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THE CIRCULAR STUDY
BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN
1900
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
GARDEN CITY NEW YORK
1914
CONTENTS.
BOOK I.--A STRANGE CRIME.
I.--Red Light
II.--Mysteries
III.--The Mute Servitor
IV.--A New Experience for Mr. Gryce
V.--Five Small Spangles
VI.--Suggestions From an Old Friend
VII.--Amos's Son
VIII.--In the Round of the Staircase
IX.--High and Low
X.--Bride Roses
XI.--Misery
XII.--Thomas Explains
XIII.--Despair
XIV.--Memoranda
BOOK II.--REMEMBER EVELYN.
I.--The Secret of the Cadwaladers
II.--The Oath
III.--Eva
IV.--Felix
V.--Why the Iron Slide Remained Stationary
VI.--Answered
VII.--Last Words
BOOK I
A STRANGE CRIME
CHAPTER I.
RED LIGHT.
Mr. Gryce was melancholy. He had attained that period in life when the
spirits flag and enthusiasm needs a constant spur, and of late there had
been a lack of special excitement, and he felt dull and superannuated.
He was even contemplating resigning his position on the force and
retiring to the little farm he had bought for himself in Westchester;
and this in itself did not tend to cheerfulness, for he was one to whom
action was a necessity and the exercise of his mental faculties more
inspiring than any possible advantage which might accrue to him from
their use.
But he was not destined to carry out this impulse yet. For just at the
height of his secret dissatisfaction there came a telephone message to
Headquarters which roused the old man to something like his former vigor
and gave to the close of this gray fall day an interest he had not
expected to feel again in this or any other kind of day. It was sent
from Carter's well-known drug store, and was to the effect that a lady
had just sent a boy in from the street to say that a strange crime had
been committed in ----'s mansion round the corner. The boy did not know
the lady, and was shy about showing the money she had given him, but
that he had money was very evident, also, that he was frightened enough
for his story to be true. If the police wished to communicate with him,
he could be found at Carter's, where he would be detained till an order
for his release should be received.
A _strange_ crime! That word "strange" struck Mr. Gryce, and made him
forget his years in wondering what it meant. Meanwhile the men about him
exchanged remarks upon the house brought thus unexpectedly to their
notice. As it was one of the few remaining landmarks of the preceding
century, and had been made conspicuous moreover by the shops,
club-houses, and restaurants pressing against it on either side, it had
been a marked spot for years even to those who knew nothing of its
history or traditions.
And now a crime had taken place in it! Mr. Gryce, in whose ears that
word "strange" rang with quiet insistence, had but to catch the eye of
the inspector in charge to receive an order to investigate the affair.
He started at once, and proceeded first to the drug store. There he
found the boy, whom he took along with him to the house indicated in the
message. On the way he made him talk, but there was nothing the poor
waif could add to the story already sent over the telephone. He
persisted in saying that a lady (he did not say woman) had come up to
him while he was looking at some toys in a window, and, giving him a
piece of money, had drawn him along the street as far as the drug store.
Here she showed him another coin, promising to add it to the one he had
already pocketed if he would run in to the telephone clerk with a
message for the police. He wanted the money, and when he grabbed at it
she said that all he had to do was to tell the clerk that a strange
crime had been committed in the old house on ---- Street. This scared
him, and he was sliding off, when she caught him again and shook him
until his wits came back, after which he ran into the store and
delivered the message.
There was candor in the boy's tone, and Mr. Gryce was disposed to
believe him; but when he was asked to describe the lady, he showed that
his powers of observation were no better than those of most of his
class. All he could say was that she was a stunner, and wore shiny
clothes and jewels, and Mr. Gryce, recognizing the lad's limitations at
the very moment he found himself in view of the house he was making for,
ceased to question him, and directed all his attention to the building
he was approaching.
Nothing in the exterior bespoke crime or even disturbance. A shut door,
a clean stoop, heavily curtained windows (some of which were further
shielded by closely drawn shades) were eloquent of inner quiet and
domestic respectability, while its calm front of brick, with brownstone
trimmings, offered a pleasing contrast to the adjoining buildings
jutting out on either side, alive with signs and humming with business.
"Some mistake," muttered Gryce to himself, as the perfect calm reigning
over the whole establishment struck him anew. But before he had decided
that he had been made the victim of a hoax, a movement took place in the
area under the stoop, and an officer stepped out, with a countenance
expressive of sufficient perplexity for Mr. Gryce to motion him back
with the hurried inquiry: "Anything wrong? Any blood shed? All seems
quiet here."
The officer, recognizing the old detective, touched his hat. "Can't get
in," said he. "Have rung all the bells. Would think the house empty if I
had not seen something like a stir in one of the windows overhead. Shall
I try to make my way into the rear yard through one of the lower windows
of Knapp & Co.'s store, next door?"
"Yes, and take this boy with you. Lock him up in some one of their
offices, and then break your way into this house by some means. It ought
to be easy enough from the back yard."
The officer nodded, took the boy by the arm, and in a trice had
disappeared with him into the adjoining store. Mr. Gryce remained in the
area, where he was presently besieged by a crowd of passers-by, eager to
add their curiosity to the trouble they had so quickly scented. The
opening of the door from the inside speedily put an end to importunities
for which he had as yet no reply, and he was enabled to slip within,
where he found himself in a place of almost absolute quiet. Before him
lay a basement hall leading to a kitchen, which, even at that moment, he
noticed to be in trimmer condition than is usual where much housework is
done, but he saw nothing that bespoke tragedy, or even a break in the
ordinary routine of life as observed in houses of like size and
pretension.
Satisfied that what he sought was not to be found here, he followed the
officer upstairs. As they emerged upon the parlor floor, the latter
dropped the following information:
"Mr. Raffner of the firm next door says that the man who lives here is
an odd sort of person whom nobody knows; a bookworm, I think they call
him. He has occupied the house six months, yet they have never seen any
one about the premise but himself and a strange old servant as peculiar
and uncommunicative as his master."
"I know," muttered Mr. Gryce. He did know, everybody knew, that this
house, once the seat of one of New York's most aristocratic families,
was inhabited at present by a Mr. Adams, noted alike for his more than
common personal attractions, his wealth, and the uncongenial nature of
his temperament, which precluded all association with his kind. It was
this knowledge which had given zest to this investigation. To enter the
house of such a man was an event in itself: to enter it on an errand of
life and death--Well, it is under the inspiration of such opportunities
that life is reawakened in old veins, especially when those veins
connect the heart and brain of a sagacious, if octogenarian, detective.
The hall in which they now found themselves was wide, old-fashioned, and
sparsely furnished in the ancient manner to be observed in such
time-honored structures. Two doors led into this hall, both of which now
stood open. Taking advantage of this fact, they entered the nearest,
which was nearly opposite the top of the staircase they had just
ascended, and found themselves in a room barren as a doctor's outer
office. There was nothing here worth their attention, and they would
have left the place as unceremoniously as they had entered it if they
had not caught glimpses of richness which promised an interior of
uncommon elegance, behind the half-drawn folds of a portière at the
further end of the room.
Advancing through the doorway thus indicated, they took one look about
them and stood appalled. Nothing in their experience (and they had both
experienced much) had prepared them for the thrilling, the solemn nature
of what they were here called upon to contemplate.
Shall I attempt its description?
A room small and of circular shape, hung with strange tapestries
relieved here and there by priceless curios, and lit, although it was
still daylight, by a jet of rose-colored light concentrated, not on the
rows and rows of books around the lower portion of the room, or on the
one great picture which at another time might have drawn the eye and
held the attention, but on the upturned face of a man lying on a
bearskin rug with a dagger in his heart and on his breast a cross whose
golden lines, sharply outlined against his long, dark, swathing garment,
gave him the appearance of a saint prepared in some holy place for
burial, save that the dagger spoke of violent death, and his face of an
anguish for which Mr. Gryce, notwithstanding his lifelong experience,
found no name, so little did it answer to a sensation of fear, pain, or
surprise, or any of the emotions usually visible on the countenances of
such as have fallen under the unexpected stroke of an assassin.