THE CURVED BLADES

I

MISS LUCY CARRINGTON

"Garden Steps" was one of the show-places of Merivale Park, Long Island.

In summer it was an enchanting spot, and the dazzling white marble steps

which led to the sunken gardens justified their right to give the place

its name. Other stone steps gave on terraces and flower banks, others

still led to the Italian landscape gardens, and a few rustic steps of a

wooden stile transported one to an old-fashioned garden, whose larkspur

and Canterbury bells were the finest of their sort.

The house seemed an integral part of this setting. Its wide verandahs, or

more often loggias, were so lavishly furnished with flowering plants, its

windows so boxed with them, that the whole effect was that of a

marvellously well-planned horticultural exhibition.

But all this was of the summer. In winter--for it was an

all-round-the-year home--only the varied and extraordinary collection of

evergreens shared with the steps the honor of making picturesque and

beautiful the view from the house windows.

And now, in January, one of the all too seldom enjoyed white snow storms

had glorified the whole estate. Wind-swept drifts half hid, half

disclosed the curving marble balustrades, and turned the steps to snowy

fairyland flights.

And, for it was night, a cold, dear, perfect winter night, a supercilious

moon looked down, a little haughtily and condescended to illumine the

scene in stunning, if a bit theatric, fashion.

"Ripping picture, eh?" said Gray Haviland, as he held back the heavy

curtain for the golden-haired young woman at his side to look out.

"Oh, isn't it a wonderful sight!" And as Anita Frayne took a step

forward, toward the casement, Haviland let the curtain fall behind him

and the two were alone in the deep embrasure of the wide bay-window.

"Not nearly such a wonderful sight as you are!" Haviland swung her round

to face him, and stood gazing at the pretty, doll-like face that half

laughed, half frowned into his own.

"Me! I'm not like a moonlit landscape!"

"No, you're just a golden morsel of summer sunshine----" Haviland's

eulogy was interrupted by a petulant voice calling shrilly:

"Where are you two? I hear you talking; come on. I'm waiting."

"Oh, Lord! come on," and, holding the curtain aside, he let Anita pass

and then followed her.

"Here we are, Cousin Lucy, all ready for the fray. Good evening, Count."

Count Charlier bowed Frenchily, and Anita gave him the bright, flashing

smile that she kept on hand for mankind in general, and which was quite

different from that she used on special occasions or for special friends.

Annoyed at the duration of this delaying smile, Miss Lucy Carrington

tapped impatiently on the bridge table, and looked her impatience most

unmistakably.

Mistress of Garden Steps, wealthy, well-born, of assured social position,

capable and efficient, Miss Carrington lacked the one gift of Fate for

which she would have bartered all else. She was not beautiful, and had

not even enough pretension to good looks to think herself beautiful.

Plain features, graying hair--dyed red--big, prominent light-blue eyes,

and a pasty, pudgy complexion left no hope for the miracles worked by

beauty doctors to avail in her case. Her figure was short and dumpy, the

despair of her staymakers, and her taste in dress ran to the extremes in

coloring and fashion.

Passionately fond of all beauty, Miss Carrington felt keenly her own lack

of it, and to this lack she attributed the fact that she was a spinster.

Those who knew her felt there might be other reasons why her suitors had

been few, but, as a matter of fact, the acidity of her disposition was a

direct result of her disappointed, loveless life, and even yet, though

nearing fifty, Miss Lucy Carrington had by no means laid aside all

thoughts of matrimonial adventure.

Heiress to immense wealth, there had been fortune-seekers who asked her

hand, but Lucy Carrington would none of these. Aristocratic and

high-minded, she had unerring perception of motives, and the men who had

been willing to marry her face as well as her fortune had been of such

unworth that the lady scorned them.

But now, looming on her hopes' horizon was a welcome possibility. Count

Henri Charlier, a visitor of a neighbor, seemingly admired the mistress

of Garden Steps and had fallen into the habit of frequent calling.

Courteous and polished of manner, he flattered Miss Carrington in such

wise that his attitude was acceptable if not indubitably sincere. Her

closest scrutiny and most challenging provocation failed to surprise any

admission of her lack of perfection in his eyes, and his splendid

physique and brilliant mind commanded her complete approval and

admiration. There had been hints that his title could not be read

entirely clear, but this was not sufficient to condemn him in Miss

Carrington's eyes.

To be sure, the Count had as yet said no word that could be construed as

of definite intention, but there had been certain signs, deemed

portentous by the willing mind of the lady in question.

Bridge was Miss Carrington's favorite diversion, and, as the Count also

enjoyed it, frequent evenings were devoted to the game.

It was, perhaps, a mistake that Miss Carrington should have allowed this,

for her temper, always uncertain, lost all restraint when she suffered

ill-luck at cards. A poor hand always brought down violent objurgation on

the head of her partner and sarcastic comment or criticism on her

adversaries. These exhibitions of wrath were not good policy if she

wished to charm the French visitor, but, as he invariably kept his own

temper, his irate hostess made little effort to curb hers.

"What are you doing, Anita?" cried Miss Carrington, petulantly, as they

settled themselves at the table. "You know I always play with the blue

cards, and you are dealing them!"

"Sure enough! Pardon me, Lady Lucy, I will take the red ones."

"Then, pray, wait till I make them up. There. No, let the Count cut them!

Have you no notion of bridge rules? You are quite the most inattentive

player! Will you kindly concentrate on the game?"

"Yes, indeed," and Anita Frayne smiled as she deftly dealt the red cards.

"I hope you have a good hand."

"You hope I have a good hand! A strange idea for an adversary!"

"But I know you like to win," and Miss Frayne hastily gathered up her own

cards.

"I do not like to have you want me to win! That's babyish. I like to win

by superior skill, not merely by lucky cards!"

This was an awful whopper, and all at the table knew it, but it was

ignored and the game began.

Miss Carrington--Lady Lucy, as she liked to be called--did not hold good

hands. On the contrary, she had a run of bad luck that made her more and

more irate with each hand dealt. Miss Frayne, who was her _protégée_ and

social secretary, watched with growing apprehension the red spots that

appeared in Miss Carrington's cheeks, infallible danger signals of an

impending outbreak.

It came.

"Another handful of blanks!" Miss Carrington exclaimed, angrily, and

flung the offending thirteen cards across the wide room.

"There now, Cousin Lucy," said Gray Haviland, determined to keep the

peace if possible, "that was a clever idea! It will certainly change your

luck! I'll collect the pasteboards, and we'll start fresh."

Easily, the big, good-looking young chap sauntered across the room and

gathered up the cards, chatting meanwhile. "You don't lose your deal, you

know; so try again, Cousin Lucy, and good luck to you!"

In angry silence Miss Carrington dealt again, and examined her hand.

"Nothing above a nine spot!" she declared, throwing them, backs up, on

the table.

"Too bad!" murmured Miss Frayne, carelessly picking up the hand. "Why,

you didn't look closely! Here's an ace and two queens and----"

"They're nothing! How dare you dispute my word? I say the hand is

worthless!" She fairly snatched the cards from the girl and turned them

face down again.

"But mad'moiselle," began the Count, "if you have an ace and two queens,

I could have played a no-trump hand grand,--ah, splendid!"

"Yes, _you_ could have played it! You want to play all the open hands!

You want me to sit here a dummy, a figure-head, every time!"

"Now, now, Lady Lucy----" and Anita Frayne laughed pleasantly.

"Be quiet! You're worse yet! You want to deal me good hands to humor me!

I believe you would cheat to do it! I don't want good cards that way!"

"Ah," begged the Count, seeing Anita flush, "do not tell the young lady

she cheats! Do not do that!"

"I'll tell her what I choose! Gray, say something! You sit there like a

mummy, while these people are insulting me right and left! Tell Anita

that I am right in not wishing her to deal me good cards purposely."

"But she didn't," declared Haviland; "you know she didn't. Why, she

couldn't, even if she wanted to!"

"Oh, yes, she could!" and Miss Carrington gave a disagreeable sneer.

"She's quite clever enough for any deceit or treachery."

"Stop, Cousin Lucy! I can't let you talk so about Miss Frayne in my

presence!"

"Oh, you can't, can't you? And, pray, what right have you to defend her?

Go away, both of you! I'll play with you no longer. Go away and send

Pauline and Mr. Illsley in here. They, at least, will play fair."

Anita Frayne rose without a word. Haviland rose too, but talking volubly.

"Let up, Cousin Lucy," he said sternly. "You've no right to treat Miss

Frayne so. You ought to apologize to her for such rudeness."

"Apologize!" Miss Carrington fairly shrieked; "she'll do the apologizing,

and you, too, my foolish young cousin. You little know what's going to

happen to me! To-morrow you may sing another song!"

Haviland looked at her in astonishment; the Count, thoughtfully. The same

idea was in both their minds. Could she mean that she was expecting the

Count to propose to her that evening?

"Nothing nice can happen to you unless you learn to control that temper

of yours," and Haviland swung away after Anita.

He found her in the next room, nestled in the corner of a big davenport,

weeping into a sympathetic sofa-cushion.

"Go and find the others," she whispered, as he came near her. "Make them

go and play with her!"

Obediently, Haviland went. In the glassed sun-parlor he found Pauline

Stuart, Miss Carrington's niece, and Stephen Illsley, one of the most

favored of Pauline's many suitors.

"For goodness' sake, people," he began, "do go and play bridge with the

Lady of the Manor! She's in a peach of a fury, and you'll have to take

your life in your hands, but _go_!"

"I won't," said Pauline, bluntly; "It's Anita's turn to-night. She said

she'd do it."

"She did! But she came off second best, and she's weeping buckets on the

best Empire embroidery sofa-cushions! I'm going to comfort her, but you

must go and keep the gentle Lucy from pulling the house down about our

ears! She's sure queering herself with his nibs! He can't admire her

sweet, flower-like soul after this night's exhibition."

"I don't want to go a bit, but I suppose we'll have to," and Pauline

smiled at her guest.

"Oh, go on," said Haviland, as he turned to leave them; "and, for

Heaven's sake, give her all the good cards. Can you manage that,

Illsley?"

"I am afraid not. Her eyes are too sharp."

"Well, if her luck stays bad, get her to play mumble-peg or something,

instead of bridge."

Haviland disappeared and Pauline rose unwillingly. "I do so hate to play

with Aunt Lucy," she said, "but it must be done. Are you willing to

sacrifice yourself?"

"For you? Always!" And the two went to the cardroom.

Pauline Stuart, tall, dark, graceful, was a striking-looking girl. Only

twenty-four, she carried herself with the dignity and poise of a duchess,

and her heavy, dark brows gave her face an expression of strength and

will-power that contrasted forcibly with the delicate Dresden china

beauty of Anita Frayne. The two girls were not especially friendly,

though never definitely at odds. Anita was envious of the more fortunate

Pauline. The latter, Miss Carrington's niece, would inherit a goodly part

of her aunt's large fortune, while the humble position of the secretary

commanded only a liberal, not munificent, salary.

The girls, however, were at one in their dread of Miss Lucy's ebullitions

of temper and their resentment of the biting sarcasms and angry diatribes

she flung at them in her frequent spasms of fury.

Illsley, a well-set-up chap of good address, followed Pauline into her

aunt's presence.

"You waited long enough," grumbled Miss Carrington. "Sit down. It's your

deal now, Pauline."

Matters went well for a time. Miss Lucy held good cards, and once or

twice she triumphed through a mistake of her adversaries, which she

fortunately did not discover was made on purpose.

Count Charlier's little bright black eyes darted inquiringly from aunt to

niece, but he made no comment. All four played well, and when at last

Miss Carrington made a grand slam her joy was effervescent.

"Good play," she flattered herself. "You must admit, Count, that it was

clever of me to take that difficult _finesse_ just at that critical

point."

"Clever indeed, mademoiselle. You have the analytical mind; you should

have been a diplomat. Also, Fortune favors you. You are beloved of the

fickle goddess."

"Let us hope so," and for a moment Miss Carrington looked grave.

And then, with the perversity of that same goddess, the card luck

changed. Pauline and Illsley held all the high cards, Miss Lucy and the

Count only the low ones.

Storm signals showed. Whiter grew the stern, set face; tighter drew the

thin, wide lips; and rigid muscles set themselves in the angry, swelling

throat. Then, as she scanned a hand of cards, all below the ten, again

they went in a shower across the room, and she cried, angrily: "A

Yarborough!" reverting to the old-fashioned term.

"Never mind, Aunt Lucy," and Pauline tried to laugh it off; "this is not

your lucky night. Let's give up bridge for to-night. Let's have some

music."

"Yes! because you love music and hate bridge! It makes no difference what

_I_ want. My wishes are never considered. You and Anita are just alike!

Selfish, ungrateful, caring for nothing but your own pleasure. Mr.

Illsley, don't you think young girls should pay some slight attention to

the wishes of one who does everything for them? Where would either of

them be but for me? Are you not sorry for me?"

"Why,--I--you must excuse me, I am not sure I understand----"

"Yes, you understand, perfectly well. You know the girls slight me and

snub me every chance they get. But it will not always be thus.

To-morrow----"

"Come, Aunt Lucy," pleaded Pauline, "let us have some music. You know

there are some new records, just arrived to-day. Let us hear them."

"Are there new records? Did you get the ones I wanted?"

"Some of them. We couldn't get them all."

"Oh, no, of course not! But if _you_ had wanted certain records they

would have been found!"

"But, Auntie Lucy, we couldn't get them if they aren't made, could we?

Gray tried his best."

"Oh, tried his best! He forgot to ask for them, so he says he 'tried his

best,' to excuse his carelessness. If Anita had wanted them----"

The starting of the music drowned further flow of the lady's grievances.

II

A CLASH OF TONGUES

True to its reputation for calming the impulses of the turbulent spirit,

the music soothed Miss Carrington's ruffled temper, and she waxed amiable

and even gay. Enthroned on her favorite red velvet chair, resplendent in

an elaborately decorated gown of sapphire blue satin, with her bright

auburn locks piled high and topped by an enormous comb of carved

tortoise-shell, she dominated the little group and gave orders that must

be obeyed.

She wore, among other jewels, a magnificent rope of pearls. So remarkable

were these, that the Count, who had never seen them before, ventured to

refer to them.

"Yes," agreed Miss Carrington, "they are wonderful. Practically

priceless, I assure you. It took my agent years to collect them."

"And you grace an informal home evening with these regal gems?"

"Not usually, no. But you know, Count Charlier, pearls must be worn

frequently to preserve their lustre. Laid away a long time, they grow

dead and dull-looking."

"You keep them here? Is it safe, think you?"

"I don't keep them here all the time. Indeed, I got these from the Safe

Deposit only this morning. I shall return them there in a few days. While

here, I shall wear them all I can to liven them up."

"You brought a lot of your other jewels, didn't you, Aunt Lucy?" said

Pauline, casually; "why did you? Are you going to a ball?"

"No: I wish to--to look them over and plan to have some reset."

"But are they safe?" inquired the Count again; "do you not fear thieves?"

"No, we never have such things as robbery in Merivale Park. It is a

quiet, well-behaved neighborhood."

"But you have a safe?" went on the Count; "you take at least that

precaution?"

"Oh, yes, I have a safe in my boudoir. There is really no danger. Count

Charlier, would you like to hear me sing? Find one of my records, Gray."

Miss Carrington's singing voice had been a fine one and was still fair.

She sometimes amused herself by making records for her phonograph, and

Gray Haviland managed the mechanical part of it.

"Which one, Lady Lucy?" he asked, as he rummaged in the record cabinet.

"Any of those pretty love songs," and Miss Carrington glanced coyly at

the Count.

"Here's a fine one," and Haviland placed a disk in the machine.

"Listen," he said, smiling; "don't miss the introduction."

The needle touched the record, and Miss Lucy's laugh rang out, so clear

and true, it was difficult to believe it was a recorded laugh and not a

sound from the lady herself. Then the recorded voice said: "This song is

one of Carr's favorites, I'll sing it for him." And then, with only a few

seconds' interval, Miss Carrington's voice sang, "Believe me, if all

those endearing young charms."

It was well sung, and a perfect record, so that the incident of the

singer listening to her own voice was interesting in itself.

"Capital!" applauded the Count, as it was finished. "It is indeed

pleasant to preserve one's songs thus. May I not some time record my own

amateur attempt?"

"Delighted to have you, Count," said Haviland, cordially. "Come over some

morning, and we'll do up a lot of records."

"Since when have you been master here, Gray?" said Miss Lucy, with fine

scorn. "I will give the invitations to my own house, if you please! Count

Charlier, if you will come to-morrow afternoon I will instruct Mr.

Haviland to make the records."

It was not so much the words as the manner of their utterance that was

offensive, and Haviland set his lips in stifled anger. It was not at all

unusual, this sort of rebuff, but he could not endure it as patiently as

the two girls did. Haviland was a second cousin of Miss Carrington, and,

while he lived with her in the capacity of a business secretary and

general man of affairs, the post was a sinecure, for the services of her

lawyer and of her social secretary left little for Haviland to do. His

salary was a generous one and he was substantially remembered in her

will, but he sometimes thought the annoying and irritating fleers he had

to accept smilingly, were worth more than he was receiving. He was

continually made to feel himself a dependent and an inferior.

These trials also fell to the lot of the two girls. Pauline, although her

aunt's heiress to the extent of half the fortune, the other half to go to

an absent cousin, was by no means treated as an equal of Miss Carrington

herself. It seemed to give the elder lady delight to domineer over her

niece and in every possible way make her life uneasy and uncomfortable.

As to the social secretary, Miss Frayne, she was scolded for everything

she did, right or wrong.

Often had the three young people declared intentions of leaving Garden

Steps, but so far none of them had made good the threat.

Vanity was the key-note of Lucy Carrington's nature, and, knowing this,

they could, if they chose, keep her fairly sweet-tempered by inordinate

flattery often administered. This proceeding hurt their self-respect,

jarred their tempers, and galled their very souls, but it was that or

dismissal, and thus far they had stayed. Matters were nearing a crisis,

however, and Haviland's patience was so sorely strained that he was

secretly looking for another position. Anita Frayne, whose pretty blonde

doll-face belied a very fiery disposition, was on the verge of a serious

break with her employer, and Pauline Stuart continually assured herself

that she could not go on this way.

Pauline was the orphaned daughter of Lucy's sister, and had lived with

her aunt for many years. Carrington Loria, the son of another sister, was

engaged in antiquarian research in Egypt, where he had been since his

graduation as an engineer. He, too, was an orphan and had lived with Lucy

in his younger days, and he and Pauline were equal heirs to their aunt's

wealth.

The father of the three Carrington sisters, having become angered at his

two daughters who married against his wishes, had left his entire fortune

to Lucy, his only remaining child. Thus her niece and nephew were her

only direct heirs, and, save for some comparatively small bequests, the

Carrington estate would eventually be theirs.

Pauline well knew that if she left her aunt's roof it meant complete

disinheritance, for Lucy Carrington was proud of her beautiful niece,

and, too, was fond of her in her own way. But the ungovernable temper of

the lady made her home an almost unbearable abiding-place.

Since childhood years Carrington Loria had lived there only during his

college vacations; but had been back occasionally for short visits from

his now permanent Egyptian occupation. He had always come laden with

gifts of Oriental products, and the rooms at Garden Steps showed many

rare specimens of cunning handiwork and rich fabrics and embroideries.

To break the awkward pause that followed Miss Carrington's rude speech to

Gray Haviland, Pauline picked up an antique scarab from a side table and

drew the Count's attention to its inscription.

He expressed a polite interest, but cast furtive glances at his hostess,

as if afraid of a further outbreak.

Nor were his fears unjustified. Miss Carrington administered a scathing

reproach to Pauline for intruding herself upon the Count's attention, and

bade her put aside the scarab and hold her tongue.

"Don't speak to me like that, Aunt Lucy; I am not a child!" And Pauline,

unable to control herself longer, faced her angry aunt with an air of

righteous wrath.

"I'll speak to you as I choose, miss! It is for you to mend your tone in

addressing me! If you don't, you may have cause to regret it. Count

Charlier came here to see me, and I refuse to countenance your clumsy

attempts to engage his interest in your silly babble!"

"But--I insist--" stammered the greatly embarrassed Count, "allow me,

madame, let me say, I call on you all--all----"

"Nothing of the sort!" declared Miss Lucy; "you came, Count, to play

bridge with us. Our opponents behaved so rudely and played so badly it

was impossible for us to continue the game. Nor can we enjoy music in

this inharmonious atmosphere. Let us stroll in the conservatory, you and

I."

She rose, trailing her heavy silks and flashing her sparkling jewels, and

the Count, a little hesitatingly, followed her. They crossed the great

hall, and, going through a reception room and the delightful sun-parlor,

came to the warm, heavily-scented conservatory.

"Poor old Charlier!" said Haviland, as the pair disappeared; "he's in for

it now! Do you suppose the palms and orchids will bring him up to the

scratch? 'Nita, I'll bet you a box of gloves against a box of simple

little cigarettes that he doesn't propose to the lady to-night?"

"Done!" cried Miss Frayne, who was sparkling again, now that the dread

presence was removed. "I doubt he can help himself. She has him at her

mercy. And he's too good-mannered to disappoint her wish."

"He'll propose," said Pauline, with an air of conviction. "He's a typical

fortune-hunter, that man. Indeed, I am not sure he's a Count at all. Do

you know, Mr. Illsley?"

"I know almost nothing of the man, save that he's a guest of the

Frothinghams. That's not entirely in his favor, I think."

"Right you are!" agreed Haviland. "Those people are,--well, they're to be

queried. But I say, Polly, if the two do hit it off, it's grinding

poverty for us, eh?"

"It may be a blessed relief, Gray. She'll give us something, of course,

and send us away from here. I, for one, shouldn't be sorry to go. She is

getting too impossible!"

"She is!" put in Anita; "every day she pounds us worse! I'd like to kill

her!"

The fierce words and would-be menacing glance of the little blonde beauty

were about as convincing as a kitten declaring himself a war lord, and

even the stately Pauline smiled at the picture.

"She ought to be killed," declared Haviland, "and I say this

dispassionately. I wouldn't do it, because killing is not in my line, but

the eternal fitness of things requires her removal to another sphere of

usefulness. She makes life a burden to three perfectly good people, and

some several servants. Not one would mourn her, and----"

"Oh, stop, Gray!" cried Pauline; "don't talk in that strain! Don't listen

to him, Mr. Illsley. He often says such things, but he doesn't mean them.

Mr. Haviland loves to talk at random, to make a sensational hearing."

"Nothing of the sort, Polly. I do mean it. Lucy Carrington is a misery

dispenser, and such are not wanted in this nice little old world."

"But perhaps," Pauline looked thoughtful, "the fault is in us. We don't

like her, and so we see nothing good in what she does. Now, Carrington

Loria adores her. She had a letter from him to-day----"

"Yes, Loria adores her!" interrupted Haviland, "because he doesn't live

with her! She sends him love-letters and money, and he doesn't know the

everlasting torture of living under her roof, year in and year out! But

he caught on a little the last time he was here. He said,--well, in his

quaint Oriental fashion, he said, 'Gee! she's the limit!' that's what he

said."

"Well, she is," pouted Anita. "I can't do a thing to suit her. To-day I

wrote a letter over six times before she was satisfied. And every change

she wanted made was so foolish she wanted it changed back again. She

nearly drove me crazy!"

"But I have to put up with her morning, noon, and night," sighed Pauline.

"You have your hours off, Anita, but I never do. She even wakens me in

the night to read to her, or to help her plan her new gowns."

"It is awfully hard for you," began Mr. Illsley, and then all stopped

short, for the object of their discussion returned to the room.

It was plain to be seen Miss Carrington was in a state of suppressed

excitement. She giggled almost hysterically, and tapped the Count

playfully on the arm with her fan, as she bade him say good-night and go.

The interested ones watching her could not learn whether the Count had

declared himself or not. The presumption was negative, for, had he done

so, surely Miss Carrington would have told the good news.

Charlier himself was distinctly non-committal. Debonair as always, he

made his adieux, no more demonstrative to his hostess than to the others,

and went away. Illsley followed, and the household dispersed. The clock

struck midnight as the ladies went upstairs.

Following custom, they all three went to Miss Lucy's boudoir. It was by

way of reporting for to-morrow's orders, and was a duty never neglected.

The exquisite apartment, from which opened the bedroom and bath, was

softly lighted and fragrant with flowers.

"How do you like Count Henri Charlier?" Miss Carrington quickly demanded

of her satellites.

"Charming," said the voluble Anita. "Just a typical French nobleman,

isn't he? And how he adores our Lady Lucy!"

The whole speech rang false, but the vanity of the lady addressed

swallowed it as truest sincerity. "Yes," she returned, "he is infatuated,

I have reason to think. But--we shall see what we shall see! Curb your

impatience, girls! You shall know all in due time."

"Can I do anything for you, Auntie, to-night or to-morrow?" asked

Pauline, and, though she tried to speak with enthusiasm, her tone did

sound perfunctory.

"Not if you offer in that manner," and Miss Carrington looked at her

niece coldly. "One would think, Pauline, that it must be an irksome task

to do the smallest favor for your aunt and benefactor! Do you feel no

pleasure in doing what trifles you can for one who does everything for

you?"

"I would feel a pleasure, Aunt Lucy, if you were kinder to me. But----"

"Kinder!" shrieked her aunt; "kinder! Girl, have you taken leave of your

senses? I give you a home, fine dresses, money, everything you can want,

and you ask me to be kinder to you! Go! never let me see you again, after

that speech!"

"Oh, auntie, don't! I didn't mean----"

"You didn't mean to exasperate me beyond endurance? No, of course you

meant to stop short of that! But you have done it. I mean this, Pauline:

to-morrow you go elsewhere to live. No longer will I give a home to such

a monster of ingratitude!"

"But, Miss Carrington"--and Anita Frayne's soft voice implored

gently----"don't be hasty. Pauline didn't mean----"

"What!" and Lucy Carrington turned on her, "you take her part? Then you

go, too! I want no ingrates here. Leave me, both of you. This night is

your last beneath this roof! You are two unworthy girls, to scorn and

slight the hand that has fed and clothed you and given you luxury and

comfort such as you will never see again! Go, I've done with you! Send me

Estelle. She, at least, has some small affection for me."

The two girls left the room. The scene was not without precedent. Before

this they had been ordered to leave the house forever, but always

forgiveness and reinstatement had followed. This time, however, the Lady

Lucy had been rather more in earnest, and the girls looked at each other

uncertainly as they turned toward their rooms.

Anita summoned Estelle, the French maid, and then told her to hasten

immediately to Miss Carrington.

"Don't undress me," said the mistress as the maid appeared; "I'm not

retiring at once. Get me out of this gown and give me a negligée and

slippers."

"Yes, mademoiselle," and Estelle deftly obeyed orders and brought a white

boudoir gown edged with swans-down.

"Not that!" cried Miss Carrington. "Bring the gold-embroidered one,--the

Oriental."

"Ah, the green one, from Monsieur Loria?"

"Yes, the one my nephew sent me at Christmas time. My, but it's handsome,

isn't it, Estelle?"

"Gorgeous!" declared the maid, and she spoke truly. Young Loria knew his

aunt's taste, and he had sent her a typical Egyptian robe, of pale green

silk, heavy with gold embroideries. In it Miss Carrington looked like one

attired for a masquerade.

"Shall I take down mademoiselle's hair?" asked Estelle, lingering.

"No. I want to be alone. I will read awhile. You need not return. I will

do for myself."

"There is your glass of milk, ma'mzelle, on the bed-table."

"Silly! I suppose I can see it for myself."

"Yes, ma'am. And you will have your tea at eight in the morning?"

"Of course, my tea at eight. As always. You might remember that much

yourself. But nobody remembers things for _my_ comfort."

"Pardon, but sometimes it is eight, and, again, it must be half-past."

"Eight! Now, will you go? You are most exasperating! Why do you stand

there like a gibbering idiot?"

"The jewels, mademoiselle; the pearls? Shall I not put them in safety?"

"No! I will put them in the safe myself. Where is the key?"

"There, mademoiselle, on your dresser. But if I might----"

"You mayn't do anything except to get out and stay out! Do you hear?

Shall I never be obeyed?"

"Yes, mademoiselle; good-night."

The soft tone was fully belied by the evil glare of the French girl's

eyes, but that was not seen by Miss Lucy Carrington.

III

THE TRAGEDY

The house faced the east, and, built on an English model, was far wider

than deep. A broad hall ran through the centre from front to back, and on

either side there were successive rooms whose windows looked out on

equally beautiful scenes, both front and back. On the right of the hall,

as one entered, was the long living room, and beyond it, the library and

music room. The other side of the hall was a reception room, opening into

the sun parlor, and on to the conservatory, and back of these, the dining

room and smaller breakfast room.

Breakfast was served at nine, and the members of the family were usually

all present. Miss Carrington, herself, made a point of being on time

partly from habit, and also because it gave her opportunity to chide

those who were late.

When she was not in her place, on the morning after the stormy bridge

game, Pauline expressed surprise, and Haviland echoed her words.

But Anita said scornfully, "She went to bed in an awful tantrum and

probably didn't sleep well."

Miss Frayne was looking her prettiest, and her roseleaf face with its

fluffy golden halo, was like a Greuze picture. She wore a frivolous

little house gown of blue crêpe de chine that just matched her

forget-me-not eyes. Not especially appropriate garb for a secretary, but

Miss Carrington preferred her household to be well-dressed, and really

commanded pretty tints and fabrics for the two girls. Pauline was in

white serge, of rather severe cut, but which suited her as no frills and

flounces could. Her black hair was smoothly parted and coiled low over

her ears, and her clear ivory-tinted skin was flushed faintly pink from

the glow of the big, crackling wood fire.

"It's most unusual," went on Pauline, after a few moments more had

passed, and the Lady Lucy had not appeared. "I'm going up to see if she

is ill,--or----"

"Or merely in a tantrum extraordinary!" said Anita, her blue eyes full of

laughing disrespect for her employer.

"'Nita," said Haviland, as Pauline disappeared, "hold your breakfast

napkin up in front of your face, quick!"

"Why?" said the girl, wonderingly, as she did his bidding.

"Because, if you hadn't, I should have flown at you and kissed you! And I

mustn't now, for Haskins is approaching with muffins."

Down came the shielding napkin and only the arrival of the muffin-laden

Haskins saved the lovely laughing face from Haviland's impetuous caress.

The old butler fussed about, and several minutes passed, when Pauline

called from above stairs, "Gray! Come here, at once!"

"Desperate case!" and Haviland rose, and unhurriedly left the room,

pinching Anita's little ear as he passed her.

Another moment and Miss Frayne heard an exclamation from Haviland that

made her rise from the table and go flying upstairs herself.

The door of Miss Lucy's boudoir was open, and entering, she saw Pauline

and Haviland with horror-stricken faces, gazing at a terrible sight.

Miss Lucy Carrington, seated before her dressing-table, her face white

and ghastly, her large eyes staring wide--staring horribly,--but, without

doubt, unseeing. Nor was this all of the strangeness of the sight. She

was robed in an embroidered Oriental-looking gown, and wore many jewels.

Her red-dyed hair, dressed elaborately, as she had worn it the night

before, was still crowned with the enormous comb of carved

tortoise-shell, but the comb was broken to bits. One portion, still

standing upright, rose above the disordered coiffure, but the rest, in

broken scraps, lay scattered over the puffs of hair,--over the white

hands clasped in her lap,--and on the floor at her feet.

"What does it mean?" whispered Anita, shuddering, "is she--is she dead?"

"Yes," answered Haviland, briefly. He stood, hands in pockets, gazing at

the startling figure.

"Who?--What?----" Anita's eyes riveted themselves on something else.

Around the neck of Miss Lucy was,--yes, it _was_--a snake!

With a low scream, Anita flung herself into Haviland's arms, but he put

her gently away from him.

Aghast at this repulse, Anita put her hand across her eyes and turned to

leave the room.

"Mind where you go, 'Nita!" called out Haviland, and the girl stopped

just in time to save herself from stepping into a mass of _débris_.

"Why!" she cried, "why, it's Miss Lucy's tray!"

It was. The silver tray that had held the breakfast tea was on the floor,

and near it a jumbled heap of silver and broken china that had once been

a costly Sevres set. Dainty white serviettes were stained with the

spilled tea and a huge wet spot was near the overturned silver teapot.

Hastily Anita ran from the room, but she sank down on a couch in the hall

just outside the door, utterly unable to go further.

Fascinated by the beady eyes of the green snake, Pauline stared at it,

with clenched hands. Haviland stepped nearer and lightly touched it.

"Is it--is it alive?" gasped Pauline.

"It's paper," replied Haviland quietly. "A paper snake, a toy,--you

know."

"But who put it there? Aunt Lucy is deathly afraid of snakes! Did fright

kill her? Gray, is she--murdered?"

"Yes, Pauline, she has been killed. But could it be--fright? Impossible!"

"Not for her! You don't know her horror of snakes. Why, going through the

Japanese department of a shop, I've seen her turn white and fairly fly

from the counter where those paper things were displayed."

"But what else killed her? There is no wound, no shot, no blood."

"Get the doctor, Gray! Don't wait a minute. Telephone at once."

"He can do nothing, Pauline. She is dead." Haviland spoke like a man in a

daze.

"But no matter, we must call him. Shall I?"

"No, I will."

"Go into her bedroom,--use that telephone by her bedside."

Obediently, Haviland went on to the adjoining room, the soft rugs giving

forth no sound of his footfalls.

The door was ajar, and as he opened it, he called, "Come here, Pauline;

look, the night lights are burning, and the bed untouched. She hasn't

been to bed at all."

"Of course she hasn't. She has her hair as it was last evening. But her

comb is broken."

"Broken! It's smashed! It's in tiny bits! She has been hit on the

head,--don't touch her, Pauline! You mustn't! I'll call Dr. Stanton. You

go out of the room. Go and find Anita."

But Pauline staid. Turning her back to the still figure in the chair, she

gazed curiously at the upset tray on the floor. She stooped, when

Haviland's voice came sharply from the next room. "Don't touch a thing,

Pauline!" he cried, as he held his hand over the transmitter.

She looked up, and then as she saw him turn back to speak into the

instrument, she stooped swiftly and picking up something from the floor

she hurried from the room.

She found Anita on the couch in the hall, and speaking somewhat sharply,

Pauline said, "Where's Estelle?"

"Mercy! I don't know!" and Anita's blue eyes stared coldly. "How should I

know anything about Estelle?"

"But she must have brought that tray an hour ago. Did she upset it, or

who?"

"Pauline, why do you act as if I knew anything about this matter. Is it

because _you_ do?"

The blue eyes, cold like steel, and the dark ones, flashing fire from

their shadows, looked steadily at each other.

Gray Haviland came hurriedly out to the hall.

"The doctor will be here at once," he said; "and he will call the

coroner."

"Coroner!" screamed Anita; and ran away to her own room.

"Let her alone," said Pauline, contemptuously; "but Gray, we must nerve

ourselves up to this thing. Don't you think we ought to--to put away the

jewels? It's wrong to let any one come into a room where a fortune in

jewels is displayed like that."

"But Doctor Stanton said to touch nothing,--nothing at all. You see,

Pauline, in a murder case,----"

"Oh, I know; 'nothing disturbed till the Coroner comes,' and all that.

But this is different, Gray. Doctor Stanton didn't know there are two

hundred thousand dollars' worth of jewelry on that--that--on her."

"How do you know so exactly?"

"I'm not exact, but she has told me times enough that the rope of pearls

cost one hundred thousand, and that corsage ornament she is wearing and

her rings and ear-rings are easily worth the same sum. I tell you there

will be policemen here, and it isn't right to throw temptation in their

way."

"Besides," and Anita's voice spoke again as she reappeared in the

doorway, "besides, Pauline, they are all yours now, and you should be

careful of them!"

The tone more than the words conveyed a veiled insolence, and Pauline

accepted it for such. With a sudden determined movement, she went swiftly

to her aunt's side, and unfastened the long rope of pearls, the wonderful

glittering sunburst, and a large diamond and emerald crescent that held

together the glistening silk folds. The rings and ear-rings she could not

bring herself to touch.

"It is only _right_," she contended, as if trying to persuade herself,

"these are too valuable to risk; no one could fail to be tempted by

them."

"Why don't you finish your task?" said Anita, smiling unpleasantly, "why

leave so much?"

"No one would attempt to take the rings or ear-rings," said Pauline,

steadily, "and that scarab bracelet is not of great value."

"I thought that was a most valuable antique that her nephew sent her."

"She thought so, too," said Pauline, carelessly, "but Carr told me it was

an imitation. Not one expert in a hundred can tell the difference,

anyway."

As Pauline placed the mass of gems in the safe, the doctor came. "What

does it mean?" cried the bewildered man, coming into the room. "Miss

Carrington----"

Words failed him as he saw the astounding sight. For surely, no one had

ever before seen a murdered woman, sitting before her dressing-table,

staring but smiling, and garbed as for a fancy-dress ball!

Doctor Stanton touched the icy-cold hand, felt for the silent heart, and

then turned his attention to the disheveled hair and broken comb.

"Fractured skull," he said, as his skilled fingers thridded the auburn

tresses. "Killed by a sudden, swift blow on the head with a heavy,

blunt,--no, with a soft weapon; a black-jack or sandbag."

"A burglar!" exclaimed Pauline.

"Of course; who else would deal such a blow? It was powerful,--dealt by a

strong arm--it has driven bits of this broken shell stuff into the brain.

But it was the force of the concussion that killed her. Here is a deep

dent,--and yet.--Tell me the circumstances. Why is she rigged out like

this?"

"I've no idea," answered Pauline, taking the initiative. "When I left her

last night, she had on an evening gown. But this negligée is not unusual;

it is one of her favorites. Though why she has on that spangled scarf, I

can't imagine."

"She seems to have been posing before the mirror, rather than engaged in

making a toilette." Dr. Stanton was a pompous middle-aged man of fussy

manner. He did not again touch the body, but he stepped about, noting the

strange conditions and commenting on them. "This paper snake,--tight

round her neck! What does that mean?"

"What _can_ it mean?" returned Pauline. "She had an intense hatred,--even

_fear_ of snakes; I've never seen it before. Could it have been placed

there to frighten her to death?"

"No; she didn't die of fright. See, her expression is placid,--even

smiling. But the shattered comb and dented skull have but one

explanation,--a stunning blow. Did she have on the comb last evening?"

"Yes; it is a favorite one with her. An heirloom, from a Colonial

ancestor. It encircled the entire back of her head, when whole."

"At what time was she killed?" asked Gray Haviland. He had stood, till

now, a silent listener to the conversation between Pauline and the

Doctor.

"Oh, many hours ago," returned Stanton; "six or eight at least. Evidently

she was preparing for bed, and trying the effect of some new finery."

"Those things are not new," put in Anita; "she has had them all a long

time. But she must have been admiring herself, for when we found her she

had on all her finest jewels."

"What?" cried Dr. Stanton; "where are they?"

"I took most of them off," replied Pauline, quietly, "and put them in the

safe. If the police people must come, I am not willing to have a fortune

in jewels here to tempt their cupidity. And I have a right. It is no

secret that my cousin Carrington and I are her heirs. But that snake

perplexes me beyond all else. If you knew her aversion to them,--even

pictured ones----"

"I do know it," returned the doctor; "I have often heard her say so. Ah,"

as he stepped carefully about, "she _was_ adorning herself; see, here is

powder scattered on the floor. She used this powder-puff, shaking it over

the rug and floor."

"I saw that the first thing!" cried Pauline, excitedly; "and there was

a----" she stopped, looking in amazement at the white dust on the floor.

For where she had seen a distinct footprint, as of a stockinged foot,

there was now merely a blurred whirl! Some one had obliterated that

footprint!

"A what?" asked the doctor, sharply.

"Nothing. A--a lot of powder spilled,--I was going to say."

Gray Haviland looked at her. "Tell the truth, Pauline," he said.

"I have," she replied, with a calm quite equalling his own. "Must we have

the Coroner, Dr. Stanton?"

"Yes, yes, of course; I will telephone at once. There will be police and

detectives,--oh, it is a terrible case! Nothing must be touched, nothing!

If there is _any_ clue to this mystery, do not let it be disturbed."

"But you say it was without doubt a burglar who did it," said Anita, her

wide eyes gleaming blue.

"It must have been."

"Then why were none of her jewels stolen?"

"Bless my soul!" and Dr. Stanton looked as if a bomb had exploded at his

feet. "Sure enough! It cannot have been a burglar! Who, then? What other

motive than robbery----"

"It _was_ a burglar," declared Pauline, "and he was--he was frightened

away by--by a noise--or something----"

"Not likely!" said Anita, "with all those gems in easy reach!"

"The Coroner and the police must get here at once!" and the doctor wiped

his perspiring brow. "Never have I seen such an inexplicable state of

affairs! Was--was Miss Carrington indisposed at all last evening? Did she

say or do anything unusual?"

"Not at all," began Pauline, but Anita interrupted; "Yes, she did! She

said, 'You little know what's going to happen to me! To-morrow you may

sing another tune!'"

"What did she mean by that?"

"I've no idea. Could it mean suicide?"

"No!" thundered the doctor; "her skull was fractured by some one bent on

wilful murder! As there is no robbery, we must look for a deeper motive

and a cleverer villain than any professional burglar!"

IV

A PAPER SNAKE

On the third floor was the bedroom of the maid, Estelle, and before its

locked door stood Pauline and Anita, demanding admittance. There was no

response from inside, until Pauline said sternly, "Unless you open this

door at once, Estelle, the police will force it open."

The key turned, the door moved slowly ajar, and Estelle's face appeared,

wearing an expression of amazement.

"What is it you say, Miss Pauline? The police? Why?"

The maid was making a very evident effort to appear composed, and was

succeeding wonderfully well. Her eyes were reddened with weeping,--a

condition which a hasty dabbing of powder had not concealed. She was

nervously trembling, but her air of injured innocence, if assumed, was

admirable.

"Estelle," and Pauline loomed tall and magnificent as an accusing angel,

"what do you know of your mistress' death?"

Estelle gave a shriek and threw herself on her bed in apparent hysterics.

"Don't begin that!" ordered Pauline, "sit up here and tell the truth."

"But," and the maid sat up, sobbing, "I know nothing. How can I?"

"Nonsense! You took the tea-tray to her at eight o'clock. What did you

see?"

Estelle shrugged her shoulders. "I saw Miss Carrington sitting before her

mirror. She, I assumed, was engrossed in reverie, so I set down the tray

on a tabouret and departed."

"You noticed nothing amiss?" said Anita, staring at the girl.

"No; I scarce looked at the lady. She reproved me harshly last night, and

I had no wish to annoy her. I set down the tray with haste and silently

departed."

"You set it down? Who, then, overturned it?"

"Overturned? Is it then upset?" Estelle's manner was the impersonal one

of the trained servant, who must show surprise at nothing, but it was a

trifle overdone.

"Estelle, stop posing. Wake up to realities. Miss Carrington is dead! Do

you hear? Dead!"

"Ah! _Mon Dieu_! Did it then kill her?" and Estelle's calm gave way and

she screamed and moaned in wild hysterics.

"What can we do with her?" asked Anita, helplessly; "she must know all

about the--the----"

"The murder," said Pauline calmly. "But she will tell us nothing. It is

useless to question her. The Coroner will attend to it, anyway."

"The Coroner," and Anita looked frightened. "Will he question all of us?"

"Of course he will. And, Anita," Pauline whirled on her suddenly, "what

are you going to say was the errand that took you to Aunt Lucy's room

after one o'clock last night?"

"I! Nothing of the sort! I was not in her room after we left it

together."

"I saw you. Don't trouble to deny it," and Pauline dropped her eyelids as

one bored by a conversation.

"You did!" and Anita's flower face turned rosy pink and her blue eyes

blazed with an intensity that Pauline's dark ones could never match. "Be

careful, Pauline Stuart, or I shall tell what _I_ know! You _dare_ to

make up such a story! It was _I_ who saw _you_ come from your aunt's room

at a late hour! What have you to say now?"

"Nothing--to you," and Pauline swept from the room and returned slowly

down the stairway to the second floor.

The sight of two police officers in the hall gave her a sudden start. How

had they appeared, so soon? And how dreadful to see them in the palatial

home that had heretofore housed only gentle-mannered aristocrats and

obsequious liveried servants! The men looked ill at ease as they stood

against the rich background of tapestry hangings and tropical palms, but

their faces showed a stern appreciation of their duty, and they looked at

Pauline with deferential but acute scrutiny.

Not noticing them in any way, the girl, her head held high, went straight

to her aunt's room. Sergeant Flake was in charge, and he refused her

admission.

"Coroner's orders, ma'am," he said; "he'll be here himself shortly, and

then you can see him."

"Come away, Pauline," and Haviland appeared and took her by the arm;

"where's Anita?"

"I left her in Estelle's room. Oh Gray, that girl----"

"Hush!" and gripping her firmly, Haviland led her to a small sitting room

and shut the door. "Now listen, Pauline; mind what I say. Don't give the

least bit of information or express the slightest notion of opinion

except to the chief authorities. And not to them until they ask you. This

is a terrible affair, and a mighty strange one."

"Who did it, Gray?"

"Never you mind. Don't even ask questions. The very walls have ears!"

"Who upset that breakfast tray?"

"Estelle, of course."

"She says she didn't."

"She lies. Everybody will lie; why, Pauline, you must lie yourself."

"I won't do it! I have no reason to!"

"You may find that you have. But, at least, Pauline, I beg of you, that

you will keep your mouth shut. There will be developments soon,--there

must be,--and then we will know what to do."

The two returned to the boudoir. At first glance it seemed to be full of

men. The beautiful room, with its ornate but harmonious furnishings and

appointments of the Marie Antoinette period, was occupied with eager

representatives of the law and justice hunting for any indication of the

ruthless hand that had felled the owner of all that elegance.

Coroner Scofield was receiving the report of Doctor Moore, who had

arrived with him.

Dr. Moore agreed with Dr. Stanton that the deceased had been struck with

a heavy weapon that had fractured the skull, but he admitted the wounds

showed some strange conditions which could only be explained by further

investigation.

The Coroner was deep in thought as he studied the face of the dead woman.

"It is most mysterious," he declared; "that face is almost smiling! it is

the face of a happy woman. Clearly, she did not know of her approaching

fate."

"The blow was struck from behind," informed Dr. Moore.

"Even so, why didn't she see the approach of the assailant in the mirror?

She is looking straight into the large glass,--must have been looking in

it at the moment of her death. _Why_ receive that death blow without a

tremor of fear or even a glance of startled inquiry?"

Inspector Brunt stood by, gravely, and for the most part silently,

watching and listening.

"That might imply," he said, slowly, "that if she did see the assailant,

it was some one she knew, and of whom she had no fear."

Gray Haviland looked up suddenly. A deep red spread over his face and

then, seeing himself narrowly watched by the detectives present, he set

his lips firmly together and said no word.

Pauline turned white and trembled, but she too said nothing.

"Why is she sitting in this large easy chair?" went on the Coroner; "Is

it not customary for ladies at their dressing tables to use a light

side-chair?"

This showed decidedly astute perception, and the Inspector looked

interestedly at the chair in question, which he had not especially

noticed before.

Being tacitly appealed to by the Coroner's inquiring eyes, Pauline

replied: "It is true that my aunt usually sat at her dressing-table in a

small chair,--that one, in fact," and she pointed to a dainty chair of

gilded cane. "I have no idea why she should choose the heavy, cushioned

one."

"It would seem," the Coroner mused, "as if she might have sat down there

to admire the effect of her belongings rather than to arrange her hair or

toilette."

Absorbedly, all present watched Coroner Scofield's movements.

It was true, the quietly reposeful attitude of the still figure leaning

back against the brocaded upholstery, and so evidently looking in the

great gold-framed mirror, was that of one admiring or criticising her own

appearance. Added to this, the fact of her bizarre costume and strange

adornments, it seemed certain that Miss Carrington had come to her death

while innocently happy in the feminine employment of dressing up in the

elaborate finery that she loved.

But the snake!

Carefully Coroner Scofield removed the inexplicable thing. He held it up

that all might see. A Japanese paper snake, a cheap toy, such as is found

together with fans and lanterns in the Oriental department of large

shops.

"Could this have been placed round her neck after death?" Scofield

inquired of the doctors.

The two physicians agreed, that though that was possible, yet the

appearance of the flesh beneath it seemed to indicate its having

encircled the throat during life.

"Never!" cried Pauline, excitedly. "Aunt Lucy _couldn't_ have sat there

and _smiled_, with a snake anywhere near her!"

"That would seem so," and Dr. Stanton nodded his head. "I well know of my

late patient's aversion to snakes. It amounted almost to a mania! It is

not an uncommon one, many women feel the same, though seldom to so great

an extent."

"That deepens the mystery," said Coroner Scofield; "unless, indeed, the

snake was put on after the crime. But that is even more mysterious. I

shall now remove these valuable jewels, and give them to----"

He looked inquiringly at Haviland and Pauline, and the latter immediately

responded: "Give them to me, Mr. Scofield. I am now mistress here."

Haviland said nothing, but he looked at Pauline as if in disapproval.

"Is this of great worth?" inquired Scofield, as he carefully removed the

scarf from the shoulders it surrounded.

"Only moderately so," returned Pauline. "It is a Syrian scarf and was

sent to her by her nephew who lives in Egypt. It is not new, he sent

several to us about a year ago."

She took the long, heavy, white and silver drapery, and laid it in a

nearby wardrobe. Then the Coroner unfastened the large pearls from their

place as eardrops, and taking up one lifeless hand removed its rings. All

these he handed to Pauline without a word.

"What is this?" he exclaimed suddenly; and opening the curled-up fingers

of the other hand he drew forth a crumpled gray object. It was a glove,

of soft suéde, and so tightly had it been held that it was deeply

creased.

"A man's glove!" said the Coroner, smoothing it out. "Will the wonders of

this case never cease?"

He scrutinized it, but remarking only that it was of medium size and

superior quality, he laid it carefully aside for the time.

From the same arm he removed the scarab bracelet, also handing that to

Pauline.

"The lady was fond of Oriental jewelry," he observed.

"Yes," returned Haviland, before Pauline could speak. "Her nephew sent or

brought home much of it. But, as we informed you, Miss Carrington was

also wearing pearls and diamonds of enormous value, compared to which

these trinkets are as nothing."

"But scarabs, I am told, are of great price."

"Some are," returned Haviland. "That bracelet, however, is not genuine,

nor of great value."

Then the Coroner, with delicate touch, removed the bits of broken

tortoise-shell from the puffs of hair, and carefully laid them together

on a small silver tray he appropriated from the dressing-table litter.

"I think," said Inspector Brunt, in his grave, slow way, "that it will be

wise to photograph the whole picture from several points of view before

the autopsy is performed."

Arrangements had been made for this, and Detective Hardy, a young man

from Headquarters, stepped forward with his camera.

As those who were asked to left the room, Pauline and Gray went out

together, and met Anita just outside in the hall.

"Oh, tell me, Gray! Who did it? What does it all mean?" she cried, and

grasped him by the arm.

"Tell her about it, Gray," said Pauline, and leaving the two together,

she went swiftly along the hall to her own room.

The alert eyes of the guarding policemen followed her, but also they

followed the movements of every one else, and if they had, as yet, any

suspicions, no one knew of them.

Meantime, the gruesome work of photography went on.

Surely never was such a strange subject for the camera! Denuded of her

jewels, but still robed in her gorgeous dressing-gown, and still leaning

back in her luxurious arm-chair, with that strange smile of happy

expectancy, Miss Lucy Carrington presented the same air of regal

authority she had always worn in life. Her eyes were widely staring, but

there was no trace or hint of fear in her peaceful attitude of repose.

"There's no solution!" said Inspector Brunt, deeply thoughtful. "No one

could or would crack a skull like that, but an experienced and

professional burglar and housebreaker. And such a one could have but one

motive, robbery, and the jewels were not stolen!"

"Inside job," observed Scofield, briefly, his eyes on his work.

"Maybe the burglar was frightened away at the critical moment."

"No. Whatever frightened him would be known to some member of the

family."

"Maybe it is."

"Hey? Have you a theory?" and the Coroner looked up suddenly.

"Anything but! There's no _possible_ theory that will fit the facts."

"Except the truth."

"Yes, except the truth. But it will be long before we find that, I'm

afraid. It strikes me it's at the bottom of an unusually deep well."

"Well, you'd _better_ find it. It'd be a nice how d'y' do for you to fall

down on _this_ case!"

"There's no falling down been done yet. And it may well be that the very

fact of there being such strange and irreconcilable conditions shall

prove a help rather than a hindrance."

And then, all being in readiness, the lifeless form of Miss Carrington,

once the proud domineering autocrat, now laid low, was borne to a distant

room, for the autopsy that might cast a further light on the mystery of

her tragic death.

V

A MAN'S GLOVE

Inspector Brunt and the young detective, Hardy, were interviewing the

members of the household in the library, and the task was not an easy

one. The two girls were distinctly at odds, and Gray Haviland, whether

authoritatively or not, persisted in assuming a major rôle.

"It seems to me," Haviland said, "that it is the most remarkable mystery

that has ever occurred in the experience of you police people. Now, I

think the wisest plan is to call in a big detective,--no offence, Mr.

Hardy,--but I mean a noted fellow, like Stone, say, and let him get at

the root of the crime."

"I think, Gray," and Pauline looked very haughty, "that any such

suggestion would come better from me. I am now mistress of the place, and

it is for me to say what we shall do."

"I know it," and Haviland looked no whit abashed, "but you know Carr

Loria is equally in authority, even if he isn't here, and you see----"

"I don't see that Carr's absence gives _you_ any authority!"

"But it does, in a way. As Miss Lucy's man of affairs, I ought to look

out for the interests of her heirs, at least, for the absent one. I'm

sure Loria would want to do everything possible to find the murderer."

"Has this nephew been notified yet?" asked Inspector Brunt.

"Yes," returned Pauline; "we've telephoned a cablegram to the city to be

sent to him in Egypt. But I don't know when he will get it, nor when

we'll get a response."

"Where is he?"

"His permanent address is Cairo, but he is off in the desert, or

somewhere, so much that sometimes he is away from communication for weeks

at a time. Still I've sent it, that's all I can do."

"What did you tell him?"

"I made it rather long and circumstantial. I told him of Aunt Lucy's

death, and that she was killed by a blow on the head by a burglar, which

fractured her skull. I asked him if he would come home or if we should go

there. You see, we were intending to sail for Egypt in February."

"Who were?"

"Myself, my aunt, Miss Frayne and Mr. Haviland. Carrington Loria has been

begging us to make the trip, and at last Aunt Lucy decided to go. Our

passage is engaged, and all plans made."

"And now----?"

"Now, I do not know. Everything is uncertain. But if the burglar can be

found, and punished, I see no reason why I, at least, shouldn't go on and

make the trip. The others must please themselves."

Pauline looked at Anita and at Haviland with a detached air, as if now

they were no longer members of the household, and their plans did not

concern her.

Not so Haviland. "Sure I'll go," he cried; "I fancy Carr will be mighty

glad to keep me on in the same capacity I served Miss Carrington. He'll

need a representative in this country. I doubt he'll come over,--there's

no need, if I look after all business matters for him."

"What does he do in Egypt?" asked the Inspector, who was half engrossed

looking over his memoranda, and really took slight interest in the absent

heir.

"He's excavating wonderful temples and things," volunteered Anita, for

Pauline and Gray were looking, amazed, at a man who came into the room.

He was the detective who had been left in charge of the boudoir, and he

carried a strange-looking object.

"What _is_ it?" cried Pauline.

"It's a black-jack." replied the detective. "I found it, Inspector, just

under the edge of the tassel trimmin' of the lounge. The fellow slung it

away, and it hid under the fringe, out of sight."

Gravely, Inspector Brunt took the weapon. It was rudely made, of black

cloth, a mere bag, long and narrow, and filled with bird shot.

"That's the weapon!" declared Brunt. "A man could hit a blow with that

thing that would break the skull without cutting the skin. Yes, there is

no further doubt that Miss Carrington was murdered by a burglar. This is

a burglar's weapon; this it was that crushed the shell comb to fragments,

and fractured the skull, leaving the body sitting upright, and

unmutilated. Death was, of course, instantaneous."

"But the jewels!" said Detective Hardy, wonderingly; "why----"

"I don't _know_ why!" said Brunt, a little testily; "that is for you

detectives to find out. I have to go by what evidence I find. Can I find

a broken skull and a black-jack in the same room and not deduce a

burglarious assault that proved fatal? The thief may have been scared off

or decided he didn't want the loot, but that doesn't affect the certainty

that we have the weapon and therefore the case is a simple one. That

burglar can be found, without a doubt. Then we shall learn _why_ he

didn't steal the jewels."

"But the snake?" said Pauline, looking wonderingly at the Inspector; "the

burglar must have been a maniac or an eccentric to put that snake round

my aunt's neck after he killed her,--and nothing will ever make me

believe that she allowed it there while alive!"

"That's what I say," put in Haviland; "the whole affair is so

inexplicable,--excuse me, Mr. Brunt, but I can't think it such a simple

case as you do,--that I think we should engage expert skill to solve the

mysteries of it all."

"That must come later," and Inspector Brunt resumed his usual gravity of

manner which had been disturbed by the discovery of the black-jack. "Will

you now please give me some detailed information as to the circumstances?

Is the house always securely locked at night?"

"Very much so," answered Haviland; "Miss Carrington was not overly timid,

but she always insisted on careful precautions against burglary. She had

a house full of valuable furniture, curios, and art works besides her

personal belongings. Yes, the house was always supposed to be carefully

locked and bolted."

"Whose duty is it to look after it?"

"The butler Haskins, and his wife, who is the cook, had all such matters

in charge."

"I will interview them later. Now please tell me, any of you, why Miss

Carrington was arrayed in such peculiar fashion, last evening."

"I can't imagine," said Pauline. "My aunt was not a vain woman. I have

never known her to sit before a mirror, except when necessary, to have

her hair dressed. It is almost unbelievable that she should deliberately

don those jewels and scarf and sit down there as if to admire the effect.

Yet it had that appearance."

"But she wore the jewels during the evening, did she not?"

"Not all of them. She wore her pearls, because, as she told us, and as I

have often heard her say, pearls must be worn occasionally to keep them

in condition. But she added a large number of valuable gems--or, some one

did,--after we left her last night."

"Whom do you mean by we?"

"Miss Frayne and myself. We were in her room, to say good-night to her,

and we left at the same time."

"At what time?"

"About quarter past twelve, I should think, wasn't it, Anita? We went

upstairs about midnight, and were with my aunt ten or fifteen minutes."

"Were your good-nights amicable?" asked the Inspector, and Pauline looked

up in surprise. Then, recollecting the last words of her aunt, she shut

her lips obstinately and made no reply.

"Indeed, they were not!" declared Miss Frayne; "Miss Carrington told both

Miss Stuart and myself that it would be our last night beneath this roof!

That to-day we must seek some other home, for she would harbor us no

longer!"

"Ah! And why did she thus treat you?"

"There was no especial reason," and Anita's lovely blue eyes looked

straight at the Inspector with a pathetic gaze, "she was in a tantrum, as

she frequently was."

"She didn't mean it," put in Pauline, hastily.

"She did!" asseverated Anita; "I've heard her threaten to send us away

before, but never so earnestly. She meant it last night, I am sure. And,

too, she knew something would happen to her last night,--she said so."

"What? what's that?"

"Do hush, Anita!" said Pauline; "those foolish words meant nothing!"

"Proceed, Miss Frayne," and the Inspector spoke sternly.

"She did," went on Anita. "I don't remember the exact words, but she said

I little knew what was going to happen to her, and she said 'to-morrow

you may sing another song!' Surely such words meant something!"

"If they did," said Pauline, angrily, "they merely meant that she was

going to dismiss you to-day!"

"Not at all," and Anita glanced at her, "she distinctly said something

would happen to her,--not to me."

"You know better than to take things she said in a temper, seriously! If

we are to repeat idle conversations, suppose I say that I heard _you_ say

last evening that you'd like to kill her!"

"I didn't!" shrieked Anita.

"You did," declared Pauline, calmly; "and Gray said she ought to be

killed, too. I know you didn't mean to kill her, but I've just as much

right to quote your foolish words as you have to quote hers."

"Nonsense!" said Haviland; "let up, Polly! You two are always at each

other! As there is no question as to who killed poor Miss Lucy, why rake

up our foolish words spoken under the intense provocation of her

exhibition of temper,--which was specially trying last night. Inspector,

can we tell you anything more of importance?"

So far the Inspector had been almost silent, and appeared to be learning

some points from the conversation not addressed to him. Now, he changed

his manner, and began briskly to ask questions.

"This glove," he said, holding it out, "was, as you know, found clasped

in her hand. Is it yours, Mr. Haviland?"

"No," said the young man, as, after a close examination of the glove he

handed it back; "no, it is a size smaller than I wear, and it is of a

different make from mine."

"Have you any idea whose it can be? It is highly improbable the burglar

left it."

"I've no idea," and Haviland shrugged his shoulders. "But if it was not

left by the intruder, where could it possibly have come from? It is a

man's glove."

"Could it be one of Cousin Carr's?" said Pauline. "Aunt Lucy was awfully

fond of anything of his. She kept one of his caps in her drawer for

months, after he left the last time."

"No," replied Haviland; "it isn't Loria's. He wears larger gloves than I

do. My theory points to a sort of gentleman burglar, a 'Raffles,' you

know, and I think he talked with Miss Lucy, before he struck that blow,

and disarmed her mind of fear."

"What an extraordinary idea!" and Pauline looked thoughtful.

"But how else explain the glove?"

"And the snake? Did your gentleman burglar persuade her to wear that

paper thing? Never! Gray, you're absurd!"

"Another thing," went on Inspector Brunt, returning the glove to his

roomy pocket-book; "In the bedroom we noticed a glass of milk and beside

it an empty plate. Was it the lady's habit to have a night lunch?"

"Yes," said Anita; "but she rarely ate it. In case of insomnia, she had

ready a light repast, but she almost never touched it."

"The glass of milk is still untouched," said Brunt, "but the plate is

empty. What did it contain?"

"A sandwich, I think," said Anita. "That is what Estelle usually prepared

for her. She will know,--Estelle, the maid."

"Miss Carrington's lady's maid?"

"Yes; though not hers exclusively. She was expected to act as maid for

Miss Stuart and myself also, at such times as Miss Carrington didn't

require her services."

"And she, then, brought the breakfast tray, that is upset on the floor?"

"Yes; Miss Lucy always had an early cup of tea, before she dressed for

breakfast with the family."

"And the maid took it to her this morning? Did she not then discover

the--the tragedy?"

"She says not!" cried Pauline; "but I'm sure she did! She says she saw

Miss Lucy at the mirror, and thinking her engrossed, merely left the tray

on the tabouret and went away."

"Ridiculous!" exclaimed Haviland; "What does Estelle mean by such lies?

Of course she saw Miss Carrington's strange appearance, of course she was

frightened out of her wits, and of course she dropped the tray and ran.

But why not say so? And why not give an immediate alarm? She took that

tray, probably, about eight. Pauline went up at nine. What was Estelle

doing all that time? Why didn't she go in to dress Miss Carrington? I

tell you, Mr. Inspector, there's a lot of queer work to be explained, and

with all due respect to the force, I'm pretty sure you'll need expert

service if you're going to get anywhere. And I'm sure, too, that if we

can get word to Carrington Loria and back, he'll say spare no trouble or

expense to avenge his aunt's murder. He is equally heir with you,

Pauline, and he ought to be consulted."

"The will hasn't been read yet," said Miss Stuart; "we can't assume

anything until that is done."

"Pshaw! you know perfectly well half of the bulk of the estate is yours

and half Carr's. I have a small slice and Miss Frayne a bit. The older

servants have small legacies, and there are a few charities. That, Mr.

Brunt, is the gist of the will. Do you not agree with me, that as I was

the man of business for the late Miss Carrington, I am justified, in the

absence of Mr. Loria, in continuing my services, at least, until we can

get definite directions from him?"

"Those matters are outside my province, Mr. Haviland. Miss Carrington's

legal advisers will doubtless come here soon, and such things will be

decided by them. Now, here's another point. I noted in the course of our

investigation in the boudoir a quantity of powder fallen on the floor

near the dressing table, in such relation to it that it would seem Miss

Carrington was using the face powder as she sat there. Was this her

habit?"

"Her habit? Yes;" said Anita, "Miss Carrington was in the habit of using

face powder,--even cosmetics. It is not strange then, that such a

proceeding was part of her night toilette."

"No, not at all," agreed Mr. Brunt. "But where the powder was thickest,

on the hard floor, near the rug, was a muddled spot, as if some one had

wiped out or swept up a mark or print. Can any of you explain this?"

No one spoke, and the stern voice went on. "I remember, Miss Stuart, that

you began to say something bearing on this while we were in that room,

and you suddenly stopped, appearing confused. I ask you why?"

Pauline hesitated, bit her lip, looked at Gray and then at Anita, and

finally said, "I may as well tell. It is nothing. When I went to my

aunt's room, and found what I did find,--I was so excited and nervous I

scarce knew what I did. But I remember seeing a footprint in that powder,

and in obedience to an impulsive instinct I--I obliterated it."

"With what?"

"With my handkerchief. I merely slapped at it, and the light powder flew

about it."

"Why did you do this?"

"I don't know. I had no real reason. I was not thinking of what I was

doing."

"Then you did not have a desire to shield some one from possible

suspicion?" The words were shot at her so swiftly that Pauline gasped.

"Suspicion! What do you mean? Was it not the work of a burglar?"

"Was the impression of a foot that you saw, the foot of a man or a

woman?"

"How can I tell? It was large, but as it was a bare or stockinged foot I

could not judge. Might not the burglar have removed his boots, before

entering the room?"

"He might, indeed, and that is just what he did do. For more prints of

that stockinged foot have been discovered on the stairs, and there is no

doubt that the tracks are those of the assailant of Miss Carrington. With

your permission, Miss Stuart, I will now go to interview the servants.

May I ask you to await me here, all of you? I shall not be very long."

As the Inspector and the detectives left the room, Haskins appeared to

announce Mrs. Frothingham and Count Henri Charlier.

VI

A NEIGHBOR'S CALL

"Oh, is it not terrible? What _can_ I say to comfort you!"

Mrs. Frothingham's distressed tones and her air of eager, intense

sympathy met with little response from Pauline.

Haviland had been called from the room on an errand and Anita's

willingness to receive the neighbor's condolences did not seem

acceptable. The overdressed, forward-mannered widow continued to direct

her attention entirely to Pauline, and that young woman merely surveyed

her visitor coolly and replied in monosyllables.

"Thanks," she said, and her icy air would have deterred a less determined

intruder.

"I simply couldn't help running over as soon as I heard the dreadful

news. For we are neighbors after all, though not so very well acquainted;

and neighbors have a camaraderie of their own, I think."

"Yes?" said Pauline, and her eyelids fell slightly, with an expression of

boredness.

"Yes, indeed," Mrs. Frothingham rattled on; "and I said to our dear

Count, we must run over at once, there may be something we can do for the

saddened ones."

"Thank you;" and had a marble statue been given vocal powers the effect

would have been much the same.

"Dear friend," continued the unabashed visitor, "I know how overcome you

must be----"

"I am not overcome at all," said Pauline, rising, and determined to hear

no more; "and I must beg to be excused, Mrs. Frothingham, as I have many

matters to attend to this morning."

"Ah, yes, of course, you have. We will not detain you. The Count and I

merely called for a moment to inquire----"

"Yes, I quite understand. Miss Frayne will be pleased to answer your

inquiries. Thank you both, and--good-morning."

With a polite but distant bow, Pauline left the room, and as Count

Charlier sprang to hold the door open for her, he, after a moment's

hesitation, followed her out.

"A moment, I beg, Miss Stuart," he said as they reached the hall; "You

are offended at Mrs. Frothingham's intrusion, but have I not a right to

call? Was I not such a friend of Miss Carrington as to justify this

tribute of respect to her memory?"

"Certainly, Count," and Pauline grew a shade kinder, "but I am not

sufficiently acquainted with your friend to receive her visits."

"Ah, no. That is conceded. But, I pray you, tell me of the sad affair. I

have heard no details,--that is, unless you would rather not."

"No, I am not unwilling. You were a good friend of Aunt Lucy's--she was

fond of you, and I am glad to talk to some one. Let us sit here." Pauline

indicated a recessed seat in the hall and the pair sat there. She

recounted briefly the story of the tragedy and the Count was duly

sympathetic. Pauline watched him closely, and discerned great interest

but little grief or sorrow.

"A burglar, of course," said the Count hearing of the cruel weapon. "How

_could_ any one attack the charming lady! And the marvelous jewels she

wore! They were, of course, stolen?"

"No; that's the strange part. They were not."

"Ah, how splendid!" and his absorbed air of satisfaction gave Pauline a

thrill of disgust at his cold-bloodedness. "And now they are all yours?

Those magnificent gems?"

"The property, most of it, is divided between my cousin and myself."

"Your cousin? Mr. Haviland?"

"No; he is but a distant connection. I mean my first cousin, Mr. Loria,

now in Egypt."

"Ah, yes, I have heard Miss Carrington refer to him. He will come home?"

"I do not know. We have cabled of course. Count Charlier, do you remember

hearing my aunt say, last evening, that she expected something to happen

to her?"

"I remember, Miss Stuart."

"Have you any idea what she meant?"

"I? But how could I know?"

"Answer my question, please."

The Count's eyes fell, and he shifted his feet about uneasily. At last he

said: "It is not pleasant to say such things, but since you ask, I may be

permitted to assume that the late Miss Carrington had a regard for my

humble self."

"And she expected, she--hoped that her regard might be returned?"

"It may be so."

"And that last night you might tell her so?"

"You honor me."

"Did you tell her so?"

"I did not, Miss Stuart. What might have happened had she lived I cannot

say, but I did not, last evening, say any word to Miss Carrington of my

aspiration to her hand."

"Did you say anything that could have been taken as a hint that some

time, say, in the near future, you might express such an aspiration?"

"I may have done so."

"Thank you, Count Charlier. I had perhaps no right to ask, but you have

answered my rather impertinent questions straightforwardly, and I thank

you."

Pauline rose, as if to end the interview. In the doorway appeared Anita.

"Pauline," she said, "I wish you would come back and listen to Mrs.

Frothingham's story. It seems to me of decided importance."

"You have something to tell me?" asked Pauline, returning to the library

and looking at the unwelcome neighbor with patient tolerance.

"Yes, Miss Stuart. Now, it may be nothing,--nothing, I mean, of

consequence, that is, you may not think so, but I----"

"Suppose you let me hear it and judge for myself."

"Yes. Well, it's only this. I was wakeful last night, or rather early

this morning, and looking from my bedroom window, which faces this house,

I saw a man climb out of a window on the first floor and skulk away among

the shrubbery."

"At what time was this?" and Pauline looked interested at last.

"About four o'clock. He was to all appearances a burglar----"

"How could you tell? Was it not dark at that hour in the morning?"

"No; the moon is past full, you know, and it shone brightly in the

western sky."

"Enough for you to discern the man clearly?"

"I took a field-glass to assist my vision. He stealthily climbed out and

skirting the bushes made his way swiftly toward the great gates."

"This is indeed an important bit of information, Mrs. Frothingham; I dare

say you ought to tell it to the police who are here."

"Oh, I couldn't! I'm so timid about such things! But,--if you would go

with me, Miss Stuart----"

"Miss Frayne will go with you," said Pauline, coolly; "You will find a

policeman in the hall who will direct you where to find the Inspector."

Without another word Pauline bowed in a way to include the lady and the

Count also, and went away to her own room.

"Stuck-up thing!" exclaimed Mrs. Frothingham, and Anita nodded her golden

head in agreement.

Inspector Brunt instructed Hardy to hear the story of Mrs. Frothingham,

and he devoted his own attention to Count Charlier, of whom he had heard

as being a friend of Miss Carrington's.

He quizzed the Frenchman rather pointedly as to his friendship with the

unfortunate lady and the Count became decidedly ill at ease.

"Why do you ask me so much?" he objected; "I was a friend, yes; I may

have aspired to a nearer relation, yes? That is no crime?"

"Not at all, Count," said Mr. Brunt; "I only want to find out if Miss

Carrington's strange reference to something about to happen to her could

have had any reference to you."

"It might be so; I cannot say. But all that has no bearing on the poor

lady's death."

"No. At what time did you go away from here, Count Charlier?"

"At about midnight."

"You went directly home?"

"To Mrs. Frothingham's, where I am a house guest, yes."

"And you retired?"

"Yes."

"And remained in your bed till morning?"

"But of a certainty, yes! What are you implying? That I had a hand in

this affair?"

"No, no; be calm, my dear sir. I ask you but one question. Is this your

glove?"

The Inspector took the glove from his pocket and offered it to the Count.

The Frenchman took it, examined it minutely and without haste.

"No, sir," he said, returning it; "that is not my property."

"Thank you, that is all," and the Inspector put the glove back in his

pocket.

"There is no doubt as to the main facts," said the Inspector, a half hour

later, as, with the members of the family he summed up what had been

found out from all known sources. "The assailant was most certainly a

burglarious intruder; the weapon, this 'black-jack'; the motive, robbery.

Why the robbery was not achieved and what is the meaning of the

unexplained circumstances of the whole affair, we do not yet know. They

are matters to be investigated, but they cannot greatly affect the

principal conditions. You may be thankful, Miss Stuart, that the sad

death of your aunt was undoubtedly painless; and also that the thief did

not succeed in his attempt to purloin the valuable gems."

The Inspector's speech might seem cold-hearted, but Brunt was a practical

man, and he was truly glad for himself that in addition to finding the

murderer he did not also have to recover a fortune of rare jewels.

"Now," he went on, "as to the maid, Estelle. I have talked with her, but

she is so hysterical and her stories so contradictory, that I am inclined

to the opinion that she has some sort of guilty knowledge or at least

suspicion of the intruder. The man was stocking-footed, and it is a pity,

Miss Stuart, that you erased that footprint on the floor! But it would

have been of doubtful use, I dare say. We have found faint tracks of the

powder on the steps of the staircase, and though the last ones are almost

indiscernible they seem to lead through the butler's pantry, and to an

exit by that window. But the window was found fastened this morning, so,

if it was used as a means for the burglar's getaway, it must have been

fastened afterward by some person inside. Could this person have been the

maid, Estelle?"

"Sure it could!" exclaimed Haviland, who was an interested listener.

"That girl is a sly one! I caught her this morning, trying to take away

that glass of milk. I told her to let it alone."

"Why?" asked the Inspector.

"Because I thought if she wanted to get it away, there must be some

reason for her to want it! What was it?"

"Nonsense!" and Anita looked scornfully at Gray; "naturally, Estelle

would do up the rooms, and would, of course, remove the remains of Miss

Lucy's night luncheon."

"But that's just it!" said Haviland, triumphantly: "she didn't take the

plate that had had sandwiches on it! If she had, I should have thought

nothing of it. But she took the glass of milk, in a furtive, stealthy

way, that made me look at her. She turned red, and trembled, and I told

her to set the glass down. She pretended not to hear, so I told her

again. Then she obeyed. But she glared at me like a tigress."

"Oh, rubbish!" said Anita. "She was annoyed at being interfered with in

her work, and perhaps fearful of being censured."

"All right," said Haviland, "then there's no harm done. If that girl is

entirely innocent, what I said won't hurt her. But she looked to me as if

on a secret errand and a desperate one."

"What puzzles me is," mused the Inspector, "why she persists in saying

that she left the tray in good order in the room,--though it was

discovered an hour later, upset,--when we know that Miss Carrington had

been dead since, at least, two or three o'clock."

"Look here, Inspector," and Haviland frowned, "if the murder was

committed at two or three o'clock, how is it that Mrs. Frothingham saw

the intruder escaping at four or later?"

"There is a discrepancy there," admitted Brunt, "but it may be explained

away. The doctors cannot be sure until the autopsy is completed of the

exact hour of death, and, too, the lady next door may have made an error

in time."

"Well, I'll inform you that Estelle did upset that tray herself," said

Pauline with an air of finality.

"How do you know?" and Inspector Brunt peered at her over his glasses.

"It was while Gray was telephoning for the doctor," said Pauline,

reminiscently, "that I looked carefully at that overturned tray."

"I know it," said Haviland, "I told you not to touch anything."

"I know that, but I did. I picked up from the _débris_, this;" and

Pauline held up to view a tiny hairpin of the sort called 'invisible.'

"It is Estelle's," she said; "see, it is the glistening bronze color of

her hair. Anita has gold-colored ones, and I do not use these fine wire

ones. I use only shell. Moreover, I know this is Estelle's,--don't you,

Anita?"

"It may be."

"It is. And its presence there, on the tray, proves that she let the tray

fall in her surprise at seeing Aunt Lucy, and in her trembling excitement

loosened and dropped this hairpin. Doubtless, she flung her hand up to

her head--a not unusual gesture of hers--and so dislodged it."

Brunt looked closely at the speaker. "You've got it all fixed up, haven't

you, Miss Stuart?"

Pauline flushed slightly. "I didn't 'fix it up,' as you call it, but I

did gather, from what I saw, that the truth must be as I have stated; and

in my anxiety to learn anything possible as to the mystery of this crime,

I secured what may or may not be a bit of evidence. As Mr. Haviland has

said, if Estelle is entirely innocent of any complicity in the matter,

these things can't hurt her. But it would scarcely be possible for her to

have been so careless as to drop a hairpin on the tray without noticing

it, if she were not startled and flurried by something that took her mind

and eyes entirely away from her duties."

"I think you are purposely making a great deal out of nothing," remarked

Anita; "it seems unfair, to say the least, to condemn the poor girl on

such trifling evidence."

The talk was interrupted by the entrance of the Coroner and the two

doctors.

"It is found," said Coroner Scofield, "that the cause of Miss

Carrington's death was not the blow on the head."

The Inspector looked his amazement, and the others sat with receptively

blank countenances waiting further disclosures.

"No," went on Scofield, "we find in the stomach unmistakable traces of

poison."

"Poison!" It was Anita's frightened whisper; "who would poison her?"

"What kind of poison?" asked Brunt.

"Aconitine; deadly and sure. It leaves little trace, but certain tests

reveal it beyond all doubt. That is why we have been so long. The tests

are difficult of performance. But, it is over, and we report that Miss

Lucy Carrington was poisoned by aconitine, administered either by her own

hand or another."

"Oh, she never would poison herself!" cried Anita; "who did it?"

"And the blow on the head?" said Inspector Brunt, looking deeply

perplexed.

"Her death, from poison, occurred at or near two o'clock," asserted the

Coroner; "the blow on the head was given after life had departed."

"Incredible!" said Brunt.

"It is, indeed, Inspector. But those are the facts. The heavy blow

fractured the skull, but left no bruise or mark, nor was there any blood

from the cut scalp. In addition we have the poison found in the system,

and the death symptoms of quiet, placid dissolution which are consequent

always on that particular poison."

"Could it have been self-administered?" asked Brunt.

"Not by Miss Carrington," said Doctor Stanton, decidedly. "The lady has

been my patient for years, and she had an absolute abhorrence of all

sorts of drugs or medicines. She made more fuss over taking a simple

powder than a spoiled child. I have often prescribed for her, knowing

full well she would not take my prescriptions because of her detestation

of taking medicine. When remedies have been really necessary, I have had

to administer them while with her, and a difficult task it was. Moreover,

my patient was not of the temperament or disposition to seek death for

herself, nor had she any reason to do so. No; the case is murder; the

poison was administered by some one who wished for her death and

deliberately set out to accomplish it,--and succeeded."

"Is the action of this poison instantaneous?" asked Brunt.

"No; death ensues about a half hour to an hour after the dose is taken

into the system."

"Then, we gather that the poison was taken in the neighborhood of one

o'clock, last night."

"Yes," agreed the Coroner, "about one o'clock."

"About one o'clock!" whispered Anita, in an awe-struck, gasping way, and

her great blue eyes stared dazedly into the dark ones of Pauline.

VII

THE INQUEST

Next morning the inquest was proceeding. The great living-room at Garden

Steps was crowded with listeners, drawn hither by sympathy, interest or

curiosity. And each class found ample to satisfy its motive. The mere

fact of being within that exclusive home, within those heretofore

inaccessible doors, was enough to thrill and delight many, and

observation and scrutiny were as well repaid as was the listening to the

astounding revelations that were poured into their ears.

Coroner Scofield's jury was composed of intelligent men, who were eagerly

receptive to the appalling facts narrated to them and the curiously

bizarre bits of evidence that became known as the witnesses were

questioned.

Dr. Stanton told of his being called to the house, and his discoveries

and conclusions. He admitted that he assumed death was caused by the blow

on the head, but claimed that it was a pardonable error in view of the

fact that such a blow had been given. He affirmed, and Dr. Moore

corroborated it, that the autopsy showed that death was caused by

aconitine poison, administered, either by the deceased or another, at an

hour not earlier than one o'clock, and probably soon thereafter. The

terrible blow that had fractured the skull had been given after life had

been for some time extinct.

Dr. Stanton asserted emphatically his late patient's detestation of drugs

or medicines of any sort, adducing thereby the extreme improbability of

the poison having been self-administered. Moreover, the temperament and

disposition of the late Miss Carrington entirely evinced a love of life

and desire to prolong it by means of any device or assistance the doctor

might give.

Pauline was called next, and a little flutter of excitement in the

audience greeted her appearance.

Exceedingly dignified, but of a sweet, gracious mien, she at once

received the silent approval of the crowd. Her black gown, its collar of

sheer white organdy slightly open at the throat, well suited her pale,

beautiful face and her dark hair and eyes. To-day, her eyes seemed

fathomless. At times, gazing intently at the Coroner until they almost

disconcerted him; and then, hidden by veiling lids, whose long lashes

fell suddenly, as if to conceal further disclosures.

On the whole, Pauline was not a satisfactory witness. She told, in most

straightforward way, of leaving the breakfast table to go to her aunt's

room and of finding there the dead body. She told clearly all the

circumstances of the upset tray, the spilled powder and the eccentric

garb of Miss Carrington herself. But questions as to her opinion of these

facts brought little response.

"You left Miss Carrington at half-past twelve?" asked Coroner Scofield.

"Not so late, I think," returned Pauline; "probably at quarter or twenty

minutes past twelve,--I am not sure."

"How was she then dressed?"

"In the gown she had worn during the evening."

"And her jewels?"

"When I left my aunt, she was wearing her pearls and the other jewelry

she had worn with her evening dress. Some brooches and rings and

bracelets."

"But not so much as she had on when you discovered her in the morning?"

"Not nearly so much."

"How do you account for this?"

"I don't account for it. To me it is exceedingly mysterious."

"And the paper snake round her neck?"

"I have no idea by whom such a thing could have been brought to my aunt.

But I am positive she never put it on herself. Nor can I think she would

allow it to come near her if she were alive,--or conscious,--or, had

power to scream for help. Any one knowing my aunt's fear and horror of

anything reptilian will agree to this."

"It seems evident," said the Coroner, thoughtfully, "that some intruder

entered Miss Carrington's room, at or near one o'clock. That this

intruder in some manner induced Miss Carrington to swallow the poison,

whether conscious of her act or not. That the intruder subsequently, and

for some reason, placed the snake round the neck of the victim, and,

later still, brutally gave her a stunning blow with the black-jack which

was found, and thereby fractured her skull. Granting these assumptions,

can you, Miss Stuart, give us any information that would lead to

discovery of the hand that wrought this havoc?"

"Not any," and Pauline raised her great eyes a moment to Scofield's face

and slowly dropped them again.

"Then can you not express an opinion or suggest a theory that might

account for such strange happenings, at least, in part?"

"No," said Pauline, slowly; "I have no idea, nor can I imagine why my

aunt should be so elaborately arrayed and seated in an easy chair in

front of her mirror. It is contrary to all her customs or habits."

"Could she have been killed first and could the jewels and adornments

have been added afterward?" asked the Coroner of the doctors.

"No," replied Dr. Moore; "the whole condition of the body and clothing

make such a theory practically impossible."

"Quite impossible," added Dr. Stanton; "and, too, what would be the sense

of such a proceeding?"

"We are establishing the facts of the proceedings, not the sense of

them," returned the Coroner, a little testily, for he was at his wits'

end even to make a beginning in this strange case.

"At least," he went on, "we have the facts and the approximate time of

the crime; have you, Miss Stuart, any suspicion of who the murderer can

be?"

The question was shot out suddenly. If its intent was to startle the

witness, it certainly succeeded. Pauline Stuart turned even whiter than

she had been, and she caught her breath quickly and audibly as she

flashed a frightened glance at Gray Haviland. It was by no means an

accusing glance, though many who saw it, eager for a direction in which

to cast their suspicions, took it for such.

But Pauline controlled herself immediately. "Certainly not," she said

coldly. "That is, I can have no suspicion of the murderer's identity. It

was, of course, a midnight intruder, of the criminal class. I have no

individual acquaintances who use or possess the weapon that was employed

in this crime."

"The black-jack is an auxiliary only. The poison may have been

administered by one not versed in the ways of professional criminals. You

admit that, I suppose?"

"It is no doubt true," said Pauline, icily, "that poison may be given by

a person not belonging to the criminal classes. I fail to see, however,

how that fact affects the matter in hand."

"It may well affect it. Since Miss Carrington was killed by a deadly

poison, we must conclude that the black-jack assault was made with the

intention of concealing the poisoning and making it appear that the blow

caused the death. There seems to me no other way to account for the

conditions that confront us."

A silence followed this. Its truth was patent to everybody. Clearly, the

poisoner had delivered the blow, for no one else would attack a victim

already dead. And a plausible reason would be the hope that the poisoning

would pass unnoticed in view of the other apparent cause of death.

"And it points to the work of an amateur," went on Scofield; "a

professional criminal would know that the autopsy would disclose the

earlier crime."

Pauline lost her nerve. "I don't know anything about it!" she cried, and

sank back into her seat, her face buried in her hands.

Coroner Scofield was a man of tact. "It is entirely natural, Miss

Stuart," he said, "that this thought should overcome you. But we must

realize the fact that the theory of a professional burglar is practically

untenable, because nothing was stolen. A burglar's motive could be only

robbery, and this did not take place. Nor can we think that a burglar was

frightened away, before he could appropriate the jewels. For, after

giving the poison, and before the blow was given, sufficient time elapsed

for a successful getaway to be made. Nor would the burglar have been at

pains to cover up his poisoning work, for having achieved his end, he

would have secured his booty and made escape. So, it is evident that the

motive, not being robbery, is as yet unknown, and may be obscure and

complicated."

"What could it have been?" asked Pauline, her composure regained, her

voice low and even.

Scofield looked at her. "It is said, Miss Stuart, that the only motives

for murder are love, revenge or gain. Can you imagine any one of these

directed toward your aunt?"

Pauline replied tranquilly. Evidently she had fully recovered her poise.

"I can think of no one who could have killed my aunt for love; it is

improbable that she has ever done any one such wrong as to call for such

a deed in revenge; as to gain, if you mean pecuniary gain, all the

legatees mentioned in her will may be said to have that motive."

Pauline's manner and tones were so impersonal, so scathingly ironic as to

amount to a disclaimer for all the legatees. Her way of suggesting it

made it seem so far removed from possibility that it was far more

emphatic than any denial could have been.

But Coroner Scofield was as unmoved as his witness.

"Quite so," he said coolly; "and therefore inquiries must be made. Did

you, Miss Stuart, after leaving your aunt soon after midnight see or hear

anything unusual or suspicious?"

"What do you mean by unusual or suspicious?"

"I mean did you see or hear anything, anything at all, that you could not

explain to yourself as being in any way connected with the tragedy we are

investigating?"

Before answering, Pauline looked in turn at all the members of the

household. Haviland slowly turned his head as if to look at something

across the room, and as slowly brought it back to its previous position.

"I did not," said Pauline, looking straight at the Coroner.

"That is all," said Scofield, briefly, and the next witness was called.

This was the maid, Estelle. Her eyes were red with weeping, but she was

not hysterical now, or incoherent. She answered tersely questions as to

Miss Carrington's habits and as to her words and actions during the

maid's last interview with her.

"I left her at about quarter of one," the witness deposed; "I had given

her the Oriental negligée, of which she is fond. I offered to take down

her hair and put away her jewels, but she declined those services, and

bade me leave her."

"She was wearing, when you left her, only the jewels she had worn during

the evening?"

"Only those, sir. When I changed her evening gown for the boudoir robe,

she bade me replace such jewels as I had already taken off her. She kept

on her rings, bracelets and her long rope of pearls while I changed her

costume."

"And then she dismissed you for the night?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where was she then? Sitting before the mirror?"

"No, sir. She stood in the middle of the floor."

"Was she in an amiable mood?"

"She was not. Because I offered to assist her further, she ordered me

from the room in anger."

"Ah, in anger! Was Miss Carrington often angry with you?"

"Indeed, yes; as she was with everybody."

"Confine your answers to your own experience. You prepared a night

luncheon for your mistress?"

"Yes, sir," and now Estelle's voice trembled and her eyes rolled

apprehensively.

"What was it?"

"Two small sandwiches and a glass of milk."

"What sort of sandwiches?"

"Caviare, sir."

"Ah, yes. And why did you put a large dose of bromide in the glass of

milk?"

"Did it kill her?" and Estelle screamed out her query. Pauline and Anita

looked at one another. It was the same question Estelle had asked of

them.

"An overdose of bromide may be fatal," parried the Coroner, not answering

the question directly. "Why did you do it?"

"I didn't do it," and the French girl shrugged her shoulders; "why should

I poison my mistress? She was quick-tempered, but I was used to that."

"Don't be stupid," said the Coroner; "the bromide didn't poison Miss

Carrington, for, in the first place, she didn't take it. The glass of

milk was found next morning untouched, though the sandwiches were gone.

Therefore, the bromide in the milk was found. Why did you put it in?"

"_I_ didn't do it," reiterated the maid. "Look higher up for that!"

"What do you mean?"

"I mention no names, but somebody must have done it, if bromide was found

in that milk."

"But you tried to get the glass away next morning, without being seen."

"Who says I did?"

"Never mind that; you were seen. Why?"

"Well, sir, if I thought anybody was going to get into trouble because of

it, I was only too glad to help, if I could, by removing it before it was

noticed." Estelle spoke slowly, as if weighing her words, and her furtive

glances at Pauline bore only one significance. It was palpably apparent

that she suspected Miss Stuart of the deed, and out of kindness had tried

to remove the incriminating evidence.

Pauline stared at her with a glance that went through her or over her or

around her, but gave not the slightest attention to the speaker.

"Did you put bromide in your aunt's glass of milk, Miss Stuart?" asked

the Coroner, and Pauline said, calmly, "Certainly not."

Mr. Scofield sighed. It was a difficult matter to get at the truth when

the witnesses were clever women, in whose veracity he had not complete

confidence.

He gave up Estelle for the moment, and called Gray Haviland.

The young man's appearance gave every promise of frankness and sincerity.

He detailed the circumstances precisely as Pauline had told them. He

denied having heard or seen anything suspicious during the night. He

referred to the Coroner's list of motives for crime, and added that he

agreed with Miss Stuart that the present case could scarcely be ascribed

to love or revenge. If the murder was committed for gain, it was, of

course, a formal necessity to question all the beneficiaries of Miss

Carrington's will, but he was sure that all such inheritors were quite

willing to be questioned. For his part, he believed that the criminal was

some enemy of Miss Carrington, unknown to her immediate household, and he

suggested that such a one be searched for.

"You've got that glove," he reminded, "that was found clasped in the hand

of the murdered woman. Why not trace that; or endeavor to learn in some

way the reason for the many peculiar circumstances; or discover, at

least, a way to look for further evidence; rather than to vaguely suspect

those who lived under Miss Carrington's roof?"

"I am not asking your assistance in conducting this inquiry, Mr.

Haviland," and the Coroner spoke shortly; "but pursuing my own plan of

obtaining evidence in my own way. Will you kindly answer questions

without comment on them?"

"Oh, all right; fire away. Only remember, that we relatives and friends

are just as much interested in clearing up this mystery as you are, and

we want to help, if we can be allowed to do so intelligently."

Asked again if he saw or heard anything unusual in the night, Haviland

replied, "You said 'suspicious' the other time. I did see something

_unusual_. I saw Estelle go stealthily downstairs at three A.M. That's

unusual, but I don't go so far as to call it suspicious."

VIII

ANITA'S STORY

Instead of showing surprise at this statement, the Coroner broke the

breathless silence that followed it, by saying:

"Will you please explain what you mean by 'stealthily?'"

"Just what I say," returned Haviland, bluntly. "She went slowly, now and

then pausing to listen, twice drawing back around a corner and peeping

out, and then coming forth again; she wore no shoes and carried no light;

she went down the big staircase in the manner I have described, and after

about ten minutes, returned in the same fashion. That's what I mean by

stealthily."

"What was your errand?" asked Scofield of Estelle.

"Nothing. I didn't go," she replied, coolly.

"She tells an untruth," said Gray, calmly. "She did go, just as I have

described. But it was doubtless on an innocent errand. I have no idea she

was implicated in Miss Carrington's death. I am sure it is of casual

explanation,--or, I was sure, until Estelle denied it."

"How was it you chanced to see her?"

"I was wakeful, and I was prowling around to find something to read. I

went out in the hall and got a magazine from the table, and had returned

to my room and was just closing the door, when I saw a white figure glide

across the hall. She passed through a moonlit space or I could not have

seen her. She was wrapped in a light or white kimono thing, and I should

never have thought of it again if it were not for what has happened."

"You knew it to be this Estelle?"

"Yes; her red hair was hanging in a braid."

"'Tisn't red!" snapped Estelle, but Mr. Scofield silenced her with a

frown.

"Well, auburn, then," said Haviland, easily. "You may as well own up,

Estelle; what did you go down for?"

"I didn't go," repeated the maid, obstinately, and no cross-questioning

could prevail on her to admit otherwise.

"All right," and Haviland shrugged his shoulders; "I suppose it doesn't

matter, as the crime was committed about one o'clock. It's up to you, Mr.

Coroner, to find some person who acted suspiciously nearer that time.

And, by the way, as man of business of this estate, unless some

worthwhile evidence is forthcoming pretty soon, I'm going to round up a

detective or two who will get somewhere."

"Give us a little more time, Mr. Haviland," said Scofield, suavely, "this

inquest is only begun."

"Well, get it over with, and then, if the truth hasn't come to light,

I'll take a hand."

Miss Frayne was called next, and Anita, with a look of importance on her

pretty face, came forward.

Her evidence, at first, was merely a repetition of that already heard,

and she corroborated Pauline's recital of the scene as the two girls bade

Miss Carrington good-night.

"And then?" prompted the Coroner.

"Then I went to my room, but I didn't retire. I sat thinking over what

Miss Carrington had said to me. And as I thought about it, I concluded

that this time I was really dismissed from her secretaryship. And that

made me feel very sorry, for it is a good position and I've no wish to

lose it. So,--after a time, I began to think I would go to Miss

Carrington's room and if she were still up, I would beg her forgiveness."

"Forgiveness for what?"

"For any fancied grievance she might have against me. I have always tried

to please her, but she was, er,--difficult, and it was not easy to do the

right thing at all times."

"Did you go to her room?"

"I went to the door----"

"At what time?"

"Soon after one o'clock. Not more than five or ten minutes after."

There was a rustle of excitement. The poison was said to be administered

at about one! Did this fair doll-like girl know the secret of the

tragedy?

"Proceed, Miss Frayne; tell the story of anything you saw at that time."

"I saw nothing. But I heard a great deal."

"What was it?"

"The door of Miss Carrington's room was closed, and I was about to tap at

it, when I heard talking inside. I paused, and I listened, in order to

discover if her maid was still with her, or some one else. If it had been

Estelle, I should have tapped for admittance. But it was not."

"Who was it?"

"I cannot say. The voice I heard distinctly was that of Miss Carrington

herself. Her voice was high-pitched, and of what is called a carrying

sort. The things she said were so strange, I lingered, listening, for I

was so surprised I couldn't help it."

"First, I heard her say, quite plainly, 'Your face is the most beautiful

I have ever seen! I wish mine were as beautiful.' I assumed, then, she

must be talking to Miss Stuart, for surely she would not say that to her

maid. Then she said, 'But, to-morrow, I shall be forever freed from this

homely face of mine.'"

"Miss Frayne, this is very singular! Are you sure you heard correctly?"

"I am sure. But there is more. She next said, 'To-morrow you will be

glad!--_glad!_' It was almost a scream, that. And she went on, 'To-morrow

all these jewels will be yours,--if you--ah, but _will_ you?' and then

her voice trailed off faintly, and I could hear no more."

"You heard nothing more at all?"

"Yes; I waited,--oh, I admit I was eavesdropping, but it was so strange I

couldn't help it,--there was silence. It may well be some one else was

replying to her, but I could not make out any other person's words. A low

voice would not be audible like a high-pitched one. But after a moment,

Miss Carrington resumed; she said, 'I shall change my will. Not Carr's

half, that must stand. But the other half shall never go to a niece who

has no affection for me!' Again I heard nothing, for the responses were

inaudible. Then Miss Carrington said, in a musing tone: 'I have already

willed you ten thousand dollars of those United States bonds, but----'

And then, after quite a long pause, Miss Carrington cried out, not

loudly, but tensely, 'Henri, Henri! _you_ are the mark I aim at!' That

frightened me so, I ran swiftly back to my room, and locked the door."

"You assumed Henri to be Count Charlier?"

"I had no other construction to put upon the words."

"You thought the gentleman was in Miss Carrington's room?"

"I couldn't think that! And yet, it sounded as if she were speaking to

him, not of him."

"This is a very strange story, Miss Frayne. Have you mentioned these

things you overheard to any one before this?"

"No. I have thought them over, and concluded it was best to tell the

story first to you."

"And quite right. It is, then, your opinion that there was another person

in Miss Carrington's room, to whom she was speaking?"

"It seemed so to me."

"But you did not hear this other person's voice?"