"Which way do you usually go home?" I asked, my ears afire.
[Illustration: "'Which way do you usually go home?' I asked."]
She told me. It was a suitably unfrequented path.
So presently I strolled thither; and seated myself under the trees in a
bosky dell.
Now, there is a quality in boskiness not inappropriate to romantic
thoughts. Boskiness, cigarettes, a soft afternoon in June, the hum of
bees, and the distant barking of the seals, all these were delicately
blending to inspire in me a bashful sentiment.
A specimen of _Papilio turnus_, di-morphic form, _Glaucus_, alighted near
me; I marked its flight with scientific indifference. Yet it is a rare
species in Bronx Park.
A mock-orange bush was in snowy bloom behind me; great bunches of
wistaria hung over the rock beside me.
The combination of these two exquisite perfumes seemed to make the
boskiness more bosky.
There was an unaccustomed and sportive lightness to my step when I rose
to meet Mildred, where she came loitering along the shadow-dappled path.
She seemed surprised to see me.
She thought it rather late to sit down, but she seated herself. I talked
to her enthusiastically about anthropology. She was so interested that
after a while she could scarcely keep still, moving her slim little feet
restlessly, biting her pretty lower lip, shifting her position--all
certain symptoms of an interest in science which even approached
excitement.
Warmed to the heart by her eager and sympathetic interest in the noble
science so precious, so dear to me, I took her little hand to soothe and
quiet her, realizing that she might become overexcited as I described the
pituitary body and why its former functions had become atrophied until
the gland itself was nearly obsolete.
So intense her interest had been that she seemed a little tired. I
decided to give adequate material support to her spinal process. It
seemed to rest and soothe her. I don't remember that she said anything
except: "Mr. _Smith_!" I don't recollect what we were saying when she
mentioned me by name rather abruptly.
The afternoon was wonderfully still and calm. The month was June.
After a while--quite a while--some little time in point of accurate
fact--she detected the sound of approaching footsteps.
I remember that she was seated at the opposite end of the bench, rather
feverishly occupied with her hat and her hair, when young Jones came
hastily along the path, caught sight of us, halted, turned violently
red--being a shy young man--but instead of taking himself off, he seemed
to recover from a momentary paralysis.
"Mr. Smith!" he said sharply. "Professor Boomly has disappeared; there's
a pool of blood on his desk; his coat, hat, and waistcoat are lying on
the floor, the room is a wreck, and Dr. Quint is in there tearing up the
carpet and behaving like a madman. We think he suddenly went insane and
murdered Professor Boomly. What is to be done?"
Horrified, I had risen at his first word. And now, as I understood the
full purport of his dreadful message, my hair stirred under my hat and
I gazed at him, appalled.
"What is to be done?" he demanded. "Shall I telephone for the police?"
"Do you actually believe," I faltered, "that this unfortunate man has
murdered Boomly?"
"I don't know. I looked over the transom, but I couldn't see Professor
Boomly. Dr. Quint has locked the door."
"And he's tearing up the carpet?"
"Like a lunatic. I didn't want to call in the police until I'd asked you.
Such a scandal in Bronx Park would be a frightful thing for us all--" He
hesitated, looked around, coldly, it seemed to me, at Mildred Case. "A
scandal," he repeated, "is scarcely what might be expected among a
harmonious and earnest band of seekers after scientific knowledge. Is it,
Mil--Miss Case?"
Now, I don't know why Mildred should have blushed. There was nothing that
I could see in this young man's question to embarrass her.
Preoccupied, still confused by the shock of this terrible news, I looked
at Jones and at Mildred; and they were staring rather oddly at each
other.
I said: "If this affair turns out to be as ghastly as it seems to
promise, we'll have to call in a detective. I'll go back immediately--"
"Why not take me, also?" asked Mildred Case, quietly.
"What?" I asked, looking at her.
"Why not, Mr. Smith? I was once a private detective."
Surprised at the suggestion, I hesitated.
"If you desire to keep this matter secret--if you wish to have it first
investigated privately and quietly--would it not be a good idea to let me
use my professional knowledge before you call in the police? Because as
soon as the police are summoned all hope of avoiding publicity is at an
end."
She spoke so sensibly, so quietly, so modestly, that her offer of
assistance deeply impressed me.
As for young Jones, he looked at her steadily in that odd, chilling
manner, which finally annoyed me. There was no need of his being snobbish
because this very lovely and intelligent young girl happened to be a
waitress at the Rolling Stone Inn.
"Come," I said unsteadily, again a prey to terrifying emotions; "let us
go to the Administration Building and learn how matters stand. If this
affair is as terrible as I fear it to be, science has received the
deadliest blow ever dealt it since Cagliostro perished."
As we three strode hastily along the path in the direction of the
Administration Building, I took that opportunity to read these two
youthful fellow beings a sermon on envy, jealousy, and coveteousness.
"See," said I, "to what a miserable condition the desire for notoriety
and fame has brought two learned and enthusiastic delvers in the vineyard
of endeavor! The mad desire for the Carnegie medal completely turned the
hitherto perfectly balanced brains of these devoted disciples of Science.
Envy begat envy, jealousy begat jealousy, pride begat pride, hatred begat
hatred--"
"It's like that book in the Bible where everybody begat everybody else,"
said Mildred seriously.
At first I thought she had made an apt and clever remark; but on thinking
it over I couldn't quite see its relevancy. I turned and looked into her
sweet face. Her eyes were dancing with brilliancy and her sensitive lips
quivered. I feared, she was near to tears from the reaction of the shock.
Had Jones not been walking with us--but let that go, too.
We were now entering the Administration Building, almost running; and
as soon as we came to the closed door of Dr. Quint's room, I could hear
a commotion inside--desk drawers being pulled out and their contents
dumped, curtains being jerked from their rings, an unmistakable sound
indicating the ripping up of a carpet--and through all this din the
agitated scuffle of footsteps.
I rapped on the door. No notice taken. I rapped and knocked and called in
a low, distinct voice.
Suddenly I recollected I had a general pass-key on my ring which unlocked
any door in the building. I nodded to Jones and to Mildred to stand
aside, then, gently fitting the key, I suddenly pushed out the key which
remained on the inside, turned the lock, and flung open the door.
A terrible sight presented itself: Dr. Quint, hair on end, both mustaches
pulled out, shirt, cuffs, and white waistcoat smeared with blood, knelt
amid the general wreckage on the floor, in the act of ripping up the
carpet.
"Doctor!" I cried in a trembling voice. "What have you done to Professor
Boomly?"
He paused in his carpet ripping and looked around at us with a terrifying
laugh.
"I've settled _him_!" he said. "If you don't want to get all over dust
you'd better keep out--"
"Quint!" I cried. "Are you crazy?"
"Pretty nearly. Let me alone--"
"Where is Boomly!" I demanded in a tragic voice. "Where is your old
friend, Billy Boomly? Where is he, Quint? And what does _that_ mean--that
pool of blood on the floor? Whose is it?"
"It's Bill's," said Quint, coolly ripping up another breadth of carpet
and peering under it.
"What!" I exclaimed. "Do you admit that?"
"Certainly I admit it. I told him I'd terminate him if he meddled with my
Silver Moon eggs."
"You mean to say that you shed blood--the blood of your old
friend--merely because he meddled with a miserable batch of butterfly's
eggs?" I asked, astounded.
"I certainly did shed his blood for just that particular thing! And
listen; you're in my way--you're standing on a part of the carpet which
I want to tear up. Do you mind moving?"
Such cold-blooded calmness infuriated me. I sprang at Quint, seized him,
and shouted to Jones to tie his hands behind him with the blood-soaked
handkerchief which lay on the floor.
At first, while Jones and I were engaged in the operation of securing
the wretched man, Quint looked at us both as though surprised; then he
grew angry and asked us what the devil we were about.
"Those who shed blood must answer for it!" I said solemnly.
"What? What's the matter with you?" he demanded in a rage. "Shed blood?
What if I did? What's that to you? Untie this handkerchief, you
unmentionable idiot!"