WHICH?
TRENHOLM'S noiseless pacing back and forth before Betty Carter's
bedroom door gave no evidence of the impatience consuming him. Miriam
Ward had promised to join him the instant she was able to leave Betty.
He had carried the unconscious girl to her room and then gone in search
of Doctor Roberts, only to be told by Anna, who in her capacity of
temporary maid was setting the dinner table, that Roberts and Alan
Mason had gone for a motor ride in the former's car earlier in the
afternoon.
Trenholm's restless walk drew him further and further from Betty's
room and when he finally paused he found he was standing in front of
the closed door where Paul Abbott's body had lain until the funeral. A
hasty search in his pockets produced the key of the room and a second
later he was inside it.
Trenholm took the pains to relock the door from the inside and to hang
his handkerchief securely over the door knob, thereby obstructing
Corbin's view of the interior of the room. The caretaker had watched
the sheriff from a respectful distance and, on seeing him enter and
close the door, he had stolen down the hall and, first poking out the
key in the lock with a slender steel instrument, he applied his eye
to the keyhole, and saw nothing. With a grunt indicative of acute
disappointment, Corbin slipped up to his living quarters in pursuit of
his helpmate, Martha.
When Trenholm reappeared in the hall his face was set and stern. He
paused, after locking the door again and pocketing the key, to wipe
tiny drops of moisture from his forehead. Were his theories entirely
wrong? No, he would stake his reputation that he was right, in spite of
his last discovery.
"Mr. Trenholm!" Miriam touched him on the arm and aroused him from his
abstraction, an abstraction so profound that he had never heard her
approach. "Miss Carter has revived and is resting quietly. I think it
is safe to leave her."
"Good!" Trenholm's relief was unmistakable and sincere. "Where are you
going?"
"Downstairs to see if Doctor Roberts has returned," she said, as he
walked with her. She looked up at him impulsively. "Miss Carter is
suffering horribly--"
"I thought you said that she was improving," halting abruptly on the
landing of the staircase.
"I mean mental agony. Mr. Trenholm, can't you help her?"
"And _you_ ask that?" The light in his eyes caused her to catch her
breath sharply, then her heart raced on. "Come, you have never told
me whom you think guilty of Paul's murder?" He led the way into the
sunparlor, where Anna had lighted two of the lamps before returning to
the kitchen. Trenholm adjusted the Holland shades and curtains before
the windows to his satisfaction, then sat down near Miriam.
She stared at him thoughtfully before speaking. "I learned only a few
hours ago of the bloodstained sheet," she said, "and that Corbin was so
treacherous as to let you infer--"
He interrupted her hastily. "My inferences or deductions cleared you
of any complicity in the crime," his clear, strong voice and charming
smile dispelled her agonizing suspense. "I never doubted you, Miss
Ward, _never_. Although the exigencies of the case may have led me to
imply otherwise, I never lost faith in your integrity--your honor--your
splendid courage--"
"Ahem!"
Trenholm and Miriam, who had sat enthralled drinking in his words and
the message which his eyes spoke more eloquently than human lips, both
looked up to find Alexander Nash standing in the doorway contemplating
them.
"I drove over to see you, Trenholm, but that rascally servant of yours
refused to tell me where you were to be found," explained Nash. "I then
drove to Upper Marlboro and the constable finally 'allowed' you might
be here. Such crass stupidity has cost me valuable time!" And Nash, the
usually polished, suave clergyman as known in Washington and Toronto
church circles, flung himself into a chair near Miriam, his face like a
thundercloud.
"Why the excitement?" asked Trenholm, regarding him keenly.
"I have a confession to make." Nash took out his large silk
handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. "No, don't go, Miss Ward--this
interview holds as much interest for you as it does for the sheriff.
It was in his presence that I told you that I failed to recall certain
incidents of Monday night--"
"Whereby you lied," pointed out Miriam coolly, and noted with relish
Nash's apoplectic complexion.
"You use a harsh term, Miss Ward," he objected. "My statement was,
strictly speaking, an evasion--I did not deny that the incidents took
place--simply that I did not recall them."
"Oh, come to the point!" Trenholm's tone was not complimentary, and
Nash squirmed in his chair.
"Miss Carter and I were here on Monday night," he began. "And I did
perform the marriage service--uniting Paul and Betty in holy wedlock."
Nash's statement did not create the excitement he had anticipated and
he looked from one to the other of his companions in intense surprise.
"Did you talk with Paul?" asked Trenholm quickly.
"No--not directly. Betty told him of my presence. I stood a little
distance from the bed"--he cleared his throat. "Illness is upsetting
to me. I--eh--have a peculiar dread of--eh--disease. Paul made the
necessary responses--after he was--eh--duly prompted."
"I see!" Trenholm was watching the agitated clergyman with
disconcerting attention. "And what was your motive in denying your
visit to Paul on Monday night?"
"Betty met me on my way here Tuesday afternoon and asked me not to tell
of it"--Nash started up heatedly. "Why are you glaring at me in that
offensive manner, Mr. Trenholm?"
"Is your first name Adam?" asked the sheriff dryly.
"No, Alexander," with indignant emphasis. "I see no occasion for
levity, Mr. Trenholm. My wife is devoted to her niece and so am I. I
agreed to carry out Betty's wishes, blindly it may be, and perhaps
foolishly, but my motive was to protect her good name."
"Explain your meaning." Trenholm was thoroughly awake at last, and the
clergyman could not complain of not creating a sensation.
"Betty received a special letter from Paul just before our departure
from Toronto, telling of his illness and begging her to hurry to him,"
went on Nash. "He feared that he might not recover and desired her
to marry him. Betty was frightfully upset, and on our approach to
Baltimore asked that we leave the train there and catch the last train
out for Upper Marlboro. We did so, and on reaching there I secured a
Buick touring car from the local livery--" Trenholm nodded his head.
"I know that," he said. "Get on with your story."
Nash favored him with a frown. "I drove Betty out here. We left the
house, as Miss Ward knows, before Paul's murder." He paused to clear
his throat again. "I helped Betty into the back seat, as the curtains
were up and she was more protected there, and, as the starter did not
work, spent some few minutes cranking the car. Without addressing Betty
again I headed the car for Washington and it was not until we were
nearly at Anacostia that I discovered I was alone in the car."
"What became of Miss Carter?" demanded Trenholm, as Nash came to a
dramatic pause.
"I presume she left the car when I was stooping over cranking it,"
explained Nash. "She had arranged the heavy laprobes so that they gave
the appearance of some one seated there." Nash waited for comment from
his companions, but none forthcoming, he added, a trifle pettishly,
"Betty's disappearance was a great shock, but I continued on my way to
Washington, wondering what I should do. Then came the news of Paul's
murder and I was positively staggered. And to be greeted before I
reached Abbott's Lodge with Betty's piteous plea that I say nothing of
our visit here on Monday night--why, it threw me entirely off my feet.
For the sake of Betty--for the fair name of my wife's family--to save
them from scandal--I kept silent."
"And what has caused you to break that silence?" questioned Trenholm.
"Only to you," in alarm, "and to Miss Ward. I must ask you to pledge
your word not to speak of it outside."
"And why have you told us?"
"Because you are investigating Paul's murder and I feel that you should
know all the facts of the case." Nash sighed. "I learned only this
morning from a reliable source that Betty spent Monday night wandering
about Abbott's Lodge and in the garage. She walked to Upper Marlboro in
time to catch the milk train for Washington."
"Who told you this, Doctor Nash?" asked Trenholm sternly. "I insist
upon an answer."
"Well, perhaps you should know--" somewhat doubtfully. "Corbin."
Trenholm sat back and contemplated the clergyman. "Corbin," he
repeated. "Thank you, Doctor Nash," as the latter rose. "How is your
wife?"
"Not so well." Nash's face clouded over. "I am going to stop and see
her now," he said, and with a polite bow to Miriam, he left them.
Trenholm waited until he was sure Nash had had time to reach the second
floor before addressing Miriam.
"You don't admire our reverend friend?" he asked, noting with secret
amusement her wrathful expression.
"I think he is horrid!" she ejaculated. "So--so slimy. And Mrs. Nash
is so straightforward and absolutely sincere." Hastily she changed the
subject. "How did that last code message read?"
Trenholm looked carefully around before answering her, to be sure they
were alone, then approaching close to her side, whispered it in her ear.
"'Watch thirteenth letter. Suicides grave.'"
"It sounds like gibberish," she murmured. "Do you still think it refers
to the thirteenth letter of the alphabet?"
"I do," firmly. "And quite appropriately so," he went on slowly, "when
it commences such words as morphine, murder, madness--"
"And Mason," she completed, quietly. "But, Mr. Trenholm, it's a poor
rule that doesn't work both ways--"
"What do you mean?" as she paused.
"Counting the alphabet from A to M is thirteen," she said. "But
counting from M to A the thirteenth letter is _A_." She looked at him
queerly. "_Alexander_ Nash."
"Why not Alan Mason--counting _both_ ways his initials make the number
thirteen?" Trenholm stuffed his hands into his pockets and gazed at her
tall, shapely figure, her clear, olive skin, and her great beautiful
eyes, and was conscious of an accelerated pulse. He came a step closer.
"I have learned that Alan was on the troopship from Vladivostok with
his cousin Paul."
She started and stared at him aghast. "I can't believe Mr. Mason had
a hand in the murder," she declared vehemently. "Call it instinct--or
what you will--I believe absolutely that Mr. Abbott's murder was
planned and carried out by Boris Zybinn, and I cannot forget that
Alexander Nash was Zybinn's neighbor in Toronto. Tell me," she came
closer to his side, "has Doctor Nash a parish in Washington?"
"No--nor in Toronto." Trenholm stroked his chin reflectively. "I
understand that he was a man of considerable means before he married
Representative Carter's daughter--and that in spite of the difference
in their ages, it was a love match, pure and simple. I think Paul told
me that Doctor Nash had retired from the ministry."
"O-o-h!" Miriam's exclamation was long-drawn out and Trenholm stared.
She gave him no opportunity to question her further. "To go back to
the coded message," she began, "have you thought the words 'suicides
grave' have any connection with the Mason plot out yonder and the poor
suicide--that makes the thirteenth grave--as you pointed out the other
day, in that neglected family cemetery?"
Trenholm looked at her keenly. "Time will show," he replied, and
wondered at her disappointment. "Why do you ask?"
"I walked by the graveyard just now," she said hurriedly, "and was
amazed to see--"
"Excuse me, Miss--Ma'am"--Martha's complaining voice caused Miriam to
jump--startled by the woman's proximity. "Dinner will be ready in a
minute. I've just telled the folks upstairs, and thought mebbe you'd
like to know. There's a couple o' boys outside inquirin' for ye,
Sheriff," and, her message delivered, Martha took herself off.
Trenholm caught up with her before she reached the kitchen, and drew
her to one side.
"Martha!" His low stern voice sent a shiver down the woman's back, and
the pressure of his hand on her arm tightened. "When did this letter
reach Mr. Paul?" and he held before her the thirteenth letter. "No
lies, now. I want the truth."
"Yes, sir," Martha's quavering tones did not belie her feelings.
"Please, sir, that there letter with them queer stamps come the morning
Mr. Paul was killed, sir."
"No go, Martha," Trenholm shook her slightly. "The postmark shows this
letter should have reached Upper Marlboro last week."
"I ain't sayin' it didn't," she whined. "But by mistake it was put in
Anna's father's box by the carrier; an' havin' sickness in the family,
Anna only brought it up on Monday mornin'. I took it from her, sir, and
went right up to the room where Mr. Paul was talkin' to Mr. Alan--an'
laid it on the table."
"Mr. Alan!" Trenholm strove to keep his voice lowered. "Was he here
then?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. Paul sent for him," she looked up craftily. "He stayed
'round most of the day until 'bout time the doctor was to come, and
then he cleared out." She raised herself on tiptoe and whispered as he
bent down to hear her better. "Corbin wa'n't here then. He'd kill me
if he knew I was keepin' anythin' from him. But Mr. Alan," her voice
held unexpected, unmistakable pathos, "years back, he beat Corbin for
mishandlin' me, and I ain't never forgot how good he was."
"Hush!" Trenholm took out his handkerchief and handed it to her.
"Dry your eyes, Martha; and say nothing about Mr. Alan or this
letter"--returning it to his pocket. "Remember I trust you."
Martha drew a long, long breath. Trenholm was treating her like a human
being. Gratitude, mingled with a return of self-respect, caused her to
raise his hand to her lips, then, in frantic bashfulness, she slipped
back into the dining room, upsetting Anna in her hurried entrance.
Trenholm paused in deep thought, then, going through the side door,
joined the three deputies who were anxiously awaiting him. His concise
directions were listened to with the respect which Trenholm inspired
among those who worked with and for him.
"You understand," he said finally, and the men nodded as they stood
grouped about him. "Riley, go to the telegraph office and await the
answers to the messages I have sent and bring them to me. Do not
permit them to telephone any message to me; there is too much danger
of 'listening in.' Now, be off," and Trenholm again entered Abbott's
Lodge, but by the front door.
Trenholm's entrance went unnoticed by Doctor Roberts and Alan Mason,
who were chatting with Miriam, while Alexander Nash stood moodily
contemplating the blazing logs on the hearth at the further end of the
living room, deaf alike to his companions and Anna's announcement that
dinner was served.
With old-fashioned courtesy, Roberts offered his arm to Miriam, then
paused abruptly as footsteps on the staircase caused him to glance
upward.
"God bless my soul!" he ejaculated in complete surprise.
Coming down the staircase, with the assistance of a flurried Somers,
was Mrs. Nash. She had donned a pretty negligée, and the excitement
and her exertions combined had brought the color to her face. Miriam
hastened to Somers' assistance and Roberts was immediately behind her.
"This is most imprudent, Mrs. Nash!" he exclaimed sternly. "In your
condition--"
"Poof!" Mrs. Nash snapped her fingers. "I am getting on famously. Don't
be pessimistic, Doctor; instead, you should congratulate me upon my
recovery. Thank you, my dear," as Miriam helped her toward the dining
room. "Come here, Alexander, and give me your arm."
At sound of her voice, the clergyman wheeled around and stepped
backward with such suddenness that he walked on the fire tongs and
fender.
"Dora--here! Have you taken leave of your senses?" he demanded.
"I seem the only one to have retained my senses," she retorted tartly.
"Miss Ward, you were always assuring me I was not very ill, but judging
from Doctor Roberts' conduct and my husband's, they must have thought
me at the point of death."
Nash collected his scattered wits and came forward. "I suppose you
will have your way, though the skies fall," he said resignedly. "But I
should have thought, my dear, that poor Zybinn's sudden death through
imprudent neglect of his health would have warned you to be careful."
What rejoinder Mrs. Nash made was lost by Trenholm, who had stood out
of sight behind the grandfather clock watching the scene. He waited
until, judging from the sounds that came from the other room, they were
seated around the dinner table, and then, taking care to make no noise,
he ran lightly up the staircase and darted into Mrs. Nash's bedroom.
Before going to her supper, Somers had aired the room and remade the
bed, and Trenholm's electric torch showed everything in order. First
convincing himself that he was the only person in the bedroom, he went
over to the wall and taking from his pocket the pen and ink drawing
which he had carried away almost under Mrs. Nash's nose, he hung it
back in its place.
Trenholm laid down his torch on a convenient chair and drew out the
thirteenth letter. He had inserted a little paste under the flap before
leaving his bungalow, and to all intents and purposes the envelope
looked as if it never had been opened. Holding it in his hand, he
scanned the bedroom eagerly and spied a dustpan and brush which Somers
had carelessly forgotten and left standing by the bureau. Trenholm
slipped over to it and laid the envelope on the small pile of trash in
the pan. When he had arranged it to his liking, the envelope looked as
if it had been brushed up with the rest of the trash, but the Canadian
stamps were plainly in view.
Trenholm stood up and, taking his torch with him, tiptoed to the hall
door which he had left open as he had found it. A glance outside showed
that the hall was empty. Looking about the bedroom, Trenholm noticed a
screen which Somers had brought into the bedroom and stood between Mrs.
Nash and an open window. It would make an excellent hiding place. Like
a flash he was behind it. From where he crouched, he had an excellent
view of the open door and the entire bedroom. Trenholm drew a long
breath--the stage was set, and he had staked all on the fall of the
dice!
Half an hour passed and he was commencing to worry when a light
footfall came down the hall and he heard Betty Carter exclaim at sight
of the darkened room.
"Somers!" she called, very softly. Getting no reply, she peered
into the room and then very cautiously came inside it. A startled
exclamation, quickly suppressed, escaped her at sight of the empty bed,
and she drew back and glanced hastily over her shoulder. Gathering
courage from the continued stillness, she went over to the bureau and
fumbled in one of the drawers. Something fell from her hand--from
Trenholm's position he could not see what, and he dared not move--and
she struck a match. Shielding it in her hand, she stooped over. She
remained so long in that position that Trenholm grew alarmed; then,
with a swiftness and stealth which left him breathless, she was gone.
Had Betty taken the thirteenth letter? Trenholm was on edge, but,
before he dared venture out, another figure stood in the doorway,
and by the light from the hall lamp, he recognized Miriam. Without
hesitation she went at once to the bureau and opening the second drawer
took out one of Mrs. Nash's scarfs. Would she see the envelope and,
thinking it had accidentally fallen in the dustpan, pick it up? Or was
it not there for her to pick up? Trenholm heaved a sigh of thankfulness
when Miriam turned and went into the hall.
A stealthy step inside the bedroom a few seconds later caused Trenholm
again to draw back into the shelter of the screen in time to miss being
seen by Corbin. The caretaker had advanced only a few paces when a hand
was laid on his shoulder and he was jerked back.
"_Sacré Dieu!_ What do you in my mistress' bedroom, _cochon_?" hissed
Pierre in his ear. What answer the terrified man would have made was
checked by Alexander Nash's voice in the hall.
"Pierre, bring the car around!" Nash failed to see the two men,
chauffeur and caretaker, steal out of his wife's doorway, for he turned
at the moment to address Alan Mason--only to find that the young man
had disappeared. Nash hesitated for a fraction of a second, then
tiptoed down the hall.
Trenholm's sensitive ears caught the creak of a floor board, and the
faint "seep--seep" of something being dragged across the floor. A
flood of light from an electric torch half blinded him, accustomed
to the almost total darkness of the room, and he rubbed his eyes to
clear his vision, just as the light was focused full upon the dustpan.
The thirteenth letter stood out in bold relief. The light was dimmed
instantly and again Trenholm caught the sound of something creeping
across the floor.
The light flared up again with unexpected swiftness and Trenholm saw
a shapeless figure, its head and shoulders enveloped in some black
garment, squatting over the dustpan. The torch lay at rest by it, and
Trenholm had a glimpse of long, slender fingers holding the letter as
he crept from behind the screen and as noiseless as the shadows about
him, reached the kneeling figure. The stamped envelope was held in one
hand and in the other was a perforation gauge--
With lightning swiftness Trenholm snapped the handcuffs on the two
upraised wrists. With a sweep of his arm, he drew back the black,
shroudlike garment, as he cried:
"In the name of the law I arrest you for the murder of Paul
Abbott"--Trenholm's voice died away at sight of the distorted, ghastly
face confronting him, then rose in horror--"Doctor Roberts."