BLIND CLEWS
“AND what is your opinion, Tillinghast?” asked the Secretary. They were
sitting alone the next morning in his private office. He had listened
attentively to Dick’s detailed account of his interview with the
Attorney General.
“I believe Mr. Trevor’s statement,” he answered, looking squarely at
Secretary Bowers.
“And so do I,” heartily agreed the other. “Trevor had to buy Madame de
Berriot’s silence. If the scandal had gotten out it would have meant
social ostracism, not only for the guilty woman, but for Beatrice
Trevor and her father as well. It is another case of the innocent
suffering with the guilty. Now, Tillinghast, do you know any facts
about Mr. Gordon’s connection with this affair which have not been
made public?” Seeing Dick’s hesitancy, he added, “Murders are usually
outside my province, I know, but this one touches the President
closely; first one of his aides is suspected, then his Attorney General
is dragged into the affair. If innocent, they must be cleared as
quickly as possible. Come, sir, I must have an answer.”
“You are right, Mr. Secretary,” replied Dick. “I only hesitated fearing
I might get Gordon into further trouble.” Then, in a few words, he
repeated what General Long had told him.
“Whew!” whistled the Secretary. “That certainly complicates matters. Do
you think Trevor knew of Gordon’s former infatuation for his wife?”
“Indeed, sir, I was afraid to speak of Gordon,” confessed Dick. “I
didn’t know what effect it might have. Mr. Trevor looked so desperately
ill and worn.”
The Secretary nodded comprehendingly. “I am going to send for him to
lunch with me to-day to tell him that he must on no account resign
just now, and I will try and find out how much he does know of Mrs.
Trevor’s old love-affair.” He paused a moment, then resumed: “There are
two things which I think have a bearing on this case.”
“What are they, Mr. Secretary?” asked Dick, eagerly.
“First--find out who removed the Attorney General’s memorandum book.
Secondly--while everyone has tried to prove who entered the Trevor
house, no one has sought to find out when a certain member of the
household left there.”
“Whom do you mean?”
“Why, what time did the private secretary leave the house, and where
did he spend the evening?”
“By Jove! I never thought of him.”
“Look up those two things. I feel sure they will repay you.” Then, as
Dick picked up his hat and cane, “Tillinghast, you have acted with
great discretion in this affair, and I feel convinced you will carry
your investigations to a successful issue. If I can be of service to
you at any time, come and see me.”
Thanking the Secretary warmly for his encouraging words, Dick hastened
out of the room. At the _Star_ Office, he found a note awaiting him
from Peggy. She asked him to come and see her that afternoon and
“report progress.”
“‘Report progress,’” groaned poor Dick. “I’m damned if I can. Your
Uncle Dudley’s up a tree for sure, Peggy darling, but he’ll do some
tall climbing before he gives up, you bet.”
“Say, son, the City Editor wants you P. D. Q.,” called Dan Conner.
“Stop mooning and hump yourself.”
Taking the hint, Dick fled upstairs to the city room on the double
quick.
“Morning, Dick,” said Colonel Byrd. “Gibson has just sent word that he
is sick, so you will have to take his place at the Capitol. Get down
there early, as there are some important committee meetings to cover.
By the way, any further news about the Trevor murder?”
“Not now, sir. There may be some new developments shortly, though. Can
I get off if I hear of anything turning up in that quarter?”
“Sure; drop everything and run. Get your stuff in as quick as you can.”
And the busy editor turned back to his desk.
* * * * *
The clock was just striking half past five when Dick, after an eventful
day at the Capitol, reached Mrs. Macallister’s hospitable mansion on
F Street. The old house with its Colonial architecture looked like a
relic of antebellum days, for standing as it did well back from the
sidewalk, with two fine old elms on either side of the brick walk,
it had an individuality of its own. A central hall ran through it,
the drawing-room and dining-room being to the left of the front door,
while the large library and billiard room were on the other side. The
ceilings were very high, which made the house most comfortable in hot
weather. That fact, combined with her beautiful rose garden, induced
Mrs. Macallister to stay in the city until July.
True to the traditions of old Washington, Mrs. Macallister kept her
“Fridays at Home” from November until June. The fashion of having
only four days in a month did not suit her hospitable mind, and those
who put first and third Tuesdays, or Wednesdays, as the case might
be, on their visiting cards, drove her nearly frantic. “I was always
a poor mathematician,” she informed one of her friends. “I know two
and two make four, but this dot and carry one business is beyond me.”
Therefore, she usually flung the offending pasteboards into the scrap
basket and went serenely on her way, returning calls when it suited her
pleasure and convenience.
Another innovation to which she seriously objected was having tea
served in her drawing-room. Five o’clock tea at home in the bosom of
her family was one thing; but having a small tea table, littered with
cups and saucers and plates, stuck in one corner with an unhappy matron
presiding over it was quite a different matter. Therefore, every Friday
the dining-room table was regularly set and covered with tempting
dishes of all descriptions; and Peggy poured tea at one end, and
one of her numerous friends was always asked to take care of the hot
chocolate at the other.
The callers had thinned out by the time Dick arrived, only about a
dozen people, mostly men, were sitting comfortably around the table.
His heart sank when he saw de Morny in close attendance upon Peggy. To
his jealous eyes they appeared to be on very confidential terms indeed,
which completed his misery. Mrs. Macallister beckoned to him to sit by
her, so, casting a lingering glance at Peggy, he obediently carried his
cup and saucer to her side of the table.
“Any further developments in the Trevor murder, Dick?” Mrs. Macallister
asked him, after a few minutes’ chat about other matters.
Her words were overheard by a tall, showily dressed woman sitting
across the table from them, and she leaned over and joined in the
conversation.
“Yes, do tell us, Mr. Tillinghast,” she begged, with an ingratiating
smile. Matilda Gleason was one of four sisters who lived in a
handsome palace on Columbia Road. It was rumored to have cost in the
neighborhood of two hundred thousand dollars; as to the architecture,
the Gleasons _said_ it was Early English, but having employed three
architects before the house was completed, the effect was more or less
startling. It had been nicknamed “Gilded Misery.”
Where the Gleasons had come from was a mooted question, but they had
taken a good many staid Washingtonians into camp by the splendor of
their entertainments. Mrs. Macallister had never called upon them, but
in an unwary moment the chairman of the Board of Lady Managers of the
Children’s Hospital had put Miss Gleason on the same committee with
Mrs. Macallister, and the former had seized the opportunity to call
that afternoon on the pretext of discussing business pertaining to the
Hospital.
“Why, no news at all,” answered Dick, cautiously. He knew Miss
Gleason’s love of scandal, and that the sisters had been nicknamed
“Envy, Hatred, Malice, and All Uncharitableness” by one long-suffering
matron, who had been their victim on several occasions.
“When does the case go to the Grand Jury, Dick,” called Peggy, from her
end of the table.
“In about ten days, I think.”
“I hope Mr. Gordon’s sentence will be all that the law allows,” said
Miss Gleason. It was apparent to everyone where the shoe pinched. All
Washington, which in some ways is like an overgrown village, knew of
her relentless and unsuccessful pursuit of Gordon during the month
that he had been stationed at the White House, and several of the men
present, who had suffered from the same cause, smiled to themselves.
“It is not at all certain he committed the crime,” said Mrs.
Macallister, freezingly.
“He virtually admitted it,” retorted Miss Gleason.
“We look on a man as innocent until proven guilty, you know, Miss
Gleason,” answered Dick, quietly.
“Well, if he isn’t guilty, who is?” asked Miss Gleason.
“The burglar,” promptly chimed in Peggy.
“Nonsense, my dear; why should such a person use a hat-pin when he had
his revolver, and where would he get such a thing?”
For a moment Peggy was at a loss for a reply. She had the same doubt
herself, but she was determined not to give in to Miss Gleason, “horrid
old cat.” Count de Morny, all unconsciously, came to her rescue. The
other guests were silently listening to the discussion.
“I sink Madame Trevor haf stick herself wiz ze pin,” he volunteered,
struggling with the _langue terrible_, which he had never been able to
master. “But yes, Monsieur,” catching Dick’s incredulous stare, “did
not ze doctaire say it was possible for one who was left handed to
strike herself the blow?”
“How do you know Mrs. Trevor was left handed?” demanded Miss Gleason
loudly.
“I haf played ze cards wiz her most often,” answered de Morny, simply.
“But why should Mrs. Trevor commit suicide?” asked Dick, unbelievingly.
De Morny shrugged his shoulders, and answered his question with
another: “Why should Monsieur Gordon kill her?”
“That’s right,” declared Captain McLane, of the U.S. Marine Corps.
“Why should he? I served three years on board the same cruiser with
Donald Gordon, and there isn’t a more honorable, lovable fellow in the
Service. It is absolutely unbelievable that he could perpetrate so
ghastly a crime.”
As Dick looked across at Peggy he caught Count de Smirnoff’s eye. The
Russian was sitting between his hostess and Miss Gleason. For the first
time he joined in the conversation.
“Your theory is weak, Henri,” he said, mildly. “Why should a young and
beautiful woman, who enjoys health, wealth, and a happy home, kill
herself?”
“You nevaire can tell about ze ladies,” retorted de Morny, obstinately.
“Zey are--what you say--‘a law unto themselves, and easily wrought-over
and deviled up. Zey make trifles into mountains.”
“Granting that Mrs. Trevor might have had a motive for suicide,” said
Dick, smiling at the excited Frenchman, “it was utterly impossible for
a dead woman to lock herself in the safe.”
“Could she not have killed herself in the safe after shutting the
door?” inquired de Smirnoff.
Dick shook his head. “Possibly you do not recollect that witnesses
testified at the inquest that her left arm was pressed tightly against
the door-jamb, supporting her weight.”
“She might have fallen forward into that position.”
“I hardly think it likely. Mr. Clark, who was the first inmate of the
household to find Mrs. Trevor, testified that her body was literally
wedged into the safe.”
“You have but his word for it.”
A peculiar tone in the speaker’s voice caused Dick to glance sharply
at him, but he learned nothing from the Russian’s face. It was
expressionless. Before Dick could pursue his questions, Miss Gleason
threw herself into the conversation.
“How is that dear Mr. Clark bearing up under this terrible tragedy?”
she asked, addressing Peggy directly.
“He looked very well the last time I saw him,” said the latter, a
twinkle of mischief in her deep blue eyes.
“I am so glad to hear it. You know, dear Mrs. Macallister, he is
such a delightful man to have around. He always looks after one so
attentively. I never want for anything when he is in the room; and then
he is so handsome, so cultivated! It is a dreadful blow having him in
mourning.”
“I wasn’t aware he is in mourning,” said Peggy, surprised. “Has he lost
a relative?”
“Oh, no. But of course he will accept no invitations now, on account of
his engagement to Beatrice Trevor.”
“What!” Peggy nearly overturned the urn in her excitement. “Miss
Gleason, you are entirely mistaken. Beatrice never was engaged to Mr.
Clark.”
“Indeed? Mrs. Trevor led me to suppose otherwise. From what she said
I gathered the engagement was to be announced shortly. It is not
surprising I thought it a love match,” she continued, catching a
glimpse of Peggy’s indignant expression. “He is desperately attentive
to her, and I see them together all the time.”
“Speaking of seeing people,” broke in Captain McLane, “have you seen
Bertie Lee since he and his wife returned from their honeymoon? He came
into the club the other night looking absolutely woe-begone.”
“He did, indeed,” laughed Dick. “I couldn’t help thinking of the lines:
‘“When I think on what I are
And what I uster was
I feel I threw myself away
Without sufficient cos!”’”
“They suit him to a ‘T,’” agreed McLane, helping himself to a glass of
cherry bounce.
“You know the Courtland Browns, do you not, Mrs. Macallister,” asked
Miss Gleason, pulling on her gloves preparatory to departing. “I hear
they are going to air their marital troubles in court, but it’s a
long story, and I must go. Good-by, dear Mrs. Macallister, such a
delightful afternoon. Good-by, everybody, don’t get up?” She waved her
hand to them all and tripped out of the room.
“‘The wicked flee when no man pursueth,’” quoted Mrs. Macallister, a
naughty twinkle in her eye.
“Have you heard of the dinner the Gleasons gave at which they separated
the goats from the sheep?” asked Captain McLane. “They served Veuve
Cliquot at one table, and American champagne at the other.”
“Oh, why do we put up with such ill-bred behavior?” cried Peggy,
impulsively.
“My dear, you are wrong,” said Mrs. Macallister. “The Gleasons belong
to a large class who show ‘the unconscious insolence of conscious
wealth,’ as one of our statesmen aptly puts it.”
“Miss Gleason is very highly colored for a woman of her years,” said de
Smirnoff, gravely.
“Highly colored!” exclaimed Mrs. Macallister. “It’s a wonder she
doesn’t die of painter’s colic. Must you go?” as her guests rose from
the table, and she walked with them into the drawing-room.
It was some few minutes before the other callers started on their
way, and Dick listened with what patience he could muster to their
interminable good-bys. But Peggy soon joined him in the drawing-room.
“Now, sir, give an account of yourself,” she said, with mock severity.
“You haven’t been near me since the ball--” a sudden recollection
caused her to blush hotly, and Dick thought what a lovely, dainty bit
of femininity she was. Her shimmering crêpe de chine Princess dress of
sapphire blue showed up her blonde beauty in a way to tantalize any
man, let alone poor Dick, who was already hopelessly in the toils.
Dick promptly lost his head. “Peggy,” he stammered. “Dearest--be--”
“What are you two talking about?” asked Mrs. Macallister, coming
suddenly back into the room.
“Er--nothing,” gasped Dick, who had a wholesome dread of incurring her
displeasure. Having a very modest opinion of himself, he feared she
would bitterly oppose his suit. “I was just going to ask Peggy about
Alfred Clark and Beatrice Trevor. Was there ever anything between them,
Peggy?”
“Well, really, Dick!--”
“I know, Peggy, I know you won’t break a confidence; but indeed it is
important that I know.”
Peggy debated for a moment while Mrs Macallister looked thoughtfully at
them. What were those two young people up to? It behooved her to find
out.
“Then, I think I’d better tell you, Dick; particularly as I’m not
breaking any confidence. Alfred Clark _is_ devoted to Beatrice, and I
overheard him making desperate love to her at their house on Tuesday
night, or rather Wednesday morning. I was searching for Beatrice to
say good-by and walked in upon them in the private office. You know
it was a very large party, and the entire first floor was thrown open
to accommodate the guests. Beatrice seemed glad of the interruption,
but Mr. Clark looked as black as a thunder cloud. I rather enjoyed
his discomfiture,” and Peggy laughed at the recollection. “One gets so
tired of his perpetual smile.”
“Do you think Miss Trevor returns his affection?”
Peggy looked troubled. “Beatrice is very reserved,” she said. “She
seldom speaks of men’s attentions to her, even to me, her best friend.
If you had asked me that question a month ago I would have said
positively, ‘No’--but lately, Beatrice, without actually encouraging
Mr. Clark, has allowed him to be with her more than formally.”
“Then you think--?”
“I don’t know what I think,” pettishly.
“Was this supper given the night before the murder?”
“Yes. Madame Bernhardt was the guest of honor.”
“Was Gordon there by chance?”
“Oh, yes. He took me out to supper and was just as jolly and nice as he
could be.”
“I am sorry to interrupt you young people,” called Mrs. Macallister
from the doorway. She had strolled out into the hall to speak to her
maid. “But I must remind Peggy that she has to dress for a dinner at
the Pattersons’.”
“Gracious!” exclaimed Dick, in dismay, glancing at his watch. “I had no
idea it was so late. Do forgive me, Mrs. Macallister, for staying so
long.”
“I will, provided you promise to come and dine with us on Wednesday
next, at eight o’clock.”
Peggy’s eyes seconded the invitation, and Dick accepted so joyfully
that Mrs. Macallister’s eyes danced wickedly. “Count de Smirnoff is
very agreeable,” she said, as Peggy left the room, “and I am indebted
to Count de Morny for bringing him to see me. They had been to the
drill at Fort Myer, and the Russian gave a most entertaining account
of it. It is a relief to talk to him after struggling with Count de
Morny’s broken English.”
“It is indeed,” agreed Dick, heartily. “Poor de Morny certainly murders
the King’s English.”
“I asked Count de Smirnoff to call again,” pursued Mrs. Macallister. “I
like him, and we have many mutual friends.”
“How long is he going to be here?”
“Until the Grand Duke returns to New York. Good night, Dick; come and
see us soon again.”