Anita paused a moment and then said: "Not distinctly."

"Did you hear it at all?"

"I cannot say. When I did not hear Miss Carrington's voice clearly, there

were sounds that might have been another person or her own voice speaking

more inaudibly."

"Might it not be that she was merely talking to herself,--soliloquizing?"

"It could not have been that. She spoke definitely and decidedly _to_

some one when she said 'Your face is beautiful,' and when she said, 'I

have willed you ten thousand dollars,' indeed, every thing she said was

as if spoken to some hearer; not as one who talks to herself."

"After you regained your room, did you leave it again?"

"No, I did not."

"H'm. Now, are you positive, Miss Frayne, that all these speeches were

said just as you have repeated them? It is a great strain on the memory

to repeat accurately a conversation as long as the one you have just

rehearsed."

"The speeches I heard are burned into my brain. I could not forget them

if I would. I may have erred in some minor or unimportant words, but the

most of what I heard is precisely as I have repeated it. Indeed, so

thoroughly was I amazed at it all, I wrote it down as soon as I reached

my room. I had then no thought of--of what was going to happen, but Miss

Carrington had made peculiar remarks during the evening about something

happening to her, and in connection with that the words I heard seemed so

remarkable,--not to say uncanny,--that I made a note of them. This is not

an unusual habit with me. I often make notes of conversations, as it has

been useful in my services as secretary."

"As how?"

"If a caller in a social or business way had conversation with Miss

Carrington, and I was present, I often made a record, in case she asked

me later just what had been said."

"I see. And how do you interpret the words, 'Henri, you are the mark I

aim at?'"

"I can only think that Miss Carrington was in favor of considering a

marriage between herself and the Count."

"You made use of the word 'uncanny.' Do you imagine that Miss Carrington

had any foreboding of her approaching doom?"

"When I heard her say, 'To-morrow I will be forever freed from this

homely face of mine,' and 'to-morrow all these jewels will be yours,' I

couldn't help thinking,--after the discovery of her death,--that she must

have anticipated it."

"Did her voice sound like the despairing one of a person about to die?"

"On the contrary, it sounded full of life and animation."

"Did she seem angry with the person to whom she was speaking?"

"At times, yes. And, again, no. Her voice showed varying emotions as she

talked on."

"Her speech was not continuous, then?"

"Not at all. It was broken, and in snatches. But, remember, I could not

hear all of what she said, and the other person or persons not at all."

"Did you not catch a word from the other voice?"

"I cannot say. Much, in a low tone, that I could not hear clearly, might

have been Miss Carrington's voice or another's. The door was closed, and

as soon as I realized there was some one there, not Estelle, I had no

thought of knocking, and I soon went away. I ought to have gone away

sooner, and would have done so, but I was so amazed and puzzled I stayed

on involuntarily."

"Your story, Miss Frayne, is very extraordinary. Can you suggest, from

what you heard, who might have been in the room with Miss Carrington?"

"I can not, nor do I wish to. I have told you what I heard, it is for you

to make deductions or discoveries."

"I wish to say a word, Mr. Coroner," and Pauline Stuart, with her dark

eyes blazing, rose to her feet. "I am sorry to say this, but I must ask

you to hesitate before you put too much faith in the amazing tale you

have just listened to. I am sure Miss Frayne could not have heard all

that nonsense! It is impossible, on the face of it, that my aunt should

have received any one in her room after her maid left her. It is

incredible that she should have made all those ridiculous and meaningless

remarks! And it is despicable for any woman to imply or hint that Miss

Carrington was receiving a gentleman caller! I am surprised that you even

listened to what must be the ravings of a disordered mind!"

Pauline looked at Anita like an avenging goddess. But the darts of scorn

from her dark eyes were met and returned in kind from the big blue ones

of the secretary.

"I resent your tone and your words," said Anita, deliberately; "but since

you choose to adopt that attitude, I will go on to say what I had

intended not to reveal, that I saw you coming from your aunt's room,

after the conversation I have told of took place."

"Wait a minute," said the Coroner; "you said that immediately after

hearing the alleged conversation you went at once to your room, and did

not leave it again."

"Nor did I. But a few minutes later, unable to restrain my curiosity, I

opened my door, and looked out. My position then commanded a full view of

the hall, and I saw Miss Stuart go from her aunt's room to her own."

Pauline looked at the speaker. Coldly her glance swept back to the

Coroner, and she said: "I deny that I was in my aunt's room after leaving

it at midnight in company with Miss Frayne. But she forces me to tell

that _I_ saw _her_ going away from it at exactly quarter past one."

"How do you fix the time so accurately?"

"I was sitting in the upper hall,--it is really a sitting-room, at the

bay-windowed end,--looking at the moon. I, too, had been disturbed at my

aunt's attitude, and her threats to send me away to-day, and I had gone

to the hall window-seat, a favorite haunt of mine, and had sat there for

a half hour or more."

"Could any one going through the hall see you?"

"Probably not, as the draperies are heavy, and I was in the deep

window-seat. I was thinking I would go to my room, and then I saw Miss

Frayne come from my aunt's room and go to her own."

"Are you sure she came from the room?"

"She was closing the door, her hand was on the knob. She did not see me,

I am sure, for I drew back in the window and watched her. And just then I

heard the hall clock chime the quarter after one."

"You didn't see Miss Frayne when she went to Miss Carrington's room?"

"No; I suppose I was then looking out of the deep window."

"Nor did you hear her?"

"No, the rugs are thick and a light foot-fall makes no sound."

"What did you next do?"

"I went--I went straight to my own room."

The slight hesitation told against Pauline. All through her testimony,

all through her arraignment of Anita,--for it amounted to that,--she had

been cool, calm and imperturbable. But now a momentary hesitation of

speech, added perhaps, to the circumstantial story of Anita Frayne,

caused a wave of doubt,--not enough to call suspicion,--but a questioning

attitude to form in the minds of many of the audience.

To whom, if not Miss Stuart, could Miss Carrington's remarks about beauty

have been addressed? It was well known that Miss Lucy adored beauty and

had all her life lamented her own lack of it. This was no secret woe of

the poor lady's. To any one who would listen, she would complain of her

hard lot in having all the gifts of the gods except good looks. To whom

else would she say 'To-morrow all these jewels will be yours,--if

you--ah, but _will_ you?'

And yet, after all, it did not make sense. Was it not far more likely to

be a figment of Miss Frayne's clever mind, for what purpose who might

say?

At any rate, their stories were contradictory and moreover were garbled.

The jurymen sighed. The case had been mysterious enough before, now it

was becoming inexplicable.

IX

FURTHER TESTIMONY

Count Henri Charlier was being questioned, and he was distinctly ill at

ease. His French _savoir faire_ was not proof against definite inquiries

as to his intentions regarding the late Miss Carrington, and indefinite

allusions concerning his movements on the night of her death.

He had related, straightforwardly enough, his visit at Garden Steps that

evening and his departure at or about midnight. He denied his engagement

of marriage, but admitted that he had paid Miss Carrington such

attentions as might lead her to suspect an attachment.

"You did not return to this house after leaving on Tuesday night?"

"Most assuredly not."

"You were not in Miss Carrington's boudoir at one o'clock or

thereabouts?"

Count Charlier's black eyes snapped. But by a successful effort he

controlled his indignation, and said, simply, "I was not."

"But she was heard to address you."

"Impossible, as I was not there."

"She distinctly declared that you were the mark she aimed at. What

construction do you put upon those words?"

"It is not for me to boast of my attraction for a lady."

Count Charlier simpered a little, and Gray Haviland looked at him with a

frown of undisguised scorn. Haviland had never liked the Count, indeed,

he even doubted his right to the title, and especially had he feared a

marriage between him and Miss Lucy. And, granting that this feeling was

partly due to a consideration of his own interests, Haviland also

distrusted the Frenchman and doubted Miss Lucy's happiness as his wife.

"Did Miss Carrington leave you a bequest of ten thousand dollars in

United States bonds?" went on the Coroner.

"I--I don't know," and the Count stammered in an embarrassed way.

"You do know!" shouted Haviland; "the will has been read, and you know

perfectly well that such a bequest was left to you."

"Why did you deny the knowledge?" asked Scofield, sternly.

"I'm--I'm not sure----"

"You are sure!" stormed Gray. "Now where were you when Miss Carrington

spoke those words to you? If not in her boudoir, then on the balcony

outside the window, perhaps."

"Absurd," said the Coroner.

"Not at all," said Gray; "that window opens on a balcony enclosed by

glass. It is easily reached from outside by a small staircase, mostly

used in summer, but always available. How could Miss Carrington speak to

the Count concerning the bonds and concerning her infatuation for

himself, which is no secret, unless he were there before her? And how

could he be in the room--in her boudoir--unknown to the servants?

Moreover, Mr. Coroner, I believe the glove found in Miss Carrington's

hand to be the property of Count Charlier."

"But no!" cried the witness, excitedly; "I have repeatedly disclaimed

that glove. It is not mine, I know not whose it is. I know nothing of

this sad affair, whatever. If the money is left to me, as I have been

told, it is a--a surprise to me."

"Surprise nothing!" murmured Haviland, but he said no more to the Count.

"If my story might be told now,--" ventured Mrs. Frothingham.

After a moment's hesitation, Coroner Scofield decided to let her tell it,

as having a possible bearing on Count Charlier's testimony.

The rather stunning-looking widow was fashionably dressed, and she

fluttered with an air of importance as she took the stand. She related

again the story she had told of the supposed burglar, whom she saw

leaving the living-room by way of a window, at four o'clock on Wednesday

morning.

"How can you be so sure it was a burglar?" asked Scofield.

"Oh, he looked like one. All huddled up, you know, and his face buried

between a high coat collar and a drawn-down cap. And he walked

slyly,--sort of glided among the shrubs and trees, as if avoiding notice.

No man on legitimate business would skulk like that."

"Might it not have been Count Charlier?" asked the Coroner, bluntly.

"Certainly not!" and Mrs. Frothingham gave a little shriek. "The Count is

a slim and elegant figure; this was a stocky, burly man; a marauder, I

know."

"It may be," said the Coroner, wearily. "It may be that a burglar was

concealed in the house, or let in by a servant, and that he attacked Miss

Carrington as she was seated at her dressing table. It seems impossible

that he should have administered poison to her, however, and the

conjoined circumstances may indicate collusion between----"

"Between whom?" asked Inspector Brunt.

"I don't know," confessed Scofield. "Every way I try to think it out, I

ran up against an impassable barrier."

"That's what I say," began Haviland; "it is a most involved case. I shall

cable Carrington Loria for authority to employ an expert detective."

"Why cable him?" asked Pauline; "I am equally in authority now. Carr and

myself each receive half the residuary estate of Aunt Lucy, and, of

course, I am as anxious to find the--the murderer, as Carr can possibly

be."

"Well, somebody will have to authorize it who is willing to pay for it.

As man of business in this home, I am willing to attend to all such

matters, but I must have authority."

"You seem to me a little premature, Mr. Haviland," commented the

Inspector. "Perhaps when the inquest is concluded, it may not be

necessary to call on any other detective than our own Mr. Hardy."

"Perhaps not," agreed Haviland; "but unless you people all wake up,

you're not going to get anywhere. I admit the getting is difficult, but

that's just the reason a wise sleuth should be called in before the

trails grow cold."

And then the Coroner returned to his task of questioning Mrs.

Frothingham.

The widow was not definitely helpful. Her statements were often

contradictory in minor details, and when she corrected them they seemed

to lose in weight. She stuck to the main points, however, that by the

help of a strong field-glass she had discerned, in the bright moonlight,

a man leave by way of the French window, at four o'clock, and had seen

him make his way stealthily out by the great entrance gates of the place.

Cross-questioning on this brought no variations, and the jurymen wagged

their heads in belief of her story.

But her accounts of her own doings on Tuesday evening were vague and

indefinite.

"I was in my own home all the evening," she said at one time; and again,

"I went out for a short walk at eleven o'clock." This last in refutation

of Haskins, the Carrington butler, who deposed to having seen the lady

walk across the lawns of Garden Steps.

"Where did you walk?"

"Oh, just around my own place; and for a moment I strolled over here

because the Steps looked so beautiful in the moonlight."

"You were alone?"

"I was. I have no house guests at present, save the Count; and as my

brother, who lives with me, is on a Western trip, I was alone, and I

walked about to kill time until Count Charlier should return after his

bridge game over here."

"Did you walk near the house, while on the Garden Steps' estate?" asked

Scofield, scenting a possible espionage of her titled visitor.

"Oh, no!" and the witness bristled with indignation; "why should I! I was

not really an acquaintance of Miss Carrington, merely a neighbor."

"Beg pardon, ma'am, but I saw you on the conservatory verandah," said

Haskins, in a deprecatory way.

"That is not true, Mr. Coroner," said the lady, glancing scornfully at

the butler. "I beg you will not accept a servant's statement in

preference to mine!"

"You are sure of this, Haskins?" said the Inspector gravely.

"Yes, sir. Sure, sir." and the man looked doggedly certain, though a

little scared.

"And you deny it?" went on Scofield to Mrs. Frothingham.

"I most certainly do! How absurd for me to be over here, and how more

than absurd for me to deny it if I were!"

This seemed sensible. Why should she deny it? And mightn't the butler be

mistaken? Or deliberately falsifying?

If there were collusion or criminal assistance by any of the servants,

surely the word of all of them must be mistrusted unless proven.

And, too, what could have brought Mrs. Frothingham to the verandah of a

home where she was not an accepted guest? Or, could she have been spying

on the Count?

For it had slowly entered the Coroner's not very alert mind that perhaps

the volatile widow had her own plans for the Count's future, and Miss

Carrington did not figure in them. The manner of the witness bore out

this theory. She was self-conscious and at times confused. She frequently

looked at the Count and then quickly averted her gaze. She blushed and

stammered when speaking his name or referring to him. In a word, she

acted as a woman might act in regard to a man of whom she was jealous.

And the situation bore it out. If Mrs. Frothingham had matrimonial

designs on her distinguished guest, would she not naturally resent his

visits to a rich neighbor? Mrs. Frothingham was not rich, and she may

well have been afraid of Miss Carrington's charm of gold, which could

cause many a man to overlook anything else that might be lacking.

Coroner Scofield was getting more and more tangled in the mazes of this

extraordinary case. He was practically at his wits' end. At last he

blurted out: "It is impossible, it seems, to get a coherent, or even

plausible story from a woman! Is there any man present, who knows any of

the details of the happenings of Tuesday evening and night?"

There was a moment's silence at this rather petulant speech, and then

Stephen Illsley rose, and speaking very gravely, said:

"It seems to be my unpleasant duty to tell what little I know of these

matters."

The relieved Coroner heard this with satisfaction. Accepting his good

fortune, he prepared to listen to Illsley's testimony.

"I was spending the evening here," the witness began, "and during my

visit I was in the various rooms. At a late hour, perhaps something after

eleven,--I was crossing the hall, and I saw Mrs. Frothingham on the

stairway."

"On the stairway!" exclaimed the Coroner, in amazement.

"Yes," returned Illsley, his grave eyes resting on the face of the widow,

who stared at him as if stricken dumb. "Yes, I saw her distinctly. She

was evidently coming downstairs, one hand rested on the banister, and she

was looking upward at the ceiling."

"Did she see you?"

"I think not. If so, she made no sign. But she was not looking my way,

and I went on into the reception room, where I was going in search of a

scarf Miss Stuart had left there. When I recrossed the hall, the lady had

disappeared."

"Did not this seem to you a strange circumstance?"

"I had no right to any opinion on the subject. It was not my affair what

guests were at the house I was visiting, or what they might be doing."

"But Mrs. Frothingham asserts she was not an acquaintance of Miss

Carrington."

"I did not know that, then; and even so, it gave me no right to speculate

concerning the lady's presence there. Nor should I refer to it now,

except that in view of the subsequent tragedy it is due to every

principle of right and justice that all truths be known as to that

evening. Mrs. Frothingham will, of course, recall the episode and can

doubtless explain it."

"I should like to hear the explanation!" said Pauline, with flashing

eyes. "As mistress here now, I am interested to know why a stranger

should wander about this house at will."

Mrs. Frothingham sat silent. Her face showed not so much consternation or

dismay as a cold, calculating expression, as if debating just what

explanation she should offer.

At last she spoke. "I may as well own up," she said, and laughed

nervously. "I _was_ on the verandah, as the vigilant butler noticed. I

did step inside the hall, as I had so often heard of the rare tapestries

and paintings, and, in my _ennui_, I thought it no harm to take a peep.

The great door was ajar, and I was a little chilled by my walk across the

lawns. I said to myself, if I meet any one I will merely beg a few

moments' grace and then run away. Yes, I did take a step or two up the

stair, to look at a picture on the landing. It was all innocent enough,

perhaps not in the best of taste, but I was lonely, and the light and

warmth lured me. In a moment I had slipped out and run away home,

laughing over my escapade like a foolish child."

Her light laugh rippled out as she concluded her story. She looked

ingenuous and truthful, but the Coroner distrusted feminine fairy-tales,

and this was a little too fanciful to be true.

Moreover, Mrs. Frothingham was looking at him sharply from the corner of

her eye. Clearly, she was watching him to see how he took it.

He didn't take it very well. The acknowledged presence of an outsider in

the house, for a not very plausible reason, was illuminating in his

estimation. She had been on the stairway. Had she been to Miss

Carrington's room? True, she said she went only to the landing,--but

pshaw, women had no regard for the truth! Had she and Count Charlier

planned between them to--bah, _why_ did this woman want to kill her

neighbor? Even if she were jealous of the Count's attention, would she go

so far as crime? No, of course not! He must question her further. And

yet, what good would that do, if she would not tell the truth?

Well, she was in the house at half-past eleven, that much was certain,

for Stephen Illsley's story and her own and also the butler's testimony

all coincided as to that.

And then, Detective Hardy, who had just returned from a short errand,

made a startling statement. He declared that the glove which had been

found clasped tightly in the dead fingers of the late Miss Carrington did

belong to Count Henri Charlier.

Mr. Hardy had been searching the Count's wardrobe, and though he did not

find the mate to that particular glove, he found many others, some worn

and some entirely unused, but all of the same size and made by the same

firm as the one now in the Coroner's possession!

Thus cornered Count Charlier reluctantly admitted that it was his glove.

"I denied it," he thus excused himself, "because I have no idea how it

came into Miss Carrington's possession, and I did not wish to implicate

her in an affair with my unworthy self."

"H'm," thought Gray Haviland, fixing his attention on the Count and on

the flustered Mrs. Frothingham; "a precious pair of adventurers! I expect

Scofield is right, we won't need an expert detective."

There was more of the inquest. But its continuance brought out no

developments not already here transcribed. There was much

cross-questioning and probing; there was much rather futile effort to

make all the strange details fit any one theory; there was variance of

opinion; and there was more or less dissension.

But as a final result, the Coroner's jury brought in a verdict that Miss

Lucy Carrington met her death by poison administered by a person or

persons unknown, who thereafter, probably for the purpose of diverting

attention from the poison, struck her a blow on the head. The jury in

their deliberation felt that Count Henri Charlier was implicated. But not

having sufficient evidence to make a charge, suggested to the detective

force that he be kept under surveillance.

X

BIZARRE CLUES

It was Saturday. The funeral of Miss Carrington had been held the day

before and the imposing obsequies had been entirely in keeping with her

love of elaborate display in life. The casket was of the richest, the

flowers piled mountain high, the music, the most expensive available; for

the young people in charge had felt it incumbent on them to arrange

everything as Miss Lucy would have desired it.

It was a pathetic commentary on the character of the dead woman that

while all who mourned her felt the shock and horror of her death, they

were not deeply bowed with sorrow. Pauline, as nearest relative, would

naturally grieve most, but for the moment her affections were lost sight

of in the paralyzing effects of the sudden tragedy.

Anita Frayne had practically "gone to pieces." She was nervous, and

jumped twitchingly if any one spoke to her.

Gray Haviland was reticent, an unusual thing for him, and devoted most of

his time to matters of business connected with the estate.

Estelle, the maid, had succumbed to a nervous break-down, and had been

taken to a nearby sanatorium, where she indulged in frequent and violent

hysterics.

The household was in a continual excitement. Lawyers and detectives were

coming and going, neighbors were calling, and reporters simply infested

the place.

Pauline and Anita, though outwardly polite, were not on good terms, and

rarely talked together.

But this morning the two girls and Haviland were called to a confab by

Hardy, the detective.

"They've arrested the Count," Hardy began, and Anita screamed an

interruption:

"Arrested Count Charlier! Put him in jail?"

"Yes," returned the detective. "I found the other one of that pair of

gloves, the mate to the one in the lady's hands,--where, do you suppose?"

"Where?"

"Rolled up in a pair of socks, in the Count's chiffonnier drawer; of

course, to hide it, as it is not at all easy to destroy a thing like that

while visiting."

"I know it," said Pauline, earnestly; "it is hard. I've often noticed

that, when I've wanted to burn a letter or anything. You can't do it,

unknown to the servants or somebody."

"Rubbish!" said Anita, "It would have been easy for the Count to dispose

of a glove if he had wanted to. But he didn't. He never committed that

crime! If a glove was found, as you say, somebody else put it there to

incriminate an innocent man. It's too absurd to fasten the thing on Count

Charlier! Do you suppose he went to the boudoir and gave Miss Carrington

poison, and then shook hands good-evening, and left his glove in her

grasp? Nonsense! The glove in her dead hand was put there by the criminal

to implicate the Count, and the glove in the rolled-up socks for the same

purpose and by the same person!"

"By Jove, Miss Frayne! You may be right!" cried Hardy. "Somehow I can't

see the Count's hand in this thing, and yet----"

"And yet, he did it!" put in Haviland. "Have they really jailed him? I'm

glad."

"I'm sorry," said Pauline, and her face was white; "Did he--did

he--c-confess?" The girl's voice trembled, and she could scarcely

pronounce the words.

"Not he," said Hardy; "he seemed dazed, and declared his innocence,--but

he was not convincing. He takes it very hard and talks wildly and at

random. But you know what Frenchmen are; liable to go off their heads at

any time."

"But look at it," reasoned Anita; "_why_ would the Count kill Miss

Carrington? Why, he thought of marrying her."

"Not much he didn't!" and Hardy smiled a little. "I size it up this way.

Matters had gone so far that he had to propose to the lady or clear out.

He didn't want to clear out for then she would take back the little

matter of ten thousand dollars already marked for him in her will.

Moreover, he couldn't realize that tidy little sum, which he very much

wants, so long as she lived. To be sure, he would have had far more, had

he married her, but that was not in 'his nibs'' plans. So he resorted to

desperate measures. He's a thorough villain, that man! Outwardly, most

correct and honorable, but really, an adventurer, as is also his friend,

the dashing young widow."

"Mr. Hardy," and Pauline spoke calmly, now, "do you _know_ these things

to be true of Count Charlier, or are you assuming them?"

"Well, Miss Stuart, I know human nature pretty well, especially male

human nature, and if I'm mistaken in this chap, I'll be surprised. But

also, I've set afoot an investigation, and we'll soon learn his record,

antecedents and all that. At present, no one knows much about him; and

what Mrs. Frothingham knows she won't tell."

"It was very strange for Aunt Lucy to give him that money----" began

Pauline musingly.

"Not at all," broke in Gray, "I know all about that. Miss Carrington had

a certain bunch of bonds that amounted to just fifty thousand dollars. In

one of her sudden bursts of generosity, and she often had such, she

decided to give those bonds to five people. I mean, to devise them in her

will, not to give them now. Well, four were Miss Stuart and Carr Loria,

Miss Frayne and myself. And then, she hesitated for some time, but

finally announced that the fifth portion should be named for the Count. I

was there when the lawyer fixed it up, and Miss Carrington turned to me

and said, laughingly, 'I may change that before it comes due!' Oh, she

was always messing with her will. I'm glad there's a tidy bit in it for

me, as it is. Her demise _might_ have taken place when I was for the

moment cut out."

"Was there ever such a time?" asked Hardy.

"There sure was! Only last month, she got firing mad with me, and crossed

me off without a shilling. Then she got over her mad and restored me to

favor."

"You and Miss Frayne have other bequests than those particular bonds you

mentioned?" asked the detective.

"Yes, we have each ten thou' beside, which was all right of the old lady,

eh, Anita?"

"None too much, considering what I have stood from her capricious temper

and eccentric ways," returned the girl.

"Your own temper is none too even," said Pauline, quietly; "I'd rather

you wouldn't speak ill of my aunt, if you please."

What might have been a passage at arms was averted by the appearance of a

footman with a cablegram.

"It's from Carr!" exclaimed Pauline, as she tore it open, and read:

Awful news just received. Shall I come home or will you come here? Let

Haviland attend all business. Love and sympathy.

Carrington Loria.

"He's in Cairo," commented Haviland, looking at the paper; "that's lucky.

If he had been off up the Nile on one of his excavating tours, we

mightn't have had communication for weeks. Well, he practically retains

me as business manager, at least for the present. And Lord knows there's

a lot to be done!"

"I don't understand, Gray, why you look upon Carr as more in authority

than I am," said Pauline, almost petulantly; "I am an equal heir, and,

too, I am here, and Carr is the other side of the world."

"That's so, Polly. I don't know why, myself. I suppose because he is the

man of the family."

"That doesn't make any difference. I think from now on, Gray, it will be

proper for you to consider me the head of the house as far as business

matters are concerned. You can pay Carr his half of the residuary in

whatever form he wants it. I shall keep the place, at least for the

present."

"Won't Mr. Loria come back to America?" asked Hardy.

"I scarcely think so," replied Pauline. "There's really no use of his

doing so, unless he chooses. And I'm pretty sure he won't choose, as he's

so wrapped up in his work over there, that he'd hate to leave unless

necessary."

"But won't he feel a necessity to help investigate the murder?" urged

Hardy.

"I don't know," and Pauline looked thoughtful. "You see what he says;

when he asks if he shall come home, he means do I want him to. If I don't

request it, I'm fairly sure he won't come. Of course, when he learns all

the details, he will be as anxious as we that the murderer should be

found. But if I know Carr, he will far rather pay for the most expensive

detective service than come over himself. And, too, what could he do,

more than we can? We shall, of course, use every effort and every means

to solve the mysteries of the case, and he could advise us no better than

the lawyers already in our counsel."

"That's all true," said Haviland; "and I think Loria means that when he

puts me in charge of it all. But after a week or so we'll get a letter

from him, and he'll tell us what he intends to do."

"I shall cable him," said Pauline, thoughtfully, "not to come over unless

he wants to. Then he can do as he likes. But he needn't come for my

benefit. The property must be divided and all that, but we can settle any

uncertainties by mail or cable. And, I think I shall go on the trip as we

had planned it."

"You do!" said Gray, in amazement. "Go to Egypt?"

"Yes, I don't see why not. I'd like the trip, and it would take my mind

off these horrors. Our passage is booked for a February sailing. If

necessary I will postpone it a few weeks, but I see no reason why I

shouldn't go. Do you?"

"No," said Haviland, slowly.

Hardy seemed about to speak and then thought better of it, and said

nothing.

"Of course I shall not go," began Anita, and Pauline interrupted her

with:

"You go! I should say not! Why should you?"

"Why shouldn't I, if I choose?" returned Anita, and her pink cheeks

burned rosy. "I am my own mistress, I have my own money. I am as free to

go as you are."

"Of course you are," said Pauline, coldly. "Only please advise me on what

steamer you are sailing."

"That you may take another," and Anita laughed shortly. "But I may prefer

to go on the one you do. Aren't you rather suddenly anxious to leave this

country?"

Pauline faced her. "Anita Frayne," she said, "if you suspect me of crime,

I would rather you said so definitely, than to fling out these continual

innuendoes. Do you?"

"I couldn't say that Pauline. But there are,--there certainly are some

things to be explained regarding your interview with your aunt on Tuesday

night. You know, I heard you in her room."

"Your speech, Anita, is that of a guilty conscience. As you well know, I

saw you come from her room at the hour you accuse me of being there."

"Let up, girls," said Haviland; "you only make trouble by that sort of

talk."

"But when an innocent man is arrested, Pauline ought to tell what she

knows!"

"I have told, and it seems to implicate you!"

The impending scene was averted by Haviland, who insisted on knowing what

word should be sent to Loria.

"May as well get it off," he said; "it takes long enough to get word back

and forth to him, anyway. What shall I say for you, Polly?"

"Tell him to come over or not, just as he prefers, but that I shall be

quite content if he does not care to come; and that I shall go to Egypt

as soon as I can arrange to do so. Put it into shape yourself,--you know

more about cabling than I do."

Haviland went away to the library, and Hardy followed.

"Look here, Mr. Haviland," said the latter, "what do these ladies mean by

accusing each other of all sorts of things? Did either of them have any

hand in this murder?"

"Not in a thousand years!" declared Gray, emphatically. "The girls never

loved each other, but lately, even before the death of Miss Lucy, they

have been at daggers drawn. I don't know why, I'm sure!"

"But what do you make of this story of Miss Frayne's about hearing Miss

Stuart in her aunt's room?"

"She didn't hear her. I mean she didn't hear Miss Stuart; what she heard

was Miss Carrington talking to herself. The old lady was erratic in lots

of ways."

"Why do you all say the old lady? She wasn't really old."

"About fifty. But she tried so hard to appear young, that it made her

seem older."

"She was in love with the Count, of course?"

"Yes; as she was in love with any man she could attach. No, that's not

quite true. Miss Lucy cared only for interesting men, but if she could

corral one of those, she used every effort to snare him."

"Is the illustrious Count interesting?"

"She found him so. And, yes, he always entertained us. She made that

bequest to attract his attention and lure him on. And then----"

"Well, and then?"

"Oh, then he couldn't withstand the temptation and he shuffled her off,

to make sure of the money now."

"You think he killed her, then?"

"Who else? Those girls never used a black-jack----"

"But the poison?"

"Had it been poison alone, there might be a question. But that stunning

blow has to be remembered. And neither Miss Stuart nor Miss Frayne can be

thought of for a moment in connection with that piece of brutality."

"But the snake? The queer costume?"

"The costume wasn't so queer--for a boudoir garb. The snake _is_

inexplicable,--unless the man has a disordered mind, and used insane

methods to cover his tracks. Then there's the glove, you can't get around

that!"

"That glove might have been put in her hand by anybody."

"That's so! By a professional burglar, say! I really believe----"

"Oh, let up on that professional burglar business! No burglar is going

off without his loot, when he has uninterrupted time enough to kill a

person twice, with poison and then, to hide that, with a fractured skull!

How do you explain, even in theory, those two murderous attacks?"

"Good Lord, man, _I_ don't know! It's all the most inexplicable muddle. I

don't see how any of the things could happen, but they _did_ happen!

You're the detective, not I! Aren't you ever going to discover anything?"

"I may as well own up, Mr. Haviland, I am beyond my depth. There is a

belief among detectives that the more bizarre and amazing the clues are,

the easier the deduction therefrom. But I don't believe that. This case

is bizarre enough, in all conscience, yet what can one deduce from that

paper snake and that squeezed-up glove? It was all up in a little wad,

you know, not at all as if it were carelessly drawn from a man's hand, or

pulled off in a struggle."

"There was no struggle. The features were composed, even almost smiling."

"I know it. That proves it was no burglar. Well, I'm up a tree. I wish

you felt inclined to call in Fleming Stone. He's the only man on this

continent who could unravel it all."

"I want to get him, but Miss Stuart won't hear of it. I'd have to have

either her authority or Loria's."

"But Mr. Loria gave you full swing, in that cable."

"Yes, for ordinary business matters. But this is different. I'd have to

have assurance that he'd pay the bills before I engaged Stone. I've heard

he's some expensive."

"I've heard that, too. But, by Jove, I'd like to work with him! Or under

him. I say, I wish you could bring it about."

"I might cable Loria on my own, and not mention it to Miss Stuart until I

get the permission."

"Do. For as you say, the two ladies cannot possibly be involved, and I,

for one, don't believe that nincompoop Count ever pulled off such a

complicated affair all by himself."

"What about the widow he's visiting?"

"Ah, there you have it! Those two are in it, but there's more mystery

yet."

"I'd like to have it straightened out," said Haviland, thoughtfully. "In

a way, I feel responsible to Loria, since he has put me in charge. And if

he wants me to get Stone, I'll be glad to do so. As you say, it can't

affect the girls,--that stuff Anita made up was only to bother Pauline.

You see, Pauline came back at her with a counter accusation. They're both

unstrung and upset, and they scarcely know what they're saying."

"Then there's that French maid."

"Oh, Estelle. She's a negligible quantity. She's hysterical from sheer

nervousness, and she lies so fast she can hardly keep up with herself."

"Well, think it over, and if you see your way clear to call in Stone,

I'll be mighty glad. If the Frenchman _is_ the guilty party, Stone will

nail him and prove it beyond all doubt. And if not, we surely don't want

an innocent man to swing."

"That we don't," agreed Haviland.

XI

FLEMING STONE

"Yes, I have often heard the idea expressed that the more bizarre the

clues appear, the easier the solution of the mystery. And this is

frequently true."

Fleming Stone looked from one to another of the interested group of

listeners. They sat in the library,--Pauline, Anita, Gray Haviland and

the young detective, Hardy.

Haviland had carried out his plan of cabling Carrington Loria for

authority to employ Mr. Stone, and had received a reply to use his own

judgment in all such matters and charge the expense to Loria's account.

Pauline had been opposed to the idea of calling Fleming Stone to the

case, but as she seemed unable to put forth any valid objections,

Haviland had insisted until she gave her consent. So arrangements had

been quickly made, and the great Detective had reached Garden Steps on

Wednesday afternoon, just a week after the discovery of the murder.

Previously unacquainted with Stone, the whole household was interested in

his personality, and this preliminary conversation was by way of

introduction.

A man of nearly fifty, Fleming Stone was tall and well proportioned, with

a carriage and bearing that gave an impression of strength. His clear-cut

face and firm jaw gave the same character indications as are seen in

portraits of Lincoln, but his features were far more harmonious than

those of our rugged-faced president.

Stone's hair, thick and dark, was slightly grayed at the temples, and his

deep-set eyes were now lustrous, and again, shadowed, like the water of a

dark pool. His lean jaw and forceful mouth made his face in repose

somewhat stern, but this effect was often banished by his delightful

smile, which softened his whole countenance and gave him a distinct air

of friendliness.

His manner was full of charm, and even Pauline became fascinated as she

watched him and listened to his talk.

Fully at ease and skilfully directing the conversation, while he seemed

merely sharing it, Stone was studying and classifying the new elements

with which he had to deal. Not yet had he inquired as to the details of

the case in hand, he was discussing detective work in general, much to

the gratification of Tom Hardy, who listened as a pupil at the feet of

Gamaliel.

"Yes," went on Stone, settling back sociably in his easy chair, while the

others unconsciously fell into more informal postures, "Yes, bizarre

effects do often point the way to a successful quest. Why, once, a man

was found dead, with his feet in a tub of cold water. It was discovered

that his feet had been immersed after death had taken place. Obviously

the tub of water had been used as a blind, to fog up the case. But the

very character of the clue led at once to a man who was known as a 'cold

water fiend,' and a fiend indeed he was. He was the murderer. You see, he

was clever, but not clever enough. He had wit enough to think of the

queer circumstance of the tub of water, but not enough to realize that

the clue would lead directly to his own undoing."

Everybody looked thoughtful, but it was Hardy who spoke; "Yes, Mr.

Stone," he said, "but that clue was put there on purpose. Do you think

these strange effects connected with Miss Carrington's murder were

deliberately arranged?"

"That I can't tell now, Mr. Hardy. In fact, I have not heard a connected

and circumstantial account of the discoveries, as yet. Suppose we go over

the case, leisurely, and let me get a complete account by means of a

general conversation. I will ask questions, or you may volunteer

information, as seems most enlightening. Tell me first of the character

and characteristics of Miss Carrington. Was she timid, or fearful of

burglars?"

"Not at all," said Haviland. "She was careful to have the house locked up

at night by the servants, but she had no burglar alarms or anything of

that sort."

"If a marauder had appeared, would she have been likely to scream out in

affright?"

"No, I don't think so," volunteered Anita. "She would more likely demand

to know what he wanted and order him out."

"Yet the black-jack clearly indicates a burglar," went on Stone; "I can't

imagine an ordinary citizen, of any calling, owning or using such a

weapon."

"Have you examined the thing?" asked Haviland.

"No; I should like to see it."

Tom Hardy at once produced it, having brought it with him from Police

Headquarters for the purpose.

"H'm," said Fleming Stone, as he fingered the not very alarming-looking

affair. In fact, it was merely a long, narrow bag, made of dark cloth and

filled with shot. The bag was tied tightly at one end with a bit of twine

to prevent the escape of the contents.

"Home-made affair," Stone went on. "Made probably by a professional

burglar, but an amateur murderer. See, it is merely a bit of heavy cloth,

out from an old coat sleeve or trouser leg, sewed up in a bungling manner

to make a bag. It is stitched with coarse black thread and the stitches

are drawn hard and firm, evidently pulled through by a strong hand. Then,

filled with shot, it is tied with a bit of old fish-line, which also is

pulled and knotted by muscular fingers. And----" Stone paused abruptly.

"And--" prompted Anita, breathlessly, her eyes fixed on the speaker.

"Nothing much," and Stone smiled; "only I should say the burglar lived in

a house recently remodeled."

Hardy nodded in satisfaction. This was the sort of deduction he was

looking for. Next he hoped for the color of the man's hair, and the sort

of cigar he smoked. But he was doomed to disappointment.

"We seem to have drifted from the subject of Miss Carrington," Stone

said. "The evening before her death was she in her usual spirits?

Evidently no premonition of her fate?"

"On the contrary," said Gray, "she remarked during the evening that

something would happen to her that night which would surprise and astound

us all. She said distinctly that 'to-morrow everything would be

different.'"

"What did you understand her to mean by that?"

"We couldn't understand it at all. It was most mysterious. Nor do we yet

know what she meant. For surely she had no thought of dying. She spent

the evening playing cards and listening to music, and conversation with

the family and guests, quite as usual."

"In amiable mood?" asked Stone.

"No," replied Pauline, taking up the talk; "on the contrary she was

exceedingly irritable and ill-tempered."

"You saw her after she went to her room for the night?" and Stone turned

his whole attention to Pauline.

"Yes; Miss Frayne and I always went to her room with her, to say

good-night and to receive possible orders or suggestions for the next

day's occupations."

"And you say she was unamiable?"

"That is a mild word," and Pauline smiled a little. "She was in a high

temper, and she told us both that we were to leave this house the next

day."

"You both left her in that mood?"

"Yes, we were obliged to do so. She dismissed us peremptorily and ordered

us from the room."

"And you saw her next, Miss Stuart, when?" asked Fleming Stone gently.

Pauline hesitated for a perceptible instant, then she said, with a slight

air of bravado, "next morning."

"I have been told the main facts," went on Stone, "but I want to learn

certain details. Please tell me, Miss Stuart, exactly how she then

appeared."

"Oh, I can't!" and Pauline flung her face into her hands with a short,

sharp cry.

"I should think you _couldn't_!" exclaimed Anita, and her voice was

distinctly accusing.

This seemed to rouse Pauline, and she looked up haughtily at the speaker.

"I don't wonder _you_ think so!" she cried. "But since you ask, Mr.

Stone, I will do the best I can. My aunt was seated at her

dressing-table, but not in her usual chair,--or indeed, as if she were in

any way attending to her toilette,--but in an easy chair, more as if she

were sitting there in contemplation."

"Was she given to such indications of vanity?" asked Stone, in a gentle

way.

"Not at all. My aunt was not a beautiful woman, and she had no illusions

about her personal appearance. I have never known her to look at herself

in a mirror more than was necessary for her dressing. Her maid will tell

you this."

"Go on, please, Miss Stuart."

"When I saw my aunt, she was sitting placidly, even smilingly,--and I did

not, for a moment, imagine she was not alive. Then I noticed her large

tortoise-shell comb was broken to bits, and I noticed, too, her rigid,

staring face. The next few moments are a confused memory to me, but I

know I touched her hand and felt it cold, then I called to Mr. Haviland

and he came."

"Tell me of your aunt's garb. I understand it was most unusual."

"Only in the accessories. The gown she had on was a negligée of Oriental

make and fabric, elaborate, but one of which she was fond and which she

had worn several times. Round her shoulders was a scarf, one of those

heavy Syrian ones, of net patterned with silver. Then, she had on

quantities of jewelry. Not only her pearls, and a few pins, which she had

worn during the evening, but she had added many brooches and bracelets

and rings of great value."

"She was wearing, let us say, a hundred thousand dollars' worth of

jewelry?"

"Far more than that. Her pearls alone are worth that amount. Her diamond

sunburst is valued at fifty thousand dollars and her emerald brooch is

equally valuable. My aunt believed in gems as an investment, and though

she usually kept them in a safe deposit vault, she had recently taken

them from there, and had them all in the house."

"A strange proceeding?"

"Very. I have never known such a thing to occur before unless for some

especial social occasion."

"And the paper snake, of which I have been told----"

"That is the strangest part of all! My aunt was not only afraid of live

snakes, but she had also a perfect horror of any picture or artificial

representation of them. She could never, in her right mind, have placed

that paper snake about her own neck, nor would she have allowed any one

else to do it, without screaming out in horror. Yet, the doctors declare

it must have been placed round her neck before death. Therefore, it is to

me entirely unexplainable."

"Is not that a bizarre clue that should make the case an easy one?" asked

Anita, with an inquiring glance at Stone.

"It may be so," he replied, with a thoughtful look at her. "Where could

such a snake have come from?"

"It was brought by the burglar, of course," said Pauline, quickly.

"I don't mean that; but where could it be bought?"

"Oh, at Vantine's or any Japanese shop," said Pauline, "or at some of the

department stores."

"Could you, by inquiry, find out if Miss Carrington purchased it herself

at any of those places?"

"I could inquire; but I am sure, Mr. Stone, that Aunt Lucy never bought

such a thing."

"It would simplify matters somewhat if you would kindly find out," and

Stone nodded at her, as if to stamp this suggestion a definite request.

The conversation went on, and no one noticed that so deftly did Fleming

Stone guide it that only facts were brought out. No sooner did any one

begin to formulate an opinion or theory than he skilfully turned the

subject or changed the drift of the discussion.

He gathered from facial expressions and manners much that he wanted to

know, he learned the attitudes of the various members of the household

toward each other, and he came to the conclusion that as Gray Haviland

had engaged him, and as he stood as business head of the estate by

authority of Carrington Loria, to Haviland should his reports be made.

"Tell me more of Mr. Loria," Stone said, at last, after many matters had

been discussed.

"He and I are children of Miss Carrington's two sisters," said Pauline.

"Our parents all died when we were young children and Aunt Lucy brought

us both up. Carr, as we call him, lived with us, except for his college

terms, until four years ago. Then he had an opportunity to go to Egypt

and engage in excavation and ancient research work. He is absorbed in it,

and has been home only twice in the four years. It was planned that my

aunt and I should go to Egypt next month on a pleasure trip, and both he

and we looked forward eagerly to it. Miss Frayne was to accompany us, and

Mr. Haviland also."

"Is it your intention to abandon the trip?"

"Speaking for myself, Mr. Stone, no," and Pauline looked determined. "I

cannot answer for the others, but it seems to me that such a visit to my

cousin would be not only right and proper for me, but the only way for me

to find relief and distraction from these dreadful scenes."

"You won't go, I assume," said Stone, gently, "until the murderer of your

aunt is apprehended with certainty?"

"I cannot say," and suddenly Pauline flushed rosily and looked distinctly

embarrassed.

"Rather not!" declared Anita, with an unpleasant glance, and Fleming

Stone made haste to introduce a new phase of the subject.

XII

ESTELLE'S STORY

At the invitation of Haviland, Fleming Stone was a house guest at Garden

Steps. Pauline had raised objections to this, but with Carr Loria's

authority back of him, Gray had insisted, and Pauline unwillingly

consented.

Stone himself recognized the fact that Pauline disliked him, or at any

rate disliked having him on the case, but he ignored it and showed to her

the same gracious manner and pleasant attitude that he showed to all.

Anita, on the other hand, seemed charmed with Stone. She lost no

opportunity to talk with him, and she used every endeavor to attract his

attention to herself. In fact, she tried to flirt with him, and much to

the surprise of the others, Stone seemed ready to meet her advances and

respond to them.

The morning after his arrival, breakfast over, Stone announced his

intention of making a thorough examination of Miss Carrington's rooms,

and asked that he be permitted to go alone for the purpose.

"If Mr. Hardy comes, send him up," he ordered, as Haviland unlocked the

door to give him admittance.

Stone passed through the boudoir to the bedroom and from that to the

elaborate dressing-room and bath. Quickly he noted the obvious details.

Everything had been left practically untouched, and his rapid, trained

gaze took in the bed, turned down but not slept in; the toilet

accessories laid ready in the bathroom; and the fresh, unused towels,

that proved the unfortunate victim had not prepared to retire, but had,

for some reason, donned her jewels at that unusual hour.

Back to the boudoir Stone went and made there more careful scrutiny.

Carefully he examined the white dust of powder on the floor. At Hardy's

orders, this had not been swept away, and Stone stood, with folded arms,

looking at it. He saw the place where the powder had been smeared

about,--he had been told of this,--but he saw other places where faint

footprints were to his keen eye discernible. Not sufficiently clear to

judge much of their characteristics, but enough to show that a stockinged

foot had imprinted them.

"Well, what do you make of the tracks?" asked Hardy, coming in upon his

meditations.

"Their tale is a short one but clear," returned Stone, smiling a greeting

to the younger detective. "As you see, they go out of the room only, they

don't come in."

"Proving?"

"That the intruder came in at the door, accomplished his dreadful

purpose, and then, stepped around here in front of his victim,--here

where the powder is spilt, and then went straight out of the room. Why

did he do this?"

"He heard something to frighten him off?"

"He saw something that frightened him. I doubt if he heard anything. But

he dropped his black-jack and fled. Did you bring the photographs of the

scene?"

"Yes, here they are." Hardy handed over a sheaf of the gruesome pictures,

and Stone scanned them eagerly. Yet their gruesomeness lay largely in the

idea that the subject of them was not a living person,--for in appearance

they were by no means unpleasant to look at. The face of Miss Carrington

was serene and smiling, her wide-open eyes, though staring, were filled

with a life-like wonder, not at all an expression of fright or terror.

"You see," volunteered Hardy, "she was sitting here, admiring herself,

and happily smiling, when the villain sneaked up behind her and gave her

that crack over the head."

"But she was already dead when she was hit on the head."

"So the doctors think, but I believe they're mistaken. Why, there's no

theory that would account for hitting a dead person!"

"And yet, that is what happened. No, Hardy, the doctors are not mistaken

about the hour of death, and about the poison in her system and all that.

But the most obvious and most important clue, for the moment, is that

black-jack. Just where was it found?"

"Right here, Mr. Stone, under the edge of this couch. Hidden on purpose,

of course."

"No, I think not. Dropped by the burglar, rather, when he was startled by

something unexpected. You see, he doubtless stood here, where the powder

is dusted about, and to drop the thing quickly, it would fall or be flung

just there where it was found."

"Yes, but what scared him, if he didn't hear anything?"

"Something that frightened him so terribly that he fled without taking

the jewels he had come for! Something that made him make quick, straight

tracks for the door and downstairs and out, by the way he had entered."

"Good lord! Say, Mr. Stone, you think it was that make-believe Count,

don't you?"

"Why make-believe?"

"Oh, somehow, I feel sure he's a fake. He's not the real thing,--or _I'm_

greatly mistaken!"

"Let me see that glove found in her hand. Have you it with you?"

Hardy had brought some of the exhibits held by the police, and, taking

the glove from his bag, he handed it to Fleming Stone.

Stone looked at the glove hastily, but, raising it to his nose, smelled

of it very carefully.

"No," he said, returning it, "no, the Count is not the man who wielded

the black-jack. I'm fairly certain of that."

"Well, I'm blessed if I can see how you know by smelling! By the way, Mr.

Stone, I suppose you heard all about the conversation that Miss Frayne

related as taking place in this room after one o'clock that night?"

"Yes, I've read the full account of it. What do you think about it?"

"Oh, I think it was the Count, talking to Miss Carrington before he

killed her. He has a very low voice, and speaks almost inaudibly always.

Then, you see, he is down in her will for ten thousand dollars of those

bonds, and he's very fond of pearls,----"

"What's that? Who said he was fond of pearls?"

"Oh, maybe you didn't hear about that. Why, Miss Frayne remembered

afterward, that another sentence she heard Miss Carrington say was, 'I

know how very fond you are of pearls.' She forgot that speech in her

evidence, but found it afterward in the written account she had of what

she overheard at the door. And his Countship is fond of pearls. He talked

a lot about those the lady wore that last evening. He says himself pearls

are a hobby with him."

"So you really think the Count was in this room that night?"

"Surely I do. It's no insult to the lady's memory to say so. She had a

right to receive him in her boudoir if she chose to do so. It's no secret

that she was trying to annex him, and he was not entirely unwilling. You

see,--the way I dope it out,--she had him up here to show off her

stunning jewels, and so tempt him on to a declaration that she couldn't

seem to work him up to otherwise. You know she said, 'To-morrow these may

all be yours, if you will only----' or some words to that effect. What

could all that mean, except as I've indicated? And she said, 'You are the

game I'm after,'--those weren't the words, I know, but it meant that."

"However, I can't think the Count struck that awful blow that fractured

her skull. Villain he may be, even a murderous one, but that black-jack

business, to my mind, points to a lower type of brain, a more

thick-skinned criminal."

Stone spoke musingly, looking about the room as he talked.

"Could it be," he went on, "that she was talking to herself? or, say, to

a picture,--a photograph of somebody? I don't see any photographs about."

Both men looked around, but there were no portraits to be seen.

"Funny," said Hardy: "most women have photographs of their family or

relatives all over the place. Not even one of Miss Stuart or of her

nephew, Loria."

"No, nor any of absent friends or school-mates." Stone looked over all

the silver paraphernalia of the dressing-table and other tables for even

a small framed photograph that might have escaped notice, but found none.

On the walls hung only gilt-framed water colors or photographs of famous

bits of art or architecture in dark wood frames. Many of these were of

old world masterpieces, Italian cathedrals or Egyptian temples. Others

were a well-known Madonna, a Venus of Milo, and one at which Hardy

exclaimed, "She's a sure enough peach! Who's she?"

"That's Cleopatra, starting on her Nile trip," said Stone, smiling at

Hardy's evident admiration.

"'Tis, eh? Then Loria brought it to her. He's daffy over anything

Egyptian. And he's mighty generous. The house is full of the stuff he

brings or sends over; and it's his money, Mr. Stone, that pays your

damages. Miss Stuart, now, she's none too free-handed, they say."

But Fleming Stone paid little heed to this gossip. He was studying the

photographs of the dead lady as being of far more interest than pictures

on the boudoir walls.

"Where's that maid?" he said suddenly; "the one who brought the breakfast

tray----"

"She's in the sanatorium," returned Hardy; "we told you that, Mr. Stone."

"Yes, yes, I know. But where? Can I see her? Now, at once!"

"Yes, I suppose so. It's right near here. A small private affair, only a

few patients. They needn't really have sent her, but she carried on so,

Miss Stuart wouldn't have her about any longer."

"Come, let us go there." As he spoke, Fleming Stone left the room, and

without waiting for the hurrying Hardy, ran downstairs, and was in the

hall, getting into his great coat when the other joined him.

So great was Hardy's faith in his superior, and so anxious was he to

watch his methods, that he donned his own overcoat without a word, and

the two set forth.

It was only a short walk, and on the way, Stone looked about in every

direction, asking innumerable questions about the neighboring houses and

their occupants.

After passing several large and handsome estates, they came to a district

of less elaborate homes, and after that to a section of decidedly poorer

residences. At one of these, Stone stared hard, but not till they were

well past it, did he inquire who lived there.

"Dunno," replied Hardy; "it's a sort of boarding-house, I think, for the

lower classes."

"Is it?" said Stone, and they went on.

At the sanatorium they found Estelle. She was not hysterical now, but was

in a sort of apathetic mood, and listless of manner.

Stone spoke to her with polite address, and a manner distinctly

reassuring.

"It will be much better for you, Estelle," he said, pleasantly, "if you

will speak the truth. Better for you, and better for----you know whom."

His significant tone roused her, "I don't know who you mean," she

exclaimed.

"Oh, yes, you do! somebody whose name begins with H, or B, or S."

"I don't know any one beginning with S," and Estelle frowned defiantly.

"But some one with----" Stone leaned forward, and in the tense pause that

followed, Estelle's lips half formed a silent 'B'.

"Yes," went on Stone, as if he had not paused. "If you will tell the

whole truth, it will be better for Bates in the long run."

Estelle began to tremble. "What do you know?" she cried out, and showed

signs of hysteria.

"I know a great deal," said Stone, gravely, "and, unless assisted by what

you know, my knowledge will bring trouble to your friend."

"What do you want me to tell you?" and Estelle, now on her guard, spoke

slowly and clearly, but her fingers were nervously twining themselves in

and out of her crumpled handkerchief.

"Only your own individual part in the proceedings. The rest we will learn

from Bates himself."

"How do you know it was Bates?"

"We have learned much since you left Garden Steps," and now Stone spoke a

little more sternly. Hardy looked at him in wonder. Who was this Bates,

clearly implicated in the murder, and known to Estelle?

"You see, Mr. Haviland saw you go down to open the window for him to come

in," Stone went on, as casually as if he were retailing innocent gossip.

"Did you go down again and close it?"

"I haven't said I opened it yet," and Estelle flashed an irate glance at

her questioner.

"No, but you will do so when you realize how necessary it is. I tell you

truly, when I say that only your honesty now can save your friend Bates

from the electric chair."

Estelle shuddered and began to cry violently.

"That only makes matters worse," said Stone patiently. "Listen to me.

This is your only chance to save Bates' life. If I go to the police with

what I know, they will convict him of the murder beyond all doubt. If you

tell me what I ask,--I think, I hope, between us, we can prove that he

did not do it."

"But didn't he?" and Estelle looked up with hope dawning in her eyes.

"_I_ think not. Now there's no time to waste. Tell me what I ask or you

will lose your chance to do so. You opened the living-room window for

Bates to come in, at about three o'clock?"

"Yes," admitted the girl.

"And went down and closed and fastened it at----"

"Five o'clock," came in lowest tones.

"Not knowing that Miss Carrington was dead?"

"Oh, _No_!"

"For Bates went there only to steal the jewels?"

"Yes."

"And so, when you took the breakfast tray, and found the lady--as you did

find her--you were frightened out of your wits, and dropped the tray?"

"Yes."

"And so, to shield Bates, who you thought had killed her, you lied right

and left, even trying to incriminate Miss Stuart?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you seen Bates since?"

"No, sir."

"And until now you have thought he killed your mistress?"

"I didn't know."

"Another thing, Estelle; you put bromide in the glass of milk in order

that Miss Carrington might sleep soundly, and not hear Bates come in?"

"She didn't drink that milk!"

"But you fixed it, thinking she would?"

"Yes."

"That's all. Come on, Hardy." and somewhat unceremoniously, Stone took

leave, and made for the nearest telephone station.

After that, matters whizzed. Stone had called the Police Headquarters and

asked that an officer be sent with a warrant for the arrest of Bates.

"How do you know where he is?" asked Hardy, nearly bursting with

curiosity.

"I'm not sure, but at least I know where to start looking for him," Stone

replied, as the two went back the way they had come.

Stone stopped at the boarding-house he had noticed on the way to the

sanatorium, and rang the bell.

Sure enough, Bates lived there and Bates was at home.

At Stone's first questions he broke down and confessed to the assault

with the black-jack.

"But I didn't kill her!" he cried, "she was already dead! Oh, my God! can

I ever forget those terrible, staring eyes! The saints forgive me! I was

half crazy. There she was, dead, and yet smiling and happy looking! Oh,

sir, what does it all mean?"

XIII

BATES, THE BURGLAR

Brought before the magistrate, Bates told a coherent though amazing

story.

It seems he was Estelle's lover, and had long ago persuaded her to let

him know when Miss Carrington had a quantity of jewelry in the house,

that he might essay a robbery. The plan was simple. Estelle had promised

to slip downstairs at three o'clock and raise a window for his entrance,

and later, but before any one else was about, she was to slip down and

lock it again. In the meantime, they assumed, the burglary would be

quietly accomplished, their supposition being that Miss Carrington would

be asleep in her bedroom, and the boudoir easy of access.

"You entered by the window, then, at what time?" asked Stone, who was

doing most of the questioning.

"At quarter of four in the morning," replied Bates, and all noted that

this was shortly before the hour when Mrs. Frothingham saw through her

field-glass a man leaving by the same window.

"You went directly up the stairs?"

"Yes; Estelle had often told me the lay of the rooms, and I went straight

to the lady's boodore."

"You carried with you a 'black-jack.' Did you have murder in your heart?"

"That I did not! I took that, thinkin' if the lady woke up and screamed,

I'd just give her a tap that would put her to sleep without hurtin' her

at all, at all. I'm no murderer, Sir, and I'm confessin' my attempt at

burglary, and--and assault, so I won't be accused of a greater crime."

"That's right, Bates, it'll be better for you to be perfectly truthful.

Now, what did you see when you entered the room?"

"I had stepped inside and shut the door before I saw anything, and then,

I turned to see the lady's face, but in the mirror. I was behind her, and

in the glass I saw her smilin' face, and of course, I thought she was

alive, and that she saw me. I knew she'd scream in a minute, and the

sight of all the jewels gleamin' on her neck drove me fair crazy with

greed, I suppose, and I up with my sandbag, and hit her head, not meanin'

to hit hard enough to kill her, but only to knock her unconscious-like."

"And then?"

"The blow smashed the big comb she was wearin' but she didn't move nor

fall over. She was leanin' back in her big chair, and she jest sat there,

and kept on smilin'. My knees shook like the ague, for I thought it was

magic, or that my eyes was deceivin' me. There was no sound anywhere, and

I stood starin' at that smilin' face and she starin' back at me! I nearly

screamed out myself! But I bucked up, and thinkin' that she was struck

unconscious so quick, her face didn't change, I made to take off some of

the jewels I was after. I touched her neck and it was cold! The lady was

dead! Had been dead some time, I was sure, 'cause she was so cold and

stiff. I trembled all over, but my only thought then was to get out. Not

for a million dollars would I touch them sparklers! There ain't often a

burglar who is ghoul enough to rob a corpse! Leastways, _I'm_ not. I

wouldn't. I wouldn't! I'm a tough and a bad egg generally, but I wouldn't

steal from no corpse! Not I!"

"So you left the house at once?"

"That I did, as fast as my tremblin' legs could get me downstairs. I was

clean daft. I couldn't make it out and I didn't try. I thought it was the

Devil's own work, somehow, but how, I didn't know. My mind was full,

makin' my escape. I ran like the old boy was after me, and reachin' home,

I hid under me bedclothes and groaned all night. Full a week went by, and

I begun to breathe easy, thinkin' I'd never be suspected of a hand in it,

when up comes this gentleman, and says I done it. Well, I've told the

truth now, and I'm relieved to get it off my chest."

Bates heaved a deep sigh, as of a man eased of a great burden. His whole

story bore the stamp of truth, and his manner of telling was

straightforward and earnest. Nor was there reason for doubt. Though a

startling tale, it entirely explained many of the strange conditions that

had seemed so bewildering. It would never have occurred to Bates nor to

any one to make up such a yarn, and what else could have deterred him

from the contemplated robbery but the superstition that makes even the

most hardened criminals refuse to steal from a dead person? Therefore,

the narrative was accepted as probably true, and Bates was taken to the

Tombs to await further proceedings against him.

"You're a wonder!" said Gray Haviland, as, that same afternoon, he

discussed the matter with Fleming Stone. "Would you mind telling me how

you went straight to the criminal and walked him off to jail?"

"That was practically a bit of luck," and Stone smiled. "It was the

black-jack that gave me the clue. If the fellow hadn't dropped that in

his fright, we might never have traced him. Though we would perhaps have

found him eventually, through the maid, Estelle. She is not good at

keeping things secret. However, he did drop the weapon, and it led

straight to him."

"But how?"

"Well, the thing smelled strongly of creosote. Now, it was made from a

bit of old cloth that looked like a piece of some discarded garment,--a

man's coat, say. If the odor had been camphor or moth balls, I should

have assumed a garment laid away in storage, but creosote is not used for

that purpose. So I deduced a house recently remodeled by use of a certain

kind of shingles. I know that the odor of those shingles clings to

everything in the house for months. It is almost ineradicable. So I

looked about for a house lately reshingled."

"Why not a new house?" asked Hardy, who was present.

"A point well taken," said Stone, nodding approval, "but in a new house

the odor often is dispelled before the people move in. In a remodeled

house, the furnishings stay there during the work and so are deeply

impregnated with that unmistakable smell of creosote. At any rate, I

worked on that, and when I found that a newly shingled old house was a

boarding-house of the type Bates would be likely to live in, I went there

to see, and found him."

"Yes, but how did you know there was such a person as Bates? Where did

you get his name?"

"From your cook," returned Stone, simply. "I concluded there was no doubt

that Estelle had let the man in and relocked the window afterward. So I

deduced a friend of the girl's so dear to her that she would do this for

him. I asked the cook, Mrs. Haskins, as to Estelle's admirers and learned

that there were two, Bates and Higgins. Mrs. Haskins couldn't say which

one Estelle more favored, so I decided to try both. Bates--the cook told

me--lived in a boarding-house near here, and Higgins over in New York. So

when I asked Estelle a few leading questions I pretended to greater

knowledge than I really had. I spoke of a name beginning with either B,

H, or S. She fell into the trap and said quickly that she knew no one

initialed S. Then I said, 'but beginning with----' and waited; she said

no name, but involuntarily her lips form a silent 'B,' and I knew she had

Bates in mind. The rest was easy. Bates, the boarding-house and the

shingles formed a combination too indicative to be merely coincidence.

And so we found him. And I, for one, believe his story. I know the strong

superstition that imbues those people concerning a corpse, and the

unexpected discovery that he had attacked one was enough to make that man

beside himself. Indeed, it's a wonder that he didn't himself make an

outcry in his terror and fright."

"I have heard of your prowess in these matters," said Haviland, "but I

didn't look for such quick work as this. Why, you hadn't even interviewed

Estelle when you came to your conclusions about Bates."

"No, but remember, I have seen a full account of all the evidence, not

only at the inquest, but all that has been gathered by the police and by

Mr. Hardy here. Last night I read all this carefully, and it was

enlightening on these points that led up to to-day's work. But, now, I

don't mind telling you, Mr. Haviland, that a much more difficult and

complicated problem faces us, to discover who gave to Miss Carrington the

poison that killed her."

"Have you any suspicions?" and Gray looked the Detective straight in the

eyes.

"I have not, as yet," and Fleming Stone returned the steady gaze. "Have

you?"

Gray Haviland hesitated. Then he said: "I would rather not answer that

question, Mr. Stone. If I should have suspicions, and they should be

unjust or ill-founded, is it not better to leave them unmentioned, even

to you? You are here to discover the criminal. I can not think my

suspicions, if I have any, could help you, but they might easily hinder

you by wrong suggestion."

"Very well, Mr. Haviland, just as you please. But I assume you will tell

me frankly anything you may know or learn in the way of direct evidence

bearing on the matter?"

"That, certainly." But though Haviland's words were a definite promise,

his tone and manner seemed hesitant, and a trifle vague.

"Am I to have the privilege of working with you, Mr. Stone?" inquired

Hardy, his heart beating tumultuously lest he receive a negative answer.

"If you care to. And if you are willing to work in my way. I am somewhat

impatient of interference or questioning. But, if you want to assist in

investigating, under my absolute orders, I shall be glad to have you do

so."

Nothing was further from Hardy's mind than to interfere or to show any

undue curiosity concerning the work or methods of the great Detective. He

was more than content to watch silently, to run errands, and to make

himself useful in any way desired by his superior. He said this, and

Stone nodded indulgently.

"I shall begin with this matter of the arrest of Count Charlier," said

Stone, as he looked over his note-book. "Either that man is the guilty

party or he is not. If not, he must be released. If so, it must be

proven. What do you know of his history, Mr. Haviland?"

"Very little, Mr. Stone. In the first place, I doubt his right to the

title he assumes."

"You do? And why?"

Haviland looked a little embarrassed. "I'm not sure I know why. But he

doesn't act like a real Count."

"Yes? And how do real Counts act, I mean in ways that differ from this

man's habits?"

"You're having fun with me, Mr. Stone," and Gray blushed like a

school-boy. "But I mean it. It's this way. I'm not a Count, but if I

wanted to pretend I was, I'd act just as Count Charlier does. There!"

"Good! That's definite, at least. Now make it a little more so by

describing some of these actions."

"Well," and Haviland's brow wrinkled, "well, to begin with, his manners

are too slick and polished."

"A traditional trait of Frenchmen."

"Yes, if real. But his seem artificially, purposely,--oh, _fakely_

polished! Have you seen him, Mr. Stone?"

"No, not yet."

"When you do, you'll see what I mean. He has shifty eyes, and he rubs his

hands together, and if he's standing, he half bows with every sentence he

utters, and he smirks instead of smiling, and his whole attitude is a

fifty-fifty of apology and bumptiousness."

"Bravo! You've given a graphic picture of him at all events. I'll reserve

further consideration of his personality until I have seen him."

"You believe implicitly all that story of Bates, do you, Mr. Stone?" and

Haviland looked dubiously at the Detective.

"Yes, I do, at present. If anything turns up to disprove any part of it I

may have to revise my ideas. But just now, it seems to me that Bates told

the simple truth. To be sure, he only told it because he feared an

accusation of murder, and he knew that to confess to the lesser crime

would go far to help him deny the greater."

"You may be right. But might there not be collusion between Friend Count

and Bates?"

"Collusion?"

"Just that," and Gray shook his head doggedly. "I've a vague idea that

Frenchy is mixed up in this thing somehow. Now, he couldn't possibly have

administered the poison, himself, personally, nor could he have struck

the blow personally, but couldn't he have hired the man Bates to do it

for him?"

"On the face of things, Mr. Haviland, does that look plausible? Is the

Count, as you describe him, a man who would engage a burglar of the Bates

type to commit a brutal crime? Again, if Bates were merely the Count's

tool, would he not, when caught, pass the blame on to his employer?"

"He sure would! You are right, Mr. Stone, those two never hooked up

together! It's out of the question. But as Estelle and Bates are in

cahoots, why didn't she give Miss Carrington the poison, herself?"

"Well, she did fix the bromide, hoping to make her mistress sleep

soundly. But the lady never took it. Now, if the maid had given or

expected to give the poison, why the bromide at all?"

"But, look here," broke in Hardy, "mightn't it be that Estelle did do the

poisoning and arranged the bromide as a blind, to put us off the track,

exactly as it has done?"

"There's small use speculating about that poison," said Stone

thoughtfully, "we must go at that systematically. We must find out where

it was bought and by whom. People can't go round buying deadly poison

without a record being made of the sale. We must inquire of druggists,

until we find out these facts."

"There's no druggist about here who would sell aconitine," said Hardy,

"it doubtless was bought in New York."

"That, of course, adds to the difficulty of tracing the sale, but it must

be done. Mr. Hardy, I will ask you to do all you can to find out about

that."

"You want to look up a French apothecary," advised Haviland. "That Count

is at the bottom of this, as sure as shootin', and he's full clever

enough to hide his tracks mighty closely. Why, that man is a

fortune-hunter and an adventurer, and he wanted that ten thousand

dollars, and he poisoned Miss Lucy to get it! That's what he did! And he

was on deck that night, after the jewels, that's where he was! It was he

in that room talking, it was he who left his glove there,--of course, he

didn't know it,--and now you've got him under lock and key, I hope you'll

keep him there, and not let this Bates discovery get him the slip. If the

two were not working together, then, surely they are incriminated

separately, and you want to look into the case of little old Mr. Count!"

"You may be right, Mr. Haviland," and Fleming Stone smiled at him, "but I

think you are assuming a lot because of your prejudice against the

Frenchman. Was he very attentive to Miss Carrington? Had he proposed

marriage to her?"

"That we don't know. Of course, we had all been afraid he would----"

"Why afraid?"

"Oh, we didn't want my cousin to marry an adventurer. Of course, he only

wanted her fortune, and as her business manager, I had a right to

interfere, or at least, to look after her interests enough to prevent

that."

"But was she not a capable woman, who could be supposed to know her own

mind?"

"Ordinarily, yes. But, there's no use mincing matters. Miss Carrington

greatly desired to marry. However, she paid no attention to men whom she

did not consider interesting. There were several such, and she sent them

packing. The Count, though, she took to at once, partly because of his

title and partly because,--well, he has a way with him. He flattered her,

and she took the bait like a hungry fish!"

XIV

WHO GAVE THE POISON?

Though Fleming Stone's acumen and quick perception had led to a swift

apprehension of Bates, his next steps were not taken so rapidly. He spent

much time in the boudoir of Miss Carrington, as if striving to make the

walls tell what their traditional ears had heard.

The upset breakfast tray had been removed, but nothing else disturbed.

Estelle had owned up, after Bates' arrest, that she did drop the tray, in

her fright at the sight of the dead lady, and that she afterward denied

it lest she be suspected of wrong-doing.

The plate that had contained sandwiches was still on the bedside table,

but the glass of milk, with bromide in, had been carried away.