Whatever the cause, Janet's spirits were undeniably lightened.
"I wish I could help," she said. "Here is our problem: to find somebody
who wanted to kill Uncle Robert, and who was able to get into the
apartment and do so."
"That's the case in a nutshell," declared George; "but I confess I don't
know which way to start."
Although I had made up my mind not to refer to the letter from Jonathan
Scudder, which Crawford had shown me, yet I thought I would introduce
the subject of J. S. and see if Janet would volunteer any information
regarding the letter.
So, since both cousins had declared their willingness to consider the
problem, I said: "As you say you don't know which way to start, Mr.
Lawrence, suppose we take up the clue of the torn telegram. Do you think
that J. S. who sent that message might have kept his appointment, and
come last night, although no one knew it?"
"How could he get in?" asked Lawrence.
"That remains to be explained; but just granting for a moment that he
did get in, why not turn our attention to discovering who he is and what
his errand was?"
"All right," agreed Lawrence, "but how shall we set about it? We know
nothing of the man, not even his real name."
"What do you think, Miss Pembroke?" I asked, turning to Janet; "do you
think it would be possible for us to learn the real name of J. S.?"
The girl looked at me with troubled eyes, but the expression of her
mouth denoted determination. Even before she spoke, I knew that she was
not going to tell of the letter she had read that morning. The letter
was addressed to her uncle, but it had been opened. The reasonable
explanation of this was that it had come in that morning's mail, as
indeed its postmark proved, and that Janet had opened and read it; this
latter supposition being probable, because the letter had been found in
her room. To be sure after the death of her uncle, she was next in
charge of the household affairs, but it would have been more commendable
of her to have given her uncle's unopened mail to his lawyer or to some
one in charge of his estate.
When she spoke, as I had fully expected, she made no reference to the
letter.
"As I have told you," she said slowly, "my uncle often used to speak of
J. S., and when we asked him who it was, he said John Strong."
"But we know he didn't mean it," said Lawrence; "and also, Mr. Landon,
although I do not know his real name, I'm positive that J. S. is the man
who was my uncle's business partner many years ago. In fact my uncle has
said to me that this partner thought that half of Uncle Robert's fortune
should be given to him, or bequeathed to him by will. My uncle said he
had no intention of doing this, but I gathered from his remarks on the
subject, that his partner was continually making fresh efforts to obtain
some of my uncle's money."
"Then, in view of all this," I said, "is there not at least reason to
look up this J. S. who sent the telegram, and see if he might not be the
man whom your uncle called John Strong?"
I looked directly at Janet as I said this, and though she returned my
gaze at first, her eyes fell before my questioning glance, and her voice
trembled ever so little as she said; "yes, let us do that."
"It is a very good idea," broke in sister Laura, who was quick of
decision and who rarely hesitated to express her opinions. "This John
Strong may have been delayed, and reached the apartment very late at
night. Then there may have been a stormy interview, and, unable to get
what he wanted from Mr. Pembroke, John Strong may have killed the old
gentleman, taken the money that is missing from the desk and gone away."
"Sister dear," I said, "your theory is fairly plausible. If you don't
mind I'll ask you to elucidate it a little further. Just how did John
Strong get into Mr. Pembroke's apartment?"
"Why," returned Laura, "Mr. Pembroke was expecting him, and as it was
late, and the others were in bed, he got up and let the man in himself."
"Yes; I understand," I went on; "and now, then, after this wicked Mr.
Strong had committed his dreadful deed, who let him out, and put the
chain on the door?"
There was a dead silence. I had chosen my words most unfortunately. I
had spoken rather quizzically, only with the intention of showing Laura
how absurd her idea was; but my final question, instead of merely
confuting her theory, had also suggested a dreadful possibility! For if
anybody had put the chain on after the departure of the mythical Mr.
Strong, it must necessarily have been one of the two living occupants of
the apartment!
Janet turned white to her very lips, and as a consequence, even more
dreadful thoughts flashed into my mind. She had read a letter that day
from the man who had sent the telegram. There was practically no doubt
of that. When I had asked her concerning this man just now, though she
had not denied, yet she had not admitted the knowledge which she must
have possessed. And now when the faintest hint was breathed of a
possible complicity of some one in the apartment with this mysterious
J. S., Janet was so agitated as to turn pale and almost quiver with
apprehension!
I was strongly tempted to tell of the letter the Inspector had shown me,
but I could not bring myself to do so, for far deeper than my interest
in the case was my interest in this girl; and if that letter must be
brought forward against her, it would have to be done by some one else
and not by me. My evidence about the chain on the door had already
wrought irremediable damage, and hereafter my efforts should be devoted
to showing evidence that should prove Janet Pembroke innocent, and not
of a sort which should make her seem to be guilty!
"How would you advise trying to find this man?" asked George Lawrence,
after a somewhat awkward pause; "the address on the telegram was East
Lynnwood, but it would be difficult, even with a directory or census
report to find a name of which we know only the initials."
"Yes," agreed Laura, "there are doubtless men in East Lynnwood whose
initials are J. S. Indeed, I should say those are perhaps the most
common initials of all. You see, so many men's names begin with J."
"And it may not be a man at all," suggested Lawrence. "Women's names
often begin with J,--like Janet for instance."
"But my initials are not J. S.," returned his cousin, "and besides, I
didn't telegraph to uncle Robert."
Again the girl surprised me, for she spoke in a light tone, as if almost
amused at the idea.
"But it might have been a woman," she went on, "which would explain the
hat-pin."
I was thoroughly perplexed at Miss Pembroke's words. She knew the J. S.
of the telegram was the Jonathan Scudder of the letter. She knew
therefore that J. S. was not a woman. Why was she so disingenuous? Was
she shielding J. S., and did she know far more about the tragedy than I
had supposed? At any rate, I could see she was determined not to tell of
the letter she had read, and I was determined that if I should ask her
concerning it, it would be when alone with her, for I would not subject
her to possible humiliation before others.
"We certainly can do nothing in the matter without knowing more of J. S.
than we do now," I said, with an air of dropping the subject; "and I
doubt, even if we should find him, that it would help us to discover the
mystery."
"I don't believe it will ever be discovered," said Laura. "It looks to
me like one of those mysteries that are never solved. For whoever it was
that was clever enough to get into that house, when there wasn't any way
to get in, would also be clever enough to evade detection."
George and Janet both looked at Laura as if startled by her remark. The
fact that they were startled startled me. If they had known the clever
individual whom Laura merely imagined, they couldn't have acted
differently. But all this muddle of impressions on my mind really led to
nothing. "If I'm going to do any detecting," I said to myself severely,
"it's time I set about it, and not depend on guessing what people may
mean by the expressions on their faces--especially faces capable of such
ambiguous expressions as the two before me."
Determined, therefore, to lead the conversation into channels that would
at least put me in the way of learning some facts about the previous
life of the Pembrokes and of George Lawrence, I spoke generally of ways
and means of living in New York. I learned that Janet had the tastes and
inclinations of a society girl, but that, owing to her uncle's
restrictions, she had been able only slightly to gratify these
inclinations. She was fond of concerts and theatres, of going shopping
and calling, and yet had never been allowed the money or the freedom to
pursue these pleasures. My heart sank as I realized how everything the
girl said would tell against her should she ever be called to the
witness box.
Young Lawrence, it seemed, had similar social tastes, but even when he
lived with the Pembrokes had been more free to go and come than his
cousin. And, of course, since he had lived alone he was entirely his own
master. He was a member of various clubs, and seemed to be fond of
card-playing and billiards, in moderation. I also learned, though, I
think, through an inadvertence, that he dabbled a little in Wall Street.
It seemed surprising that a young artist could support himself in
comfortable bachelor quarters and still have money left with which to
speculate. This would not be in his favor, had there been a shadow of
suspicion against him; but there could be no such suspicion, for even
with his latch-key he could not get in at the door. He could hardly be
taken for a professional housebreaker; and, besides, he was prepared to
prove an alibi. I had little faith in this mythical personage we had
built up with a motive and an opportunity, and as I reasoned round and
round in a circle I was always confronted by the terrifying fact that a
disinterested judge would suspect Janet and that, were I disinterested,
I should suspect her myself. And so the reasoning went on in my excited
brain, till I felt that I must go for a long walk in the cool night air
as the only means of regaining my own clearness of vision.
Soon after dinner, then, I announced my intention of going out.
Lawrence said that he would spend some hours looking over his late
uncle's papers, and Laura declared that she would tuck Miss Pembroke in
bed early for a good night's rest.
I started out by myself, and, swinging into Broadway, I turned and
walked rapidly downtown. This was my custom when I had serious matters
to think of. The crowded brightness of the street always seemed to
stimulate my brain, while it quieted my nerves. I hadn't gone a dozen
blocks before I had come to two or three different conclusions, right
or wrong though they may have been.
The first of these was a conviction that Janet felt more than a cousinly
interest in George Lawrence. But this I also concluded might be caused
by one of two things; it might be either a romantic attachment or Janet
might suspect her cousin to be guilty of her uncle's death. If the first
were true, Janet might have been in league with George and might have
opened the door for him the night before. I was facing the thing
squarely now, and laying aside any of my own prejudices or beliefs,
while I considered mere possibilities.
If, on the other hand, Janet suspected George, without real knowledge,
this fact of course left Janet herself free of all suspicion. While I
couldn't believe that the two had connived at their uncle's death, still
less could I believe that Janet had done the deed herself. Therefore, I
must face all the possibilities, and even endeavor to imagine more than
I had yet thought of.
But the more I considered imaginary conditions, the more they seemed to
me ridiculous and untenable. George was not in the apartment; Janet was.
George was not at the mercy of his uncle's brutal temper; Janet was.
George did not want money and freedom to pursue his chosen ways of
life; Janet did.
Much as I liked George, I would gladly have cast the weight of suspicion
on him instead of on Janet, had I but been able to do so.
I had never before felt so utterly at the end of my resources. There was
no one to suspect, other than those already mentioned, and no place to
look for new evidence. Either the talent I had always thought I
possessed for detective work was non-existent, or else there was not
enough for me to work upon.
But I had traced two clues. The telegram, though it had not implicated
J. S. had pointed, indirectly, in Janet's direction. The key, though
still mysterious, at least gave a hint of Leroy, and perhaps, in
complicity, Janet.
I made these statements frankly to myself, because since I was going to
fight her battle, I wanted to know at the outset what I had to fight
against.
Having started on my investigation, I was eager to continue the quest I
felt, if damaging evidence must be found, I would rather find it myself,
than be told of it by some conceited, unsympathetic detective.
But there was little I could do by way of investigation in the evening.
However, as I passed through the theatre district, I bethought me of the
ticket stubs. Though well aware it was but a wild goose chase, I turned
my steps toward the National Theatre. As the program was fairly well
along, there was not a crowd at the box office, and I had no difficulty
in engaging the blithe young man at the window in conversation. I had
not the ticket stubs with me, but I had a memorandum of their dates, and
though it sounded absurd even to myself, I made inquiry concerning them.
"House sold out, I suppose?" I said, carelessly, to the face at the
window.
"Just about. Want a poor seat?"
"No; I'll wait till some other night. Is it sold out every night?"
"Just about."
"Was it sold out the night of October sixteenth?"
"Sure! that was in one of our big weeks! Great program on then. Why?"
"I don't suppose you could tell me who bought seats one and three in row
G, that night?"
"I should say not! do you s'pose I'm a human chart? What's the game?"
"Detective work," I said, casually, thinking he would be less impressed
if I did not seem too much interested. "I suppose you can't think of any
way that I could find out who bought those seats for that night?"
"Well, no, I can't; unless you might advertise."
"Advertise! how?"
"Why put in a personal, asking for the fellows that had those seats."
"But they wouldn't reply; they don't want to be caught."
"Sure, that's so! well, I'll tell you. Put your personal in and ask the
fellows who sat behind those seats to communicate with you. Then you can
find out something about your party, may be."
"Young man," I said, heartily, "that's a really brilliant idea! I shall
act upon it, and I'm much obliged to you."
I offered him a material proof of my gratitude for his suggestion, which
he accepted with pleasure, and I went straight away to a newspaper
office. This scheme might amount to nothing at all, but on the other
hand, it certainly could do no harm.
I inserted a personal notice in the paper, asking that the holders of
the seats near one and three G on the night of October sixteenth should
communicate with me. I mentioned the numbers of the seats not only
behind the mysterious numbers, but in front of them as well, and also at
the side. I had little hope that this venture would bring any
worth-while result, but there was a chance that it might, and action of
any sort was better than doing nothing.
After leaving the newspaper office, I continued my walk, hoping, by deep
thought to arrive at some conclusion, or at least to think of some new
direction in which to look. But the farther I walked, and the more I
thought, the more desperate the situation became. Clear thought and
logical inference led only in one direction; and that was toward Janet
Pembroke. To lead suspicion away from her, could only be done by
dwelling on the thought of my love for her. In spite of her mysterious
ways, perhaps because of them, my love for her was fast developing into
a mad infatuation, beyond logic and beyond reason. But it was a power,
and a power, I vowed, that should yet conquer logic and reason,--aye,
even evidence and proof of any wrong-doing on the part of my goddess!
Notwithstanding appearances, notwithstanding Janet's own inexplicable
words and deeds, I believed her entirely innocent, and I would prove it
to the world.
Yet I knew that I based my belief in her innocence on that one fleeting
moment, when she had looked at me with tenderness in her brown eyes, and
with truth stamped indelibly upon her beautiful face.
Was that too brief a moment, too uncertain a bond to be depended upon?