MISS MYSTERY’S TESTIMONY
Miss Mystery looked from Stone’s impassive face to Fibsy’s eager boyish
countenance. Then she looked at Maurice Trask.
The latter showed deepest sympathy and interest but Trask also had a wary
air, as if ready to interrupt any disclosures that might be damaging to
the girl.
“First of all,” Stone said, “who sent you that telegram from San
Francisco?”
“I don’t know.” The calm little face was as expressionless as Stone’s
own, and she made her statement as straightforwardly as if it had been
true.
“Miss Austin,” Stone spoke severely now, “it’s to your own advantage to
adopt a more amenable manner. You will not help your cause by
prevarication or evasion. Unless you will answer my questions truly, I
must find out these things for myself. I can do it.”
“If you can find out who sent that telegram, go ahead,” she flared at
him. “I tell you I don’t know who sent it, and I don’t know who ‘A’ is.”
“I know who she is,” said Fibsy, and then Anita’s quick, startled glance
proved to the boy that his little ruse was successful and he had at least
guessed the sex of the sender.
“A woman,” the astute lad mused, “and she has annexed Carl. Maybe Carl is
another name for that escaped Japanese. But it’s all so far away. How can
they conduct operations between here and California!”
“Miss Austin,” Stone tried to win her confidence, “believe me I am most
anxious to help you. Please tell me why you came over here that Sunday
night. It is utterly useless to deny that you did come, now tell me why.”
Anita looked baffled, but after a moment’s pause, she said, “Do you think
I killed Doctor Waring?”
“I know you didn’t,” broke in Fibsy, with enthusiasm. “Now, come across,
Miss Austin, and I’ll bet you F. Stone can dope out the whole game.”
“I know most of the circumstances already,” Stone smiled, and followed up
the small advantage he had gained. “You came over here late, secretly,
across the snowy field. Doctor Waring let you in?”
“Yes,” Anita breathed the word, and her starry eyes never left Stone’s
face. She seemed almost hypnotized.
“Then you sat down in the chair you’re in now, and he locked the door—why
did he do that?”
“I don’t know—he didn’t! Stop! You have no right to torment me like this!
I have counsel—Mr. Trask here is my lawyer. Let him tell me what to do!”
Her nerves were tense, and her little fingers were continually twisting
round themselves. Her face was agonized, and Stone felt as if he were
guilty of utter cruelty. But he must go on.
“Mr. Trask cannot tell what he does not know,” he said, coldly. “I am in
authority, you must answer me. Did Doctor Waring give you the money and
the ruby pin?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Why?”
“As gifts. Why does any one give presents?”
“Because he loved you?”
“Yes.” Anita’s voice dropped to a softer tone, her eyes had a faraway
look, and her sensitive little mouth quivered.
“Yet you had known him but a few days! You had never seen him before you
came to Corinth?”
“Never.”
“Isn’t that a strange admission? How could he become so infatuated in so
short a time?”
“Have you never heard of such a thing?” the face was almost roguish now,
and the dark eyes showed a hint of smile.
Stone was baffled. He gazed at this strange young person, who was either
fooling him to the top of her bent or was a helpless, harassed child.
“Was Doctor Waring related to you?” he asked, with a sudden new idea.
“Oh, no. He was no relation. I tell you I never met him before I came
here.”
“And he gave you the valuables?”
“He did. I’ll swear to that—though I have no witness to prove it.”
“And you accepted them! Accepted a large sum of money and a pin set with
a precious stone from a man you scarcely knew! A man engaged to be
married! A man of twice your own age! You must admit this calls for
explanation.”
“Why does it? Hadn’t he a right to give me those things if he chose?”
“Wait a minute, Miss Austin. You loved him?”
“Maybe.”
“Then, if you did, do you want his name stained, his memory blotted by an
act that is, to say the least, questionable?”
“But he did give them to me.”
“Unless you can say more clearly why he did so I’m not sure I can believe
you. Did you ask for them?”
“Oh, no!”
Her disclaimer sounded true, but Stone began to think she was a
consummate little actress as well as a clever falsifier.
“Well,” he said, after a short pause, “I may as well tell you, Miss
Austin, that I am here to solve this mystery. That I am not at all
satisfied that you are telling me the truth; that, therefore, I shall
have to seek the truth elsewhere. I will tell you, too, that I don’t want
to implicate you, that I should much prefer to keep your name out of it
all, but that you leave me no choice but to go ahead with my
investigations wherever they may lead. A few more questions and you may
go. What was Doctor Waring doing when you came?”
“He—he was sitting at his desk.” She looked troubled at Stone’s speech
and seemed half inclined to be more friendly.
“You saw him through the French window, before you came in?”
“Yes; the window has a silk curtain, but I saw him between the edge of
the silk and the window sash.”
“Was he reading?”
“No; there were books on the desk, but he was not reading.”
“He rose and let you in?”
“Yes.”
“He had sent for you?”
“No—that is, yes.”
“You spoke truly the first time. He did not send for you and you came of
your own accord. Was he surprised to see you?”
“He didn’t say so.”
“What did he say? What was his first word?”
“Why—I don’t know. He said—‘Anita! You!’—or something like that.”
“And kissed you?”
“Yes.” And then a sudden wave of crimson spread over the scared little
face. It was evident she had not voluntarily made the admission. It had
slipped out as her memory was busy with the scene.
“I won’t stand it!” she cried, “I can’t stand it! Mr. Trask, save me from
this terrible man!”
Maurice Trask sitting near her, held out his hand, and Miss Mystery took
it. It seemed to reassure her, and she said, “Remember, you’re my lawyer.
Don’t let him question me any more. Tell him things yourself—”
“But he doesn’t know things—” said Stone, gravely.
“Then let him make them up! I refuse to stand this persecution. I didn’t
kill that man—”
“Wait a moment, Miss Austin,” Stone feared if he let her go now, he would
lose his chance, “since you are admittedly the last person who is known
to have seen Doctor Waring alive, you cannot avoid, or evade the
strictest questioning. You were here,” he spoke very gravely, “late at
night. Next morning he was found dead. There are no footprints in the
snow but your own. There was no other way into the room. Therefore, you
are responsible for his death or—you know who is.”
“Must I—must I be convicted?”
Her tone was heartbroken, her strained little face piteous in its appeal.
But Stone did not believe in her. He had concluded she was entirely
capable of pulling wool over her questioners’ eyes, and he watched her
keenly.
“I don’t say you must,” he returned deliberately, “but I say you may.”
“Never,” declared Trask. “You know what I told you, Mr. Stone.”
“And you know that I refused to accept your terms. I shall carry this
matter through to the end. I do not say I think Miss Austin guilty of
crime, but I do say she knows all about the death of Doctor Waring and
she must be made to tell.”
“Suppose I say I—he killed himself,” she said, “will you believe me?”
“With your stiletto?” asked Stone, quickly.
“Y—Yes.”
“And then you took the stiletto home and hid it?”
“Yes.”
“What for?”
“To shield his memory. Suicide is a coward’s act.”
“Rubbish!” Fibsy exploded, unable to keep quiet any longer. “I say, Miss
Mystery, you _are_ a mystery! Why don’t you tell what you know. It’s up
to you. Here you were with the victim, shortly before his death, you
probably know all about what happened. By the way, how did you get out?”
“Out the same way I came in.”
“And bolted that window-door behind you?”
“Oh—no—well, you see—”
“I see you are not to say another word, Miss Austin,” Trask decreed. “I’m
very sorry I asked Mr. Stone to take up this case. However, I shall take
you home now, then I’ll come back and I hope I can persuade Mr. Stone to
discontinue his work. If I’d had any idea of these disclosures you’ve
made, I never should have engaged his services. Come, Anita, I will take
you home. Mr. Stone, await my return. I shan’t be long.”
The two went, and Stone, pacing up and down the long room said musingly,
“All centers round that girl.”
“Righto,” said Fibsy, “but she didn’t kill the man.”
“The trouble is, Terence, your saying that doesn’t make it so.”
“No, but its being so makes me say it.”
Gordon Lockwood came in, his face full of anxiety.
“I’m glad to see you alone for a moment, Mr. Stone,” he said. “I saw
Trask taking Miss Austin home. Now, tell me, please, can you get at the
truth about that girl?”
“I haven’t as yet. She’s as great a mystery as the death of Doctor
Waring.”
“She is. But I have every faith in her. She is the victim of some
delusion—”
“Delusion?”
“Yes; I mean she’s under a mistaken sense of duty to somebody, or—”
“State your meaning more definitely, will you?”
“I’m not sure that I can. But I’m positive—”
“Ah, now, Mr. Lockwood,” this from Fibsy, “you’re positive the young lady
is an angel of light, because you’re head over heels in love with her.
That’s all right, and I don’t blame you—but, take it from me, you’ll
prove your case quicker, better and more surely, if you investigate the
secret of Miss Mystery, than if you just go around babbling about her
innocence and purity.”
Lockwood looked at the boy, ready to resent his impudence. But Fibsy’s
serious face and honest eyes carried conviction and the secretary at once
took him for an ally.
“You’re right, McGuire,” he said; “and, I for one am not afraid of the
result of a thorough investigation of Miss Austin’s affairs.”
“You’ve reason to be, though,” Stone observed. “I can’t be sure, of
course, but many stray hints and bits of evidence, to my mind point to
Miss Austin’s close connection with the whole matter.”
“What is your theory as to the death, Mr. Stone,” Lockwood asked.
“Suicide or murder?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I’m quite ready to form an opinion when I get
some real evidence. I’m through questioning Miss Austin—I shouldn’t have
let her go otherwise. I want next to do a lot of further questioning. And
I’d very much like to get hold of that servant, Nogi.”
“You think he’s implicated?” Lockwood stared.
“Why else would he run away? He must be found. He is probably the key to
the whole situation.”
“Guilty?”
“Maybe and maybe not. If he and Miss Austin were in collusion—”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Stone, but I cannot have any thing said in my
presence that reflects on that young lady’s good name. We are engaged to
be married—that is, I consider myself bound to her, and hope to win her
full consent.”
“But I understood—I thought, Trask—”
“Mr. Trask wants to marry her, but I hardly think his suit will succeed.
The lady must decide, of course, but I have reason to hope—”
“Gee, Mr. Lockwood, ’course she’ll take you,” Fibsy informed him, “now,
let’s you and me get busy to find out Miss Mystery’s mystery. You ought
to know it, if you’re going to marry her—and too, you can’t believe
there’s anything that can’t stand the light.”
“What can it be?” Lockwood asked, helplessly. “How can a young girl like
that have a real secret that so pervades and surrounds her whole life
that she will give no hint of it? Who is she? What is she? Why is she
here? I don’t believe she came here merely to sketch in water colors.”
“No,” agreed Stone. “If that were all, why the mystery about her home and
family? I understand she has given several contradictory statements as to
where she really lives.”
“She has,” assented Lockwood. “But may it not be just a twist of her
humorous nature? I assure you she is roguishly inclined—”
“No; it isn’t a joke,” Fibsy said, frowning at the thought. “She’s got a
real secret, a mystery that means a whole lot to her,—and prob’ly to
other people. Well, F. Stone, I guess it’s up to me to go out and seek
her people.” He sighed deeply. “I hate to leave the seat of war, but I
gotta do it. Nobody else could ever ferret out the antecedents and
general family doings of Miss Mystery but Yours Truly. And this is no
idle boast. I’m going out for the goods and I’ll fetch home the bacon.”
He looked glum at the prospect, for it looked like no easy or simple
matter that he proposed to undertake.
“You see,” he went on, “that girl is stubborn—my, but she’s stubborn.
You’ll have a handful, Mr. Lockwood. But if so be’s you’re willing to
face the revelations, I’ll go and dig ’em up.”
“Where do you think you’ll go, Terence?” asked Stone.
“To California, F. S., of course. Didn’t that telegram come from there?
All I’ve got to do is to find ‘A’ and the ‘Carl’ that she ‘annexed’ and
there’s your mystery of the young lady solved. But the death of the
Doctor—that’s another thing.”
“Do you really mean this?” Lockwood said, staring at Fibsy. “How can you
find a needle in a haystack, like that?”
“I can’t—but I’ve gotta.”
“But it’s so much simpler to get the information from Miss Austin
herself.”
“You call that simple!” Fibsy looked at him. “Well, it isn’t. It’s easier
to go to Mars, I should say, than to get any real information out of that
little scrap of waywardness.”
“No, nothing can be learned from her,” said Stone.
“Then, shall I be off?” asked Fibsy.
“Wait twenty-four hours, my lad, and then if we’re no further along, I
suppose you’ll have to go. Nogi must be found.”
“I’m glad Mr. Trask called you in, Mr. Stone,” Lockwood said, slowly,
“but I do hope you won’t associate any thought of Miss Austin with the
crime. She could no more commit crime than a small kitten could.”
“I fancy you’re right,” and Stone, half absent-mindedly, “but opinions as
to what people can or can’t do, are of not much real use.”
“Have you a theory?”
“Yes, I have a theory, but the facts don’t fit it—and it seems as if they
could not be made to. Yet it’s a good theory.”
“You don’t care to tell it to me?”
“Why, I’m willing to do so. My theory is that John Waring committed
suicide, but I can’t make any facts bear me out. You see, it’s not only
the absence of a weapon, but all absence of motive, and even of
opportunity.”
“Surely he had opportunity—in here alone.”
“It can’t be opportunity if he had no implement handy. And nothing can
explain away the missing weapon, and the locked room, on the suicide
theory.”
“What can explain the locked room, on a murder theory?” Lockwood asked.
“I haven’t thought of anything as yet. What book was Doctor Waring
reading that night?”
“There were several on his desk, but the one that was found nearest the
body, the one stained with blood, is a copy of Martial’s Epigrams.”
“May I see it, please?”
Lockwood brought the book and Fleming Stone examined it carefully. It was
not a rare or finely bound edition, it seemed more a working copy or a
book for reference. It was printed in Latin.
“He was fond of Martial?” asked Stone.
“He was a reader of all the classics. He preferred them, of course, in
their original Latin or Greek. He was also a modern linguist.”
Stone opened the volume to the stained page, which was numbered 87. He
studied it closely.
“It’s all Greek to me,” he said, frowning, “even though it’s Latin, but I
hoped to read something on the page beside the printed text.”
However, the irregularly shaped red blur gave him no clue, and he
returned the book to Lockwood.
“Had the Doctor any private accounts?” the detective asked suddenly.
“Not that I know of,” replied the secretary. “He was a man of singularly
few secrets, and I was always at liberty to open all letters, and had
free access to his desk and safe. I never knew him to hide or secrete a
paper of any sort.”
“No harm in looking,” Stone said, and began forthwith to search the desk
drawers and compartments.
The search was fruitless, until at length, a small checkbook was found.
And a curious revelation it gave them. For of its blank checks but one
had been torn out, and the remaining stub gave the information that it
was a check for ten thousand dollars drawn to the order of Anita Austin.
Those who looked at it stared incredulously.
“It is dated,” Stone said, “the date that Doctor Waring died.”
It was. Had this too, been given to the strange young woman, whom Stone
was beginning to designate to himself by the title of adventuress? Was it
possible that young girl, who seemed scarce more than a child, had some
how maneuvered to get all this from a man whom she had deliberately
fascinated and infatuated?
It was incredible—yet what else could be assumed?
Gordon Lockwood looked deeply distressed. His lips set in a tight line,
and he said, through his clenched teeth:
“I don’t care! Nothing can shake my faith in that girl! She is blameless,
and only these misleading circumstances make you think otherwise, Mr.
Stone.”
The detective looked at him as one might regard a hopeless lunatic.
But young McGuire’s face was a study.
He looked horror-stricken and then dazed. Then he had an inspiration
apparently, for he smiled broadly—only to lapse again into a profound
gloom.
“If it ain’t the beatin’est!” he said, at last. “Whatcha make of it, F.
Stone?”
“I’m completely staggered for the moment. Fibs,” the detective returned,
“but these cumulative evidences of Miss Mystery’s—er—acquisitive
disposition, seem—I say _seem_ to lead to a suspicion of her undue
influence over Doctor Waring, at least, as to obtaining money.”
“Oh, she didn’t!” Lockwood fairly groaned. “Don’t blame her! Perhaps
Waring fell a victim to her beauty and grace, and perhaps he urged these
gifts upon her—”
“Perhaps,” Fibsy said; “perhaps he threatened to kill her if she didn’t
accept his checks and coin and rubies!—and maybe she had to kill him in
self-defense—”
“Self-defense!” Lockwood cried, grasping at any straw. “Could it have
been that?”
“No,” Stone said; “be rational, man, whatever made Anita Austin kill
Doctor Waring, it wasn’t a case of self-defense.”