When I arose next morning I assured myself that I was in all probability
the happiest man in the city. With Fleming Stone's assurance that that
very night should see the Pembroke mystery cleared up, and with the
knowledge in my heart that Janet loved me, I felt that my future outlook
was little less than glorious.
I had given up all ambition to be a detective; I even had little care as
to the outcome of Fleming Stone's investigation--granting, of course,
that Janet and George were in no way implicated. I could have given
myself up to the happy dreams which are usually said to be indulged in
by men of fewer years than my own, but I remembered my appointment and
hastened away to meet Fleming Stone.
Though I had a vague feeling of fear as to the result of this day's
work, yet I knew it must be gone through with, and I prepared to face
whatever might be before me.
Together we went to the District Attorney's office.
Mr. Buckner was much impressed by the fact of Fleming Stone's
connection with the case, for it was well known that the great detective
accepted only puzzling problems. It was quite evident, however, that the
District Attorney could see no reason for more than one opinion as to
the Pembroke tragedy.
"Here are the clues," said Mr. Buckner, as he arranged the collection on
his desk.
The torn telegram was not among them, and I realized that Buckner had
excluded that, because the letter from Jonathan Scudder practically
denied it.
Fleming Stone glanced at the key and the handkerchief with the briefest
attention. He picked up the ticket stubs and the time-table, but after a
moment's scrutiny he laid them down again, murmuring, as if to himself,
"Clever, very clever!"
"Mr. Buckner," he said at last, "these clues seem to me all to point to
the same criminal, and a most ingenious person as well."
"You speak in riddles, Mr. Stone," said the District Attorney, "I
confess I thought these articles of but slight importance, as they have
been traced each to a different owner."
"Even so," said Stone, "they are distinctly indicative, and form a large
share of the evidence piling up against the criminal. But a far more
important clue is the weapon with which Mr. Pembroke was killed. Will
you show me that?"
Buckner took the pin from a drawer and offered it to Mr. Stone, saying,
"There is the weapon. If the head of the hat-pin had been left on, it
might be traced to the woman who used it. But as she broke it off, this
small portion cannot be traced. She doubtless broke the head off
purposely, thus proving herself, as you have already remarked, Mr.
Stone, a very clever criminal."
Mr. Stone took the pin, glanced at it a moment, and then, taking a
magnifying-glass from his pocket, examined it carefully.
"It is not a hat-pin," he said, "nor is it part of a hat-pin. The pin as
you see it there is its full length. The head has been removed, not
accidentally, but purposely. It had been removed, and carefully, before
the pin was used as a weapon."
"May I ask how you know this, sir?" asked the coroner respectfully.
"Certainly," said Stone, in his affable way. "If you will look at the
end of the pin through this glass, you will see unmistakable signs that
the head has been removed. For about an eighth of an inch you note a
slight discoloration, caused by the attaching of the glass head. You
also see on one side a minute portion of glass still adhering to the
steel. Had the head been accidentally or carelessly broken off, it is
probable that more glass would have adhered to the pin. The head was
therefore purposely and carefully removed, perhaps by smashing it with
something heavy or by stepping on it. The fragment of glass that is
attached to the pin is, as you may see if you will hold it up to the
light, of a violet color. The pin, therefore, I'm prepared to assert, is
one of the pins which first-class florists give away with bunches of
violets bought at their shops. I have never seen these pins with
violet-colored heads used for any other purpose, though it is not
impossible that they may be. I say a first-class florist, because it is
only they who use this style of pin; the smaller shops give black-headed
ones. But the larger flower dealers make a specialty of using purple
tin-foil for their violet bunches, tying them with purple cord or
ribbon, and placing them in a purple pasteboard box. To harmonize with
this color scheme, they have of late years provided these violet-headed
flower pins. All this is of importance in our quest, for it ought to be
easier to trace a violet pin than the more universally used hat-pin."
How different Fleming Stone's manner from the bumptious and know-it-all
air of the average detective! He was quite willing to share any
information which he gained, and seemed to treat his fellow-workers as
his equals in perspicacity and cleverness.
We had learned something, to be sure. But as the coroner had no other
objects of evidence to show us, and there seemed nothing more to be
learned from the pin, Fleming Stone turned into the street, and I
followed him.
"Could not the head have been broken off after the pin was used to
commit the murder?" I inquired.
"No," said Stone; "it would be impossible to break off a glass head with
one's fingers under such conditions. It could have been done by some
instrument, but that is not likely. And then, too, there would probably
have been bits of glass on the pillow."
"Bits of glass!" I exclaimed. "Bits of violet-colored glass! Why, man
alive, I have them in my pocket now!"
"Let me see them," said Stone. "It may save us quite a search."
It took more to excite Fleming Stone's enthusiasm than it did mine, and
he seemed almost unaware of the importance of my statement; but when I
took a white paper from my pocket, unfolded it, and showed him the
specks of glass I had found in Lawrence's apartment the night before,
his flashing eyes showed that he thought it indeed a clue. But he only
said quietly: "You should have mentioned this in your statement of the
case. Why did you not?"
"The real reason is that I forgot it," I admitted, frankly. "But I had
no idea it was important evidence, for I never dreamed these bits could
be the head of a pin. I thought them a portion of a broken bottle. You
know druggists use small phials of that color for certain
prescriptions."
"Some druggists use bottles of this color for poison," said Fleming
Stone, "but that doesn't affect our case, for Mr. Pembroke was not
poisoned. But it may easily be the head of the pin we were talking
about. Where did you find this glass?"
"In George Lawrence's studio," I replied, looking a little shamefaced at
my own obvious stupidity.
"Well, you _are_ a clever detective!" said Fleming Stone; but so genial
was the smile of mild amusement he turned upon me, that I could not feel
hurt at his sarcasm.
"You didn't even tell me that you examined young Lawrence's studio, and
you haven't yet told me why you did so. I assume you have no intent to
conceal anything from me."
"I have not," I said. "I'm mortified--first that I did not realize the
importance of this broken glass, and next because I didn't mention the
incident to you. It was a stupid blunder of mine, but I assure you it
was not intentional."
"It may mean much, and it may mean nothing," said Fleming Stone, "but it
must be investigated. Where, in the studio, was the glass?"
"On the marble hearthstone," said I.
"Where it might easily have been broken off the pin by a boot heel, or
other means. But we must not assume more than the evidence clearly
indicates. Tell me more of young Lawrence. Was he what is known as a
ladies' man? Would he be likely to take bunches of violets to his
feminine friends?"
"I know the man very slightly," I answered, "but I should judge him to
be rather attentive to the fair sex. Indeed, I know that the day before
yesterday he escorted a young lady to a matinée, and that night he dined
and spent the evening at the home of the same girl."
"Do you know this young lady?" he asked.
"I know her name," I replied. "It is Miss Waring, and she lives in
Sixtieth Street."
"And your own home is in Sixty-second Street?"
"Yes. If necessary, I can telephone to my sister, and she will ask Miss
Pembroke for Miss Waring's address."
"Do so," said Fleming Stone; and I knew from the gravity of his
expression that he was rapidly constructing a serious case against
somebody.
I obtained the desired information over the telephone, and then, with
Fleming Stone, boarded a car going uptown. Though still
pleasant-mannered and responsive, Stone seemed disinclined to talk, so
the journey was made almost in silence.
When we reached Miss Waring's, Mr. Stone sent up his card, asking her to
grant him an interview as soon as possible.
In a few moments Millicent Waring appeared. She was a dainty little
blonde, with what is known as a society manner, though not marked by
foolish affectation.
Fleming Stone introduced himself and then introduced me, in a pleasant
way, and with a politeness that would have been admired by the most
punctilious of critics.
"Pray do not be alarmed, Miss Waring," he began, "at the legal aspect of
your callers."
"Not at all," said the girl, smiling prettily. "I am pleased to meet one
of whom I have always stood in awe, and to discover that in appearance,
at least, he is not a bit awe-inspiring."
Whether Miss Waring was always so self-poised and at her ease, or
whether it was Fleming Stone's magnetic manner that made her appear so,
I did not know, but the two were soon chatting like old friends. My
part, apparently, was merely that of a listener, and I was well content
that it should be so.
"You know Mr. Lawrence?" Mr. Stone was saying. "Mr. George Lawrence?"
"Oh, yes," said the girl; "and I have read in the paper of a dreadful
tragedy in his family."
"Yes; his uncle, I believe. You have seen Mr. Lawrence recently, Miss
Waring?"
"Last Wednesday I went with him to a matinée. After the theatre he
brought me back here. Then he went home, but he came back here to dinner
and spent the evening."
"At what time did he leave?"
"At eleven o'clock precisely."
"How do you know the time so accurately?"
"Because as he came to say good-night I was standing near the mantel,
where there is a small French clock. It struck the hour, and I remember
his remarking on the sweet tone of the chime, and he counted the strokes
to eleven. He then went away at once."
"You mean he left the drawing-room?"
"Yes; and a moment later I saw him pass through the hall, and he nodded
in at me as he passed the drawing-room door on his way out. Why are you
asking me all this? But I suppose it is part of the red tape in
connection with the dreadful affair."
"Is Mr. Lawrence a particular friend of yours? You must pardon the
question, Miss Waring, but you also must answer it." Fleming Stone's
smile robbed the words of any hint of rudeness.
"Oh, dear, no!" said Miss Waring, laughing gaily; "that is, I like him,
you know, and he's awfully kind and polite to me, but he's merely an
acquaintance."
"Did you go anywhere on your way to and from the theatre?"
"No, I think not--oh, yes, we did, too; just before we went into the
theatre Mr. Lawrence insisted on stopping at the florist's for some
violets. He said no matinée girl was complete without a bunch of
violets."
"And did you pin them on your gown?" asked Stone, as if in a most casual
way.
"No, indeed," said Miss Waring; "I never do that. It spoils a nice gown
to pin flowers on it."
"And what did you do with the pin?"
"What pin?"
"The pin that a florist always gives you with violets."
"Oh, yes, those purple-headed pins. Why, I don't know what I did do with
it." The girl's pretty brow wrinkled in her endeavor to remember, and
then cleared as she said: "Oh, yes, it comes back to me now! When I said
I wouldn't use it, lest the flowers should spoil my gown, I handed it to
Mr. Lawrence, and he stuck it in his coat lapel--underneath, you
know--for, he said, perhaps I might change my mind. But, of course, I
didn't, and I'm sure I don't know what became of the pin. Do you want
one? I have dozens of them up-stairs."
"No," said Fleming Stone; "and I don't think we need encroach further on
your time, Miss Waring. I thank you for your goodness in seeing us, and
I would like to ask you to say nothing about this interview for
twenty-four hours. After that you need not consider it confidential."
I believe Fleming Stone's manner would have wheedled a promise out of
the Egyptian Sphinx, and I was not in the least surprised to hear Miss
Waring agree to his stipulations.
When we again reached the street Fleming Stone observed: "Without going
so far as to designate our attitude toward George Lawrence by the word
'suspicion,' we must admit that the young man had a motive, and, that
there is evidence whether true or not, to indicate his having had in his
possession a weapon at least similar to the one used."
The doubt I had felt all along of Lawrence was, of course, strengthened
by Miss Waring's disclosures; but to have George accused was only one
degree less awful than to have suspicion cast on Janet. And, too,
notwithstanding the strange and somewhat complicated evidence of the
violet pin, Lawrence had told me he had a perfect alibi. And then,
besides this, how could he have gained entrance to the apartment at the
dead of night, unless Janet had let him in? I could not bring up this
last point, lest Fleming Stone should immediately deduce Janet's
complicity; but I would learn how he proposed to prove George's guilt
when George was able to prove his presence at another place at the time
of the fatal deed.
"But," I said, "evidence is of little use so far as Mr. Lawrence is
concerned, for he has a perfect alibi."