s caresses, Maida did forget, for the moment at least.

“It’s the only inexplicable thing about it all, Fibs,” Fleming Stone observed, after the case was among the annals of the past, “that the old sycamore fell over and fell the right way.”

“Mighty curious, F. Stone,” rejoined the boy, with an expressionless face.

“You didn’t help it along, did you? You know the injunction was, ‘without intervention of human hands’—”

“I didn’t intervent my hands, Mr. Stone,” said the boy, earnestly, “honest I didn’t. But—it wasn’t nominated in the bond that I shouldn’t kick around those old decaying roots with my foot—just so’s if it should take a notion to fall it would fall heading north!”