THE HUMAN EYE
PABLO, Trenholm's Filipino servant, brought the after-dinner coffee
into the library and withdrew with the swiftness and silence which
characterized his movements.
"Excellent coffee," commented Roberts. He relaxed lazily against the
cushioned sides of the big leather chair in which he was sitting and
stretched his tired muscles. "It's strong and black. Better have some,
Alan."
But Alan Mason declined. "I am too jumpy now," he admitted. "Where the
deuce is Trenholm?"
"In the kitchen talking to some man." The physician put down his
empty coffee cup and filled it again from the silver pot which Pablo
had thoughtfully left on the table, with the sugar and cream. "He'll
be back shortly, I imagine; come and sit down," and with his foot he
pushed around a chair, similar in size to the one he occupied.
Instead of complying with his invitation, Alan walked moodily about the
room, which ran the length of the bungalow. Its ceiling was oak-beamed
and the windows diamond-paned, and its air of comfort was enhanced by
the good taste evidenced in its furnishing. It was typically a man's
room, filled with hunting trophies, smoking paraphernalia, shotgun and
rifle, fishing rods and tackle and curious weapons of a bygone age and
other climes. Mahogany bookshelves lined one wall and Alan stopped and
read the titles of some of the editions.
"Scott, Thackeray, Darwin, Spencer, Dickens, Wells, _et cetera_," he
announced, running his finger along the books. "And blame me, if they
don't look as if he'd read 'em."
Roberts turned his head to observe what Alan was doing. "Trenholm is
one of the best informed men in the country," he remarked dryly. "He is
well read and has a brilliant mind."
"And lives in this God-forsaken part of the country!" Alan shrugged his
shoulders. "There is no accounting for taste."
"Quite so!" Roberts laughed. "But if my memory serves me right, Alan,
you are indigenous to the soil."
"Sure, but my parents had the good sense to move to Washington soon
after I was born," retorted Alan. "We spent only our summers here until
Cousin Paul Abbott bought the old place in a land deal."
"Oh, so Abbott's Lodge is your ancestral homestead?"
Alan nodded. "With many alterations and additions," he said. "I'd
never have known the house when I first went to stay with Paul just
before the War. We were at Lawrenceville together, you know, and then
at Princeton." Alan sighed. "The War changed him a lot," he added
wistfully. "He was a dandy pal--so much pep and devil-may-care spirit
about him."
"When was he shell-shocked?"
"Toward the last." Alan changed the subject with marked abruptness.
"Say, Doctor," he sat down and his voice dropped to a confidential
pitch. "Trenholm does himself mighty well--this most attractive
bungalow, a model farm, and a servant whose cooking is absolutely
faultless. Where does he get the money?"
"His salary--"
Alan laughed mirthlessly. "It wouldn't much more than pay Pablo's
wages," he said. "It takes real money to keep up a place like this."
Roberts lighted a cigar, first offering one to Alan, which the latter
accepted, with a word of thanks.
"I heard some time ago that a rich relation--one of the Trenholms of
South Carolina--died and left Guy a handsome legacy, which he has
augmented by careful investments," he explained.
"Oh!" Alan was having some difficulty in lighting his cigar. "Who told
you that--Trenholm?"
"I believe so. Why?" His question met with no response and Roberts eyed
his companion in speculative silence.
Alan's complexion was not a healthy color, the physician decided in his
own mind, and the unsteadiness of his hand as he strove to hold a match
to his cigar was not lost on Roberts. The older man's expression grew
thoughtful; Alan Mason had changed in the past few days and not for the
best. Roberts had observed his tendency to go off alone for long walks,
and his sudden bursts of talkativeness at the table and his equally
abrupt lapses into long, sullen silence from which no one could arouse
him.
It was in such a fit of depression that Roberts had encountered him
when about to motor over to Trenholm's for dinner, and he had persuaded
Alan to accompany him after the latter had first called up Trenholm
and received a hearty invitation to make one of the party. All through
dinner Alan had chatted on first one topic and then another, the others
seconding his efforts, but the three men with one accord avoided any
reference to the tragedy at Abbott's Lodge or to the funeral which had
taken place that afternoon.
Trenholm found his two guests smoking in silence when he joined them a
few minutes later.
"Sorry to have been so long," he said apologetically, taking up a cup
of coffee, before seating himself on the divan before the open fire.
"There have been a number of petty thefts in the neighborhood, but
I believe we've jailed the right man to-day, from the evidence just
brought to me." He swallowed his coffee and replaced the cup on the
table. "By the way, Roberts, how is Mrs. Nash?"
"Much better this evening," responded Roberts. "If she continues to
show such improvement, she may be able to sit up to-morrow for a time."
"Ah, then Mrs. Nash can soon dispense with the services of a trained
nurse," broke in Alan, with a swift look upward at the clock on the
mantel.
"Perhaps," answered Roberts. "Much depends, however, on what sort of a
night she has."
"Is Miss Ward still on the case?" questioned Trenholm, knocking the
ashes from his pipe before refilling it.
"Yes." Roberts puffed silently at his cigar for a few seconds. "I tried
to get another nurse to relieve her, but none were disengaged."
"So Miss Ward told you she wished to go?" with a quiet persistence
which made Roberts glance at the sheriff in surprise.
"Yes. Why?"
"I wondered if she would attempt to leave after all," responded
Trenholm. "I warned her that she was wanted here until after the
inquest."
"Wanted?" Alan dropped the cigar from his nervous fingers and hastily
stooped to pick it up. When he sat back his face was flushed.
"Wanted--for what?"
"As chief witness. Hello, who's here?"--as the knocker on the front
door sounded in three hurried blows.
Pablo, busy in clearing off the dining room table, scurried into the
hall and the murmur of voices sounded first faintly and then came
distinctly to their ears. The three men gazed blankly at each other as
Pablo pulled back the portières.
"Mees Carter," he announced and discreetly vanished.
"Betty!" Alan was the first on his feet. "Why are you here?"
Betty's glance swept by him to Roberts and then to her host.
"I wish to see you, Guy Trenholm," she said. "Why have you put a guard
around the vault where Paul lies?"
As she came further into the library, the men saw that the hem of her
short walking suit and her high boots were splashed with mud. Trenholm
pulled back a chair and stepped toward her.
"So that his grave will not be molested," he replied quietly. "There
are ghouls who, attracted by the newspaper accounts of Paul's tragic
death, would not hesitate to enter the vault if given an opportunity.
You have been there to-night?"
"That is obvious," with a glance at her muddy condition and the smart
walking stick which she carried. Her hair, naturally curly, showed
under the brim of her sport hat, and her cheeks were rosy from the cold
night air. But to Trenholm's keen vision, there was a strained look
about her eyes, a continuous twitching of her hands which betrayed
nerves keyed to the highest tension. "Doctor Roberts," she turned
impulsively to the older man, ignoring Alan, "has Sheriff Trenholm told
you his theory of the murder?"
Roberts looked from her to Trenholm. "No," he replied, and would have
added more, but Trenholm cut in.
"I have not discussed my theories with any one," he said smoothly. "But
your suggestion is a good one. Sit here," dragging forward a chair,
"and we will talk the situation over. Doctor Roberts, you and Alan--and
perhaps"--his smile was enigmatic. He did not complete his sentence,
but waited patiently for Betty to seat herself.
With a swift glance about her she mastered her hesitation--her
inclination to run away. She had come there with a purpose, and until
that was accomplished--her fingers clenched about her stick; it
required all her self-control not to strike the tall man at her elbow.
He dwarfed her in size, but the smoldering resentment in her eyes
flamed up as he bent toward her.
"Do sit down," repeated Trenholm with gentle insistence. "Take your old
chair, Roberts," and he dropped into one next the physician as Alan and
Betty followed his example. "Now, Miss Carter--" he prompted.
Betty glanced at him for a fraction of a second, then her gaze swept
the library. It was the first time she had ever been in Trenholm's
house. Slowly her eyes traveled about the room, noting each object,
until finally her gaze rested on a large silver frame standing on the
big mahogany table. It was one she had given to Trenholm in Paris.
She caught her breath slightly--the frame was empty. She suddenly
grew conscious of the concentrated regard of her companions and
involuntarily her glance sought Alan, sitting across from her.
"Well, Betty, we are waiting," he exclaimed.
"For the sheriff," she broke in. "Come, sir, do not keep us longer."
Trenholm took out a cigarette case and offered it to Betty, but she
waved it away. "I'll take some coffee," she said. "Thanks, Alan," as he
filled a cup for her. Again she turned to Trenholm. "Go on."
"Suppose we reconstruct the scene on Monday night," began Trenholm
slowly. "Roberts turns Paul over to his trained nurse and leaves.
Corbin and his wife go to bed, and Miss Ward is alone with her
patient...."
"What then?" asked Alan, bending forward, his eyes fastened on Betty,
who sat sipping her coffee. Trenholm answered his question with another.
"What do we know of Miss Ward?" he asked, and Roberts stared at him.
"Know of her?" the physician repeated. "She was sent on the case by
Central Registry."
"And what about her antecedents?" questioned Trenholm. "Where did she
spring from? Is she a Washingtonian?"
"She said not," replied Roberts. "She told me that she had trained in
New York."
"And you know nothing more of her than that?"
"Nothing more."
"You don't even know that she was not acquainted with Paul before."
"What!" Roberts' eyes opened as well as his mouth. "Why--why--they were
strangers."
"Ah, were they?" with quiet emphasis. "Can you prove it?"
Roberts shook his head. "No; but judging from her manner she had never
met Paul before."
"Women are clever actresses," retorted Trenholm. "Well, Miss Ward, who
may or who may not have known Paul before, is the last person known to
have been with him on the night he was murdered--the last person to
have seen him alive!"
"Hold on," the interruption came from Alan. He was not looking at
Betty, but kept his eyes steadfastly lowered, the cigar still in his
hand. "Miss Ward claims that Paul had visitors--"
"And Miss Ward's statements as to their presence have not been
substantiated"--Trenholm paused and Betty could not avoid his
stare--"as yet."
In the lengthening silence Betty's rapid breathing was faintly audible.
She finished her coffee and her hand was quite steady as she set the
cup and saucer down on a stool by her side.
"And your theory is--what?" she asked, raising her eyes to Trenholm's.
"That Miss Ward killed Paul while he slept," replied the sheriff.
Alan drew out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "It's a rotten
theory!" he exploded. "Why, Trenholm, I thought you liked Miss Ward?"
Betty shot a swift glance at Trenholm and her figure grew rigid.
"It is not a matter of like or dislike," replied Trenholm quietly.
"It's a question of finding Paul's murderer. You asked me for a
theory--and mine is a reasonable hypothesis."
"Just a moment," broke in Roberts. "Paul was no slight weight. I doubt
if Miss Ward could have lifted him in and out of bed unassisted,
especially putting him back in bed--a dead body is an unwieldy object."
"She could have killed him in bed," replied Trenholm.
"But the other night you pointed out to Miss Ward and me that the lack
of bloodstains on the sheets proved the crime was not committed in the
bed," objected Alan heatedly.
Trenholm eyed him thoughtfully. "You forget Miss Ward is a nurse," he
pointed out slowly. "It would be a simple matter for her to change the
bed linen with the dead man lying in it."
Betty leaned forward in her earnestness. "And what became of the
bloodstained sheets?" she asked.
Trenholm uncrossed his long legs and leaned closer to her chair. "Ask
Corbin," he suggested.
Betty's grasp of her walking stick tightened, and she grew conscious of
the atmosphere of the overheated room. Turning from Trenholm's direct
gaze she saw Alan fumbling with his collar, his face a pasty white, and
she seized her opportunity to divert attention from herself.
"Are you ill, Alan?" she asked, her eyes big with concern. "Doctor,
can't we have some fresh air in the room?"
Roberts threw up the window nearest to him, then went to Alan's aid.
Alan took the flask Trenholm proffered and drank eagerly, putting it
down almost empty.
"I'm better," he announced. "The room's infernally hot. Say, Guy,"
turning impulsively to him, "your theory's no good. What possible
motive could Miss Ward have had to kill Paul?"
"Frankly, I don't know"--there was something disarming about Trenholm's
smile and Alan's anger cooled. "Miss Carter asked for a theory and I
gave her one."
Betty shrugged her shoulders. "Which won't hold water." Her voice
altered and her companions gathered a hint of pent-up passion as she
added, in tones which she strove to steady, "Paul's murder was no
motiveless crime."
"Quite so," agreed Trenholm. "And that motive was what, Miss Carter?"
He waited in vain for an answer, and finally broke the pause. "Paul
apparently had no enemies, and yet he was killed," he said. "Come,
Roberts, you've known and loved the boy for years; you, Alan, were his
first cousin and chum; Miss Carter, his," he paused, and she looked at
him dumbly, "his one love. Among you, can you not tell the motive which
inspired Paul's murder--was it hate, was it revenge, was it greed?"
His deep voice lingered on the last word, then ceased. Roberts had
touched him on the arm. At a sign from the physician Trenholm, without
moving, turned his head and glanced at the open window. The light from
one of the lamps shone directly on the outer blind. It had been turned
a crack and in it peered a human eye.
With a spring which carried him halfway across the room, Trenholm
gained the hall and threw open the front door, his police dogs at
his heels. They swept by him and raced around the house and down the
driveway, the sheriff and Roberts behind them. As the dogs gave tongue,
a strong, powerful voice called Trenholm's name.
"Call off your dogs, Trenholm!" And turning his flashlight on the
newcomer, the sheriff recognized Alexander Nash, the Rolls-Royce
standing down the roadside.
In the library Betty turned aside from her feverish scanning of
Trenholm's papers on the table, to find Alan standing, with his back
partly turned, drinking the remaining whisky out of the flask. Betty
was by his side in an instant.
"Stop, Alan; you mustn't!" she pleaded, real terror in her handsome
eyes. "You promised me--"
Alexander Nash's heavy tread, as he and Roberts entered the room,
caused her to swing swiftly in their direction.
"Your aunt was alarmed by your absence, Betty," explained Nash, and his
voice sounded loudly in the sudden stillness. "She learned of your trip
to the cemetery and sent me to bring you home."