MISS MYSTERY NO LONGER
Trask, helped along by Fleming Stone, investigated the family tree of the
Warings. But they ran up against a blank wall. As far as they could learn
Doctor Waring never had brother or sister. His mother, who was a
Truesdell, had also been an only child. But of course, Miss Mystery could
be of the Truesdell family, and could, as Trask observed, be the same
relation to John Waring’s mother that Trask was to John Waring’s father.
Which relation was that of second cousin.
“It gives a reason for the girl’s presence here,” Stone said, “and as
it’s the only reason we can think of, it must be followed up.”
“And I’ll follow it up,” Trask said, “if I once get hold of that girl.
Where can she be, Mr. Stone?”
“Not very far away, I think, as all the stations and routes out of town
are watched. She’d have trouble to leave Corinth.”
“She could get out in a motor car.”
“Who’d take her?”
“Lockwood, of course.”
But just then, Gordon Lockwood came into the Waring study. His usual calm
was entirely gone, his eyes wildly staring and his voice quivered as he
said, “She’s gone! Anita’s gone!”
“Yes, I know it—I thought you went with her!” and Stone stared in turn.
“No, I didn’t!” Lockwood said, quite unnecessarily. “Find her, Mr.
Stone—you can, can’t you?”
“I can find her,” said Fibsy, “if you’ll tell me one thing, Mr. Lockwood,
right straight out.”
“What is it? I’ll tell you anything. I’m afraid—”
“You’re afraid she’s killed herself,” said Fibsy, calmly. “Well you tell
me this. Are you two—aw—you know—”
The boy blushed, and Stone smiled a little as he said:
“McGuire is a bit shy of romantic matters. He means are you and Miss
Austin lovers?”
“We are,” said Lockwood, emphatically. “She is my fiancee—”
“All right,” said Fibsy, “then I’ll find her. She hasn’t done anything
rash, in that case.”
He wagged his wise little head.
“Where is she?” Stone asked, confident that the boy could tell. He knew
of Fibsy’s almost clairvoyant powers of divining truth in certain
situations.
“Want her here?” he asked, laconically.
“Yes.”
“I’ll get her.”
Snatching his cap, he darted from the house, but he was closely followed
by Maurice Trask. Lockwood would have stopped Trask, but Stone said:
“Let him go. This thing is coming to a crisis—Trask will help it along.”
Fibsy went toward the Adams house, but stopped at the house next door to
it. This was the home of Emily Bates.
Ringing that lady’s doorbell, Fibsy asked to see her.
“Mrs. Bates,” he said, politely, while Trask listened, “we want to see
Miss Austin, please.”
“Anita!” said Mrs. Bates, flurriedly; “why—she—she isn’t—”
“Oh, yes, she is here,” said the boy, patiently, rather than rudely. “We
have to see her, you see.”
“Here I am,” said Miss Mystery, coming in from the next room. “I think,”
she said turning to Mrs. Bates, “I think, as you advised me, I’ll tell
all.”
“Don’t tell it here!” cried Fibsy. “Please, Miss Austin—don’t spill your
yarn here—oh, I mean, don’t—don’t divulge—”
The unusual word nearly choked the excited boy, who always in moments of
strong emotion lapsed into careless English, but who tried not to.
“Now, look here,” Maurice Trask put in. “Here’s where I take hold. Miss
Austin, you have told your story to Mrs. Bates?”
“Yes,” said, Anita, looking very sad, but determined.
“Then you tell it to me. I’m heir to the Waring estate, and so I have a
right to know all you know about—the family.”
His knowing look proved to Anita that he assumed also her right to be
classed with “the family” and she looked at him in astonishment.
“You know?” she cried.
“Yes—I know,” he spoke very sternly. “And I insist upon a private
interview with you, before you tell your story to any one else.”
“You shall have it, then,” she said, and her eyes grew grave. “Mrs.
Bates, will you and Terence leave us alone for ten minutes. That will be
long enough, and then, I’ll go to see Mr. Stone—if necessary.”
“Now, look here,” Trask said, as the door closed after the others, “I
know who you are.”
“I don’t believe it,” and Miss Mystery looked at him straight from
beneath the “Truesdell brows.”
“Well, anyway, I know you are a Truesdell connection.”
“Yes, I am. Go on.”
“I don’t know just what branch,” he went on, a little lamely.
“But it’s a branch strong enough to hold me—and also to interfere with
this heirship of yours.”
“Can’t be. There’s no Truesdell so close to John Waring as I am.”
“You think so? Then listen.”
As Miss Mystery told him her story, the man’s face fell, he sat, almost
petrified with astonishment, and when she had finished the short but
amazing recital, he said:
“My heavens! What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“If you tell—I—”
“Of course you do.”
“And if you don’t tell—then John Waring’s name is left unstained—”
“There is no shadow of stain on John Waring’s name! What do you mean?”
“Now, look here, Miss Austin, you keep quiet about all this, will you?
I’ll call off those sleuths and I’ll arrange to close up and cover up the
whole matter. Then, you marry me—there’s only a distant cousinship
between us—and I’ll put up the biggest memorial to Waring you ever heard
of.”
“Omit the clause about my marrying you,” she returned, “and I may agree
to your plans. I haven’t quite decided what to do—and beside, Mr. Trask,
who killed my—Doctor Waring?”
“Never mind who killed him. Call it suicide—it must have been anyway—”
“No—I’m not sure it was—oh, I don’t know what to do.”
“Time’s up,” called Fibsy through the closed door. “And, I say, Miss
Austin, you take my tip, and come along and tell your story to F. Stone.
It’ll be your best bet in the long run.”
Perhaps it was the boy’s speech, perhaps it was the gleam of disappointed
greed that Anita saw in Trask’s eyes, but she rose, with a sudden
decision, and said, as she opened the door:
“That’s just what I’ll do. Come with me, Mrs. Bates—or, would you rather
not?”
“Oh, I can’t,” said Emily Bates, “don’t ask me, Anita, dear.”
“No, you stay here. I’ll come back soon.”
And so Miss Mystery again walked across the snow-covered field to the
Waring house, this time to remove all occasion for using her nickname.
“You found her?” said Stone, as the trio came into the study, where he
and Lockwood still sat.
“Yes,” said Fibsy. “I just thought where would a poor, hunted kid go? And
I said to myself, she’d go to the nearest and nicest lady’s house she
knew of. And of course, that was Mrs. Bates’ and sure enough there she
was. And—she’s going to tell all!”
Fibsy was melodramatic by nature, and his gesture indicated an important
revelation.
“I am,” said Anita, quietly.
She went straight to Lockwood’s side, and he took her hand calmly, and
led her to a seat on the wide davenport, then sat beside her.
Her hand still in his, she told her story.
“I am of Truesdell blood,” she began, “as Mr. Trask surmised. But, also,
I am of Waring blood. Doctor John Waring was my father.”
No one spoke. The surprise was too great. In his wildest theories,
Fleming Stone had never thought of this.
Fibsy’s great astonishment was permeated with the quick conviction, “then
she didn’t kill him!”
Gordon Lockwood was conscious of a rapturous reassurance that he had no
rival as a lover.
Trask, already knowing the truth, sat gloomily realizing he was not the
heir.
Anita, her beautiful face sad, yet proud to acknowledge her ancestry,
went on:
“This is his story. When John Waring was twenty years old, he met a young
woman—an actress—who so infatuated him that he married her. They were
absolutely uncongenial and unfitted for one another, and after a few
weeks, they agreed to separate. There was no question of divorce, they
merely preferred to live apart. He sent her money at stated intervals but
he pursued his quiet, studious life, and she her life of gayety and
sport. She was a good woman—she _is_ a good woman—she is my mother.”
Another silence followed this disclosure. Is, she had said—not was. And
John Waring her father!
Gordon Lockwood held her hand closely. He was content to listen. Whatever
she could say could not lessen his love and adoration.
“I tell you this, for her sake and—my father’s also. There is no stigma
to be attached to either, they were merely so utterly opposite in
character and disposition that they could not live together.
“As I said, after a few weeks they separated, and—my father did not know
of my birth. My mother would not let him know, lest he come back to her.
She was a light-hearted, carefree girl, and while she loved me, she did
not love my father. Later on—when I was about four, I think, she caused a
notice of her death to be sent to my father. This was because she wanted
to sever all connection, and take no chance of ever meeting him again.
She was at that time a successful actress, and earned all the money she
wanted. She adored me, she had no love affairs, she lived only for me and
her art. Though a good actress, she was not widely renowned, and in
California, where she had chosen to make her home, she was liked and
respected. The climate just suited her love of ease, freedom and
indolence—as a New England life of busy activity would have been
impossible to her. I want you to understand my mother. She was—she is, a
mere butterfly, caring only for trifles and simple gayety. Her home is
charming, her personality, that of a delightful child. But her
temperament is one that cannot stand responsibilities and chafes at
demands. However, all that matters little. The facts are that John
Waring, learning of his wife’s death, devoted himself utterly to his
books and his study.
“When my mother saw in the papers he was about to marry, she was
appalled. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t let him marry another
woman, unaware of her existence. She couldn’t raise a question of divorce
for she knew that would tend to reflect unpleasantly on his past.
“And, too, at last, she was beginning to feel as if she might like to
resume her position as his wife, now that he was prominent and wealthy.
She told me the whole story—of which I had been utterly ignorant, and she
sent me here. I was to see Doctor Waring and use my own judgment as to
when and how I should tell him all this.
“I came here, with a feeling of dislike and resentment toward a father
who had been no father to me. Mother exonerated him, to be sure, but it
was all such a surprise to me, that I accepted the errand in a spirit of
bravado and was prepared to make trouble if necessary.
“But when I saw John Waring—when I realized that splendid man was my
father—I knew that all my love, all my allegiance was his, and that my
mother was as nothing to me, compared with my wonderful father!
“Except for what Mr. Trask calls the Truesdell brows, I look exactly like
my mother. Also she resumed her maiden name of Anita Austin after they
separated. So you may imagine the shock when Doctor Waring first heard
the name, and first saw the living image of his wife, whom, you must
remember, he supposed dead.
“But I had my mission to perform—and so, I came here, that Sunday night.”
The audience sat motionless. Lockwood, holding her hand, felt every
tremor of her emotion as the girl told her story. Fleming Stone,
realizing that he was hearing the most dramatic revelation of his career,
listened avidly. Fibsy, with staring eyes and open mouth, clenched his
fists in enthralled interest, and Maurice Trask heard it all with ever
growing conviction that he must give up his supposed inheritance.
As Anita began to tell of that Sunday night, the situation became even
more tense.
“I came to the French window, and tapped lightly. Doctor Waring let me
in, and I sat by him in that plush chair.
“The conversation I had with my father I shall not detail. It is my most
sacred and beloved memory. We were as one in every way. We loved each
other from the first word. We proved to be alike in our tastes and
pursuits. Oh, if he could have lived! I told him of my mother and myself,
and he was crushed. I wanted to spare him, but what could I do? He had to
know—although the knowing meant the ruining of his career. He said, at
once, he could not take the Presidency of the College, with the story of
his past made public, nor could he honorably suppress it. He couldn’t
marry Mrs. Bates—nor could he instal my mother as mistress here.
“He had done no real wrong, in making that early and ill-advised
marriage, but it seemed to him a blot on his scutcheon, and an indelible
one.
“He would sit and brood over these fearful conditions, then, suddenly he
would realize my existence afresh, and rejoice in it. He loved me at once
and deeply—and I adored him. Never father and daughter, I am sure,
crowded a lifetime of affection into such a few moments.”
Bravely Anita went on, not daring to pause to think. Her hand, tightly
clasped in Lockwood’s, trembled, but her voice was steady, for it was her
opportunity to clear her father’s name, and she must neglect no slightest
point.
“At last, he told me I must go away, and he would think out what he could
do. He gave me the money, for he was afraid I hadn’t sufficient cash with
me, and he gave me the ruby pin, saying I must keep it forever as my
father’s first gift to me. With infinite gentleness he bade me good-by,
and softly opened the glass door for me. I went away and he closed the
door.
“I went home to the Adams house, making, of course, those footprints in
the snow. It was a very cold night, I remember the clear shining stars,
but I thought of nothing but my father—my splendid, wonderful father. And
I hoped, oh, how I hoped, that some way would be found that he and I
could spend our lives together. I didn’t know what he would do—but I
prayed to God that some way out might be found.
“The rest you know. Of the manner of my father’s death, I know nothing at
all. Of Nogi, I have no knowledge. I kept all this secret at first,
because I hoped to shield my father’s name better that way. But I think
now, it’s better told. I couldn’t live under the weight of such a secret.
“One more word as to my mother. She has had an admirer for many years,
named Carl Melrose. She has kept him at a distance, but, as you know from
the telegram she sent me, she has already either married him or promised
to. Also, she advised me to tell the whole truth. I have done so.”
Unheeding the others, Lockwood put his arm round the exhausted girl as
she fell over toward him. His wonderful calm helped her, and his gentle
yet firm embrace gave her fresh courage to endure the strain.
“Thank you, Miss Austin,” and Stone spoke almost reverently. “You have
shown marvelous wisdom and bravery and I congratulate you on your entire
procedure. You are an exceptional girl, and I am proud to know you.”
This was a great deal for Fleming Stone to say, and Anita acknowledged it
with a grateful glance.
Fibsy, his eyes streaming with unchecked tears, came over and knelt
before her.
“Oh, Miss Austin!” he sobbed, “Oh, Miss Anita!”
Trask alone remained unmoved, and sat with folded arms and frowning face.
But little attention was paid him, and Stone said, thoughtfully:
“Our problem of the mystery of Doctor Waring’s death is as great as
ever.”
“It is,” agreed Lockwood, “but I am sure now, Mr. Stone, that it was a
suicide. The motive is supplied, for I knew Doctor Waring so well, I knew
the workings of his great and good mind, and I am sure that he felt there
was no other course for him. I can see just how he decided that the
exposure of all this would react against the reputation of the College.
That the sensation and scandal that would fill the papers would harm the
standing of the University of Corinth, and that—and that alone—caused his
decision. I know him so well, that I can tell you that never, never would
he take his life to save himself trouble or sorrow, but for others’
sake—and I include Mrs. Bates—he made the sacrifice.
“I can see—and I am sure of what I say—how he realized that the press and
the public would forgive and condone a dead man, when, if he lived, the
brunt of the whole matter would fall on his beloved College and on the
woman he loved and respected.
“Now—as I feel sure he foresaw—such of this story as must be made public
will have far less weight and prominence, than if he were alive. _I_ know
all this is so—for, I knew John Waring as few people knew him.”
A grateful glance from John Waring’s daughter thanked him for this
tribute.
“That ten thousand dollar check?” Trask said, suddenly, for his mind was
still concerned with the financial side.
“I think that must have been sent to my mother,” said Anita. “She, as I
told you, returned to the use of her maiden name, and during our
interview, my father told me he should write her at once and send her
money. I feel sure he did do so—”
“Without doubt,” Lockwood said; “and if so, the letter would have been
mailed with the collection next morning. The returning voucher will
show.”
“Also the letter he wrote my mother will corroborate all I have told
you,” said Anita, and both her assertion and Gordon’s, later came true.
“I felt,” Anita said, by way of further explanation, “that Mrs. Bates
ought to know all. So, when Mrs. Adams practically put me out of her
house, and I had no wish to accept Mr. Trask’s invitation to come over
here, nor,” she smiled affectionately at Lockwood, “could I fall in with
your crazy plans—I just went next door and told Mrs. Bates all about it.
She was very dear and sweet to me, and now, if you please, I will go back
there. I am weary and exhausted—I cannot stand any more. But when you
want me, I can be found at Mrs. Bates’. I leave all matters to be decided
or settled, in the hands of Mr. Lockwood and Mr. Stone. Fibsy, dear, will
you escort me home?”
With a suddenly acquired dignity, Fibsy rose, and stood by her side, and
in a moment the two went away together.
When the boy returned the others were absorbed in the discussion of the
mysterious death of John Waring.
“I’m inclined to give it up,” Fleming Stone said, thinking deeply.
“Don’t do it, F. Stone,” Fibsy said, earnestly. “It’s better to find out.
You never have gave up a case.”
“No. Well, Fibs, which way shall we look?”
A strange embarrassment came over the boy’s face, and then he said,
diffidently:
“Say, gentlemen, could I be left alone in this room for a little while? I
don’t say I kin find out anythin’—but I do wanta try.”
The lapse into careless enunciation told Stone how much in earnest his
young colleague was, and he rose, saying, “You certainly may, my boy. The
rest of us will have a conference in some other room, as to what part of
Miss Austin’s story must be made public.”
Left to himself, Fibsy went at once to the bookcase that held the defaced
copy of Martial, that John Waring had been reading the night he died.
Opening the volume at the blood-stained page, the unlettered boy eagerly
read the lines. Tried to read them, rather, and groaned in spirit because
he knew no Latin.
Small wonder that he was nonplused, for this was all he read:
MARTIAL’S EPIGRAMS
Liber IV, Epigram XVIII
Qua vicina pluit Vipsanis porta columnis
Et madet assiduo lubricus imbre lapis,
In iugulum pueri, qui roscida tecta subibat,
Decidit hiberno praegravis unda gelu:
Cumque peregisset miseri crudelia fata,
Tabuit in calido vulnere mucro tener.
Quid non saeva sibi voluit Fortuna licere?
Aut ubi non mors est, si iugulatis aquae?
His chin in his hands, he pored over the Latin in utter despair, and
rising, started for the door.
Then he paused; “I must do it myself—” he murmured: “_I must._”
So he hunted the shelves until he found a Latin Dictionary.
He was not entirely unversed in the rudiments of the language, for Stone
had directed his education at such odd hours as he could find time for
study.
And so after some hard and laborious digging, Fibsy at last gathered the
gist of the Latin stanza.
His eyes shone, and he stared about the room.
“It ain’t possible—” he told himself, “and yet—gee, there ain’t nothing
else possible!” He rose and looked out at every window, he noted
carefully the catches—he paced from the desk to the small rear windows of
the room, and back again.
“It’s the only thing,” he reiterated, “the _only_ thing. Oh, gee! _what_
a thing!”
He went in search of Stone, and found the three men shut in the living
room and with them was Nogi.
Stone’s persevering efforts, by advertisements and circulars had at last
succeeded, and the impassive and non-committal Japanese was there, and
quite willing to tell all he knew.
Fibsy interrupted his story.
“Go back,” he directed, “to the beginning. Let me hear it all. It’s O.
K., F. S.”
“I was attending to my dining-room duties,” Nogi said, “and I had taken
the water tray to the study. I was weary and hoped the master would soon
retire. So, I occasionally peeped through the small window from the
dining-room. I saw a lady come and make a visit, and then I saw her and I
heard her go away. Then I hoped the master would go to bed. But, no—he
was very busy. He wrote letters, he burned some papers, he moved about
much. He was restless, disturbed. Then he sat at his desk and read his
book.”
“This one?” cried Fibsy, excitedly waving the Martial.
“I think so—one like that, anyway.”
“This was the one! Go on.”
“Then—oh, it was strange! Then the master got up, went to the small
window at the back of the room—”
“Which one?”
“The one by the big globe, and he opened it. But for a moment—”
“Did he put his hand out?” Fibsy cried.
“Yes, I suppose to see if it rained. Yes, he put his hand out for a
moment, then he closed the window.”
“And locked it?” asked Fibsy.
“It locks itself, with a snap catch. Then—ah, here is the strange thing!
Then he went back, sat at his desk, and in a moment he fell over and the
blood spurted out.”
“Didn’t he stab himself?” Fibsy asked.
“I don’t know. He didn’t seem to do anything but scratch his ear, and
over he fell! Such a sight! I was afraid, and I ran away—fast.”
“All very well,” said Stone, “but what became of the weapon?”
“I know,” Fibsy almost screamed, in his excitement. “Oh, F. Stone—I
know!”
“Well, tell us, Terence—but steady, now, my boy. Don’t get too excited.”
“No, sir,” and the lad grew suddenly quiet. “But I know. Wait just a
minute, sir. Where are the photographs of the house that the detectives
took the day after?”
“I’ll get them,” Lockwood said, and left the room.
He returned, and Fibsy found a magnifying glass and looked carefully at
certain pictures.
“It proves,” he said, solemnly. “F. Stone, you have solved your greatest
case!”
It was characteristic of the boy, that although the solution was his own,
his deference to Stone was sincere and un-self-conscious.
“Please,” he said, “I don’t know Latin, but you will find the explanation
of Doctor Waring’s death on that red stained page. He was reading
Martial, as we know, and—” he pointed to the Epigram on the page in
question, “as he read that, he found a way out.”
The grave statement was impressive, and Stone took the book.
“Shall I translate, or read the Latin aloud?” he asked the others.
“Wait a minute, I’ll get a Martial in English,” Lockwood said, out of
consideration for Trask’s possible ignorance of the dead language.
“What number is the Epigram?” he asked, returning.
Stone told him, and Lockwood found the place, and passed the English
version to Stone. Aloud, the detective read this:
TRANSLATION
Book IV, Epigram 18
On a youth killed by the fall of a piece of ice.
Just where the gate near the portico of Agrippa is always dripping with
water, and the slippery pavement is wet with constant showers, a mass
of water, congealed by winter’s cold, fell upon the neck of a youth who
was entering the damp temple, and, when it had inflicted a cruel death
on the unfortunate boy, the weapon melted in the warm wound it had
made. What cruelties does not Fortune permit? Or where is not death to
be found, if you, the waters, turn cut-throats.
“And so you see,” Fibsy broke the ensuing silence, “he decided to stab
himself with an icicle, and he did. He did!” he repeated, triumphantly,
“he went to that window back by the big globe and got one—and here’s the
proof! Look through the glass, F. S.”
Stone did so, and without doubt, the fringe of icicles that hung from
that particular window sash showed one missing! It was the very window
that Nogi stated Waring had opened, and had put his hand out of for a
moment.
Clearly, he had broken off an icicle, strong and firm on that freezing
night, had returned to his chair, and inspired by the story of the youth
under the portico of Agrippa, had stabbed his own jugular vein with the
sharp, round point, and had fallen unconscious.
The icicle, melting in the wound, had disappeared, and death had followed
in a moment or two.
They went to the study, and Nogi was made to imitate the movements he saw
Doctor Waring make. It left no doubt of the exact facts and the mystery
was solved.
“Do you suppose he meant to make it seem a murder?” asked Stone,
thoughtfully.
“He did not!” defended Lockwood. “That is he did not mean to implicate
anybody. He was a man amenable to sudden suggestion, and apt to follow
it. I am certain the idea came to him, as he read his book, and in the
impulse of the moment he rose, got the implement and did the deed. It was
like him to read that book after his talk with his daughter. He often
resorted to reading for a time to clear his mind for some important
decision. Had he not read that very page, he would in all probability not
have taken his life at that time.”
“There can be no doubt of it all,” said Stone. “Fibsy, the credit of the
discovery is yours. You did a great piece of work.”
Fibsy blushed with delight at Stone’s praise, which he cared for more
than anything else in life, but he said:
“Aw, I just chanced on it. But I found out another thing! While I was
workin’ on that translatin’ business, the telephone rang. I answered, but
somebody took it on an extension, so I hung up.
“But I was waitin’ quite a few minutes, and, what do you think? I
happened to rest my forehead on the telephone transmitter, and—”
“The red ring!” cried Stone. “Of course!”
“Of course,” Fibsy repeated. “Pokin’ around for a Latin Dictionary, I
passed a lookin’ glass, and there on me noble forehead I saw a red ring,
about two inches across. It’s gone now.”
“Yes,” Stone said. “Without doubt, Doctor Waring was telephoning—or
perhaps was answering a call and he rested his head on the instrument.”
“He often did that,” said Lockwood, “but I never noticed a ring left.”
“In life,” Stone said, “it would disappear quickly. But if it happened
just before he died, rigor mortis would preserve the mark. Any way it
must have been that.”
The solution of the mystery, so indubitably the true one, was accepted by
the police.
The matter was given as little publicity as possible, for Anita and Mrs.
Bates, the two most deeply concerned both wished it so. No stigma of
cowardice rested on John Waring’s name, for all who knew him knew that
his act was the deed of a martyr to circumstances and was prompted by a
spirit of loyalty to his College and unwillingness to let his own
misfortunes in any way redound to its disparagement.
He trusted, they felt sure, that the truth would never be discovered and
that the tragedy of his death would preclude blame or censure.
Himself, he never thought of, in his unselfish life or equally unselfish
death.
Trask, perforce, resigned all claim to the estate, and Anita and her
mother arranged matters between themselves.
The assumption was that John Waring’s will, which he burned, had been
made in Mrs. Bates’ favor, but on learning of his nearer heirs, he
destroyed it.
“Anita Waring,” Lockwood murmured softly when at last they were alone
together.
“I love the name,” she said, “and it is really mine.”
“But it will be yours so short a time, it’s scarcely worth while to use
it,” Gordon returned. “It will be a short time, won’t it, sweetheart?”
“Yes, indeed! I want to go away from Corinth forever. I love my father’s
memory, but I can’t stand these scenes. I am tired of mystery in name and
in deed. I just want to be—Anita Lockwood.”
Whereupon Gordon lost his head entirely.
_CAROLYN WELLS’_
_Baffling detective stories in which Fleming Stone, the great American
Detective, displays his remarkable ingenuity for unravelling mysteries_
THE MYSTERY OF THE SYCAMORE
RASPBERRY JAM
THE DIAMOND PIN
VICKY VAN
THE MARK OF CAIN
THE CURVED BLADES
THE WHITE ALLEY
ANYBODY BUT ANNE
THE MAXWELL MYSTERY
A CHAIN OF EVIDENCE
THE CLUE
THE GOLD BAG
EACH WITH FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR
12MO. CLOTH
PTOMAINE STREET
A Rollicking Parody on a Famous Book.
Transcriber’s Notes
--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public
domain in the country of publication.
--Moved promotional material to the end of the book.
--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and
dialect unchanged.
--Provided an original cover image, for free and unrestricted use with
this Distributed Proofreaders eBook.