in the glories of the scene. The splendid lawns sloping down to even
more splendid gardens were the plan of an artist and a Nature lover
both. The October foliage was alight and aglow, and the Autumn flowers
were masses of gorgeous bloom. But after a whiff or two of the sunlit
morning air, they returned to their quest.
"On this terrace Miss Vernon and Barry Stannard sat until after eleven,"
Roberts said; "I got that from young Stannard himself."
"Don't put too much faith in those people's ideas of time," warned
Steele. "He may think it was after eleven and it may have been much
earlier."
"You're right, there. Well, anyway, he sat here with her, in the
dark,--he told me he had turned off the Terrace light,--and then he went
off to give the dogs some exercise. I believe they go for a trot every
night, don't they, Blake?"
"Yes, sir; Mr. Barry almost always romps about with the dogs of an
evening."
"Well, that leaves Miss Vernon alone here for an indefinite--I mean, an
indeterminate time. Now, why doesn't Mr. Courtenay see her, as he sits
on that lawn seat yonder?"
"Too dark," said Steele, laconically.
"That's right. She was back, we'll say, under the Terrace roof, and the
night was dark. Moreover, the Studio was brightly lighted, also the
Billiard Room, which threw the Terrace even more in shadow. Well,
then,--I'm sort of reconstructing this,--Miss Vernon sat here, until, _as
she says_, she heard the noise in the studio."
"Or saw the light go out," and Steele shook his head. "Nobody seems to
know which happened first, the sudden darkness in there or the queer
sound."
"No one knows, except the murderer," said Roberts, seriously. "The
murderer knows, because he--or she--turned off the light, but the others,
who are innocent, are uncertain about it, as one always is about a
moment of unexpected action."
"That's it," and Steele looked at the detective in admiration. "Mighty
few can give a clear account of sudden happenings, unless it's a cut and
dried account."
"And yet--" Bobsy frowned, "you know both Miss Vernon and Mrs. Stannard
became confused about the lights."
"That's because they both tried to copycat the footman's story. You see,
the one who really killed Stannard, did shut off the lights, and when
she tells her story, and has to stick to it, she gets mixed up about the
sound and the lights, because she was in the studio all the time, and
not where she says she was, at all. Then, on the other hand, the other
of the two, being innocent, gets confused, because she really can't tell
just how things did happen."
"Sound enough. Now let's go to the Billiard Room."
Crossing the studio again, they entered the Billiard Room, a large
apartment with seats round the walls and the table in the centre.
Cue racks and much smoking and other masculine paraphernalia were all
about. There were a skylight of stained glass and a few high side
windows. An outside door was on the South side.
"Here Mr. Courtenay left Mrs. Stannard, at much the same time Barry left
the girl," Roberts said. "So you see, Steele, their chances are equal."
"Chances of what?"
"I mean chances to go into the studio, unobserved of anybody, commit the
deed, turn off the lights, and then, either return to the spot she came
from or to remain in the room until the other entered. It _must_ have
been that way, for there's no other way for it to be."
"All right; now, what about Mrs. Stannard's story of overhearing the
stuff her husband said to the girl?"
"Probably true, but if he said that to Miss Vernon and Mrs. Stannard
overheard it, she _might_ have run in and found the dead man, or she
_might_ have run in and stabbed the living man."
"In the dark?"
"Perhaps so. She knew where every bit of furniture was. But isn't it
quite as likely that the girl did the stabbing?"
"That wax baby?"
"She isn't the baby she looks! Always distrust a blonde."
"But such a blonde!"
"Distrust them in proportion to their blondeness, then. But we've
learned all we can here. Back to think it over, and puzzle it out."
VI
Mrs. Faulkner's Account
Now, although the residents of the aristocratic Rensselaer Park were
willing, and even preferred to accept the burglar theory, rather than
have more shocking revelations, the newspaper reading public was avid
for sensation, and dissatisfied at the failure of the police to arrest
anybody, even the hypothetical burglar.
Owing to the prominence of the victim, both socially and in the art
world, a great hue and cry was raised for vengeance where vengeance was
due. All sorts of theories were propounded by all sorts of people and
interest increased rather than dwindled as no definite progress was
reported.
Captain Steele was one of the most able men on the force, and his record
for success in murder cases was of the best. His reputation was at
stake, and he was working his very hardest in his handling of the
present matter. His methods were persistent rather than brilliant, and
his slowness was often the despair of quick-witted Robert Roberts.
"Captain," Bobsy would say, "do you see that point?"
"I saw it long ago," would be the exasperating reply.
"Well, what about it?"
"I haven't thought it out yet."
"Well, get busy."
"I am busy," the stolid Captain would answer, and go on about his
business.
But the two were staunch friends and allies, and possessed the qualities
that enabled them to work side by side without friction.
"You see," said Steele, as they were closeted in the Reception Room,
"it's more or less a psychological problem."
They liked this room for their confabs. The small size and convenient
location suited their purpose admirably. They could shut its two doors,
and be entirely secluded or they could open them and get a general idea
of what was going on about the house.
"Snug little box," Bobsy had said, when he first saw it, and the walls
and ceiling being all of the same general decoration in red and gold,
did give it the effect of a well lined box. It was used by the family
for the reception of transient callers, and was more formal than the
studio or Billiard Room. The Terrace, too, was used as a living place,
in available weather, and even now as the two men were deep in their
discussion, there could be seen through the south window some servants
arranging a small breakfast table out there.
"Psychology is out of my line," Roberts said, in answer to the Captain's
assertion.
"Oh, I don't mean anything scientific. But, it's this way. One of those
women is lying and one telling the truth. Now, if we tax them with this,
we'll get nothing out of them, for they're both at the edge of a nervous
breakdown."
"The innocent one, too?"
"Sure. The guilty one is naturally all wrought up, and the innocent one
is so scared at the whole thing that she is all in, too. I think the
little peach was in love with the artist; I'm not sure of this, but it
doesn't matter, anyway. Also, and incidentally, I think that Courtenay
man is very much in love with Mrs. Stannard. Now, all these things are
none of our business, unless they help us to form conclusions that are
our business. And so, we must be rather more tactful and diplomatic than
usual, because of dealing with highstrung and fine-calibred natures."
"A murder doesn't connote a high-calibred nature!"
"It may well do so. A strong impulse of revenge or jealousy could, on
occasion, sway the highest mind to the basest deed. Murderers are made,
not born, Lombroso to the contrary, notwithstanding. And it is the
coincidence of opportunity and motive that makes crime possible to an
otherwise great and noble nature."
"I'm not sure I agree to all that, but if the argument is helpful let's
use it by all means."
"It is. Now, here's the situation. As near as I can make out, Mr.
Stannard was alone in his studio after the Truxton people had gone; the
Faulkner lady and her admirer had gone to the Drawing Room, the model
was on the Terrace with Barry, and Mrs. Joyce was in the Billiard Room
with Courtenay. The trouble is, we don't know how long this interval
was. Blake says the Truxtons went at eleven. Well, from eleven, then,
till eleven-thirty covers the whole time in question. Between those two
moments the crime was led up to and committed."
"Must it have been led up to?"
"Not necessarily, I admit. But suppose, let us say, that soon after
eleven, one or other of the two women we're considering, was left alone.
Say she came into the studio and had some sort of session with Mr.
Stannard that led to the stabbing. Then, say, she turned off the lights,
and quickly returned to her post, either in the Billiard Room or on the
Terrace, and a moment later, entered again, just as she says she did."
"All right, that goes. Now, which?"
"That's what we must discover by studying the two women, not by hunting
clues of a material nature."
"Whichever did it, or whoever did it, had to cross to the other end of
the room to turn off the lights, didn't she?"
Captain Steele remembered the switch was near the hall door, and the
armchair where Stannard died was at the South end of the room.
"Yes," he agreed, "but that's only a few seconds' work."
"But when she did it, the man was not dead. You know he groaned after
the light went out, and later, he spoke."
"Well?"
"Well, can you imagine that little girl having nerve enough for all
that? Mrs. Stannard is a much older woman, and a self-possessed one. My
opinion leans toward her."
"What about the dying words of the man, and also, what about that letter
to the model?"
"There's too much evidence instead of not enough! But before we sift it
out, which we can do elsewhere, let's try to learn something more from
the people here."
"Servants or the others?"
"The others, if possible. If not, then some servants beside Blake."
The breakfast table on the Terrace had been visited only by Mrs.
Faulkner and Barry Stannard. The other ladies had not appeared. The two
had quite evidently finished, as the men could see from their lace
curtained window, and Roberts proposed they request an interview with
one or both of them.
Somewhat to their surprise, the request was graciously granted. Mrs.
Faulkner said she should be rather glad of an opportunity to learn what
the police had done or were thinking of doing, and Barry seemed anxious
to discuss matters also.
But even before they began, Barry was called away on some errand, and
Mrs. Faulkner was their only source of information.
Bobsy Roberts was disappointed, for he wanted to talk with a member of
the immediate family, but Captain Steele saw a chance to learn something
personal of the two women he wished to study.
"You must know, Mrs. Faulkner," began Steele, "that the two women found
in the room, near the dying man, are naturally under grave suspicion of
guilt. Can you tell us anything that will help clear the innocent or
indicate the criminal?"
Beatrice looked at him a moment, before she spoke. She also glanced at
Bobsy Roberts, and then, in a low, calm voice she replied: "I think I
must remind you that these two women are my dear friends. I have known
Mrs. Stannard for years, and Miss Vernon, though a recent acquaintance,
is very dear to me. They are both fine, noble women, utterly incapable
of the crime, even under deepest provocation. Therefore I do not admit,
even to myself, that the circumstances implicate either of them,
although they may seem to do so. With this declaration of my attitude in
the matter, I will answer any questions that I can, but I will not agree
that your theory is the right one."
"Then, who did kill Mr. Stannard?"
"That I cannot say. But in absence of any real evidence against Mrs.
Stannard or Miss Vernon, it must seem to have been an intruder of some
sort. Though it may not be known how he entered, it is far more easy to
believe that he did gain an entrance, than to believe crime of either of
those two."
It was plain to be seen Mrs. Faulkner was determined to stand by her
friends through thick and thin. So Bobsy started on another tack. "Will
you tell us then something of the personal relations of this household?
Was Mr. Stannard in love with his pretty model?"
"I think he was," Beatrice rejoined, as if the matter were of no great
import, "but Mr. Stannard was the type of man known as a 'lady-killer.'
He adored all beautiful women, and was what may be called 'in love' with
many. His nature was so volatile and so impressionable, that his love
affairs were frequent and ephemeral."
"Mrs. Stannard made no objection to this?"
"I think these queries are unnecessarily personal, but I see, so far, no
harm in replying. Mrs. Stannard knew so well her husband's temperament
and disposition, that usually she laughed at his sudden adorations,
knowing that he tired of them very quickly. The Stannards were a model
and a modern couple. They never stooped to petty jealousies or
bickerings, and had wide tolerance for each other's actions."
"Mrs. Stannard is his second wife, is she not?"
"Yes, they were married something more than two years ago."
"And Mrs. Stannard had other suitors, who were disappointed at her
marriage?"
"That is usually true of any beautiful woman."
"But in her case you know of instances?" Bobsy smiled pleasantly.
"Naturally, as I know her so well."
"And is Mr. Courtenay one of them?"
"Mr. Courtenay was one of her devoted admirers, and since the marriage
he has been a friend warmly welcomed here by both Mr. and Mrs. Stannard.
No breath of reproach may be brought against Joyce Stannard or Eugene
Courtenay. Of this I can assure you."
"And the young lady,--is Barry Stannard a suitor of hers?"
Beatrice's face clouded a little. "Yes; you cannot help seeing that, so
I will tell you that he is madly in love with Miss Vernon, but his
father strongly objected to the match, and threatened to disinherit
Barry if he persisted in his attentions to the girl. I tell you this,
because I prefer you to hear the truth from me, rather than a string of
garbled gossip."
"And young Stannard persisted?"
"I think so. It was love at first sight on both sides, and Miss Vernon
is a very lovely girl,--of quite as lovely a nature as her pure sweet
face indicates."
"Might not Mr. Stannard's objection to his son's suit have been prompted
by his own admiration for the lovely nature?"
"It might have been," and Beatrice sighed. "Eric Stannard was an
exceedingly selfish man, and though his interest in the model was
doubtless his usual temporary love affair, it is quite likely that it
was the main motive of his displeasure at his son's interference. I am
speaking very frankly, for I know these things must all come out, and I
am hoping, if you know just how matters are, you will understand the
case better and be more prepared to relieve the two women of suspicion."
"It may be so," and Captain Steele nodded his head sagely.
But Mrs. Faulkner was watching him closely. "You are not yet very
greatly influenced by my revelations, I can see," she said, "but I am
sure you will come around to my way of thinking, sooner or later. The
more you see of your suspects, the more you will realise the absurdity
of your suspicions."
"That's possibly true. When can we have an interview with either of
them?"
"Mrs. Stannard is prostrated. I am sure you cannot see her before the
funeral, which will be to-morrow. Won't you refrain from asking it,
until after that?"
"Certainly. But Miss Vernon, may we not have a few words with her? You
must realise, Mrs. Faulkner, if the girl is innocent, it will be much
better for her to see us and answer a few straightforward questions than
to appear unwilling to do so."
"I agree with you. I will go and ask her, myself, and advise her to see
you. Shall I go now?"
"In a moment, please; but first, one more question. We are trying to
discover who last saw Mr. Stannard alive, prior to the time of the
murder. What can you tell us as to this?"
"Only that I was in the studio, just before the first of the guests went
away. At that time we were all there, I think, except Barry and Natalie,
who were out on the Terrace. The two Truxtons went home, and at the same
time Mr. Wadsworth and I went up to the Drawing Room----"
"To be by yourselves?"
A certain kindliness in Bobsy's tone robbed the question of
impertinence, and Beatrice smiled a little, as she said, "Yes, exactly.
We stayed there perhaps a half hour, and then Mr. Wadsworth went home. I
did not go downstairs with him, but sat a moment in the Drawing
Room,--thinking over some personal matters. Then when I went downstairs,
it was to see Blake listening at the door,--and the rest you know."
"Yes; now whom did you leave in the studio, when you and Mr. Wadsworth
and the Truxtons went out of it?"
Beatrice thought a moment. "Only Mr. Stannard, his wife and Mr.
Courtenay."
"Then Mrs. Stannard and Mr. Courtenay went into the Billiard Room?"
"Yes, and Mr. Stannard went, too. But he went back in the studio,--Joyce
told me that,--and he must have been there alone when--the person who
killed him came in."
"This would make it, that Mr. Stannard returned to his studio from the
Billiard Room at a little after eleven, say, five or ten minutes after.
The fact that he cried out for help at about eleven-thirty narrows the
time down rather close. We have only about twenty minutes for the
intruder to enter and commit the deed. This is long enough if the crime
was premeditated, but scarcely giving time for a quarrel or argument to
take place."
"Then you assume premeditation?" and Beatrice looked up quickly.
"It would seem so."
"Then I am sure you will find, Mr. Roberts, that it could not have been
either of the two you think. For even if one of them might have done
such a thing in the heat of passion, neither, I am positive, ever
deliberately premeditated it."
"What about the letter found in the desk?"
"That," and Beatrice shook her head emphatically, "that was never meant
for Miss Vernon."
"Yet Mrs. Stannard overheard him say practically the same thing to
somebody in the studio, a moment or two before the crime was committed."
"Joyce thinks she heard that. But Captain Steele, that poor woman
scarcely knew what she was saying at that awful inquest, and she--well,
she had reason to think there were women in Mr. Stannard's life, who
would be willing,--in fact, who wished him to be divorced from her. She
knew this, she knew of that note he had written,--it was not the first of
that nature, and she imagined she heard that speech."
"You make Mr. Stannard out a very bad man, Mrs. Faulkner."
"I am sorry to speak ill of the dead, but he was not a good man in the
ways we are talking of. In other respects, Eric Stannard had few faults.
He was upright, honest and generous. He was kind and he was truthful.
And he was extraordinarily brave and honourable. But he was inordinately
selfish and of sybaritic instincts. He would not try to curb his
admiration for a new and pretty face, and though absolutely loyal to his
wife in honour and principle he was a flirt and a gallant, much in the
way of a butterfly among the flowers. His genius it is not necessary to
speak of. He is known here and abroad as one of the greatest artists of
the century. And his wide and varied experiences, his cosmopolitan life
and his waywardness of character may well have gained him enemies, who
in a secret and clever manner found means to take his life."
"Who will benefit financially by his death?" Captain Steele asked
abruptly.
"I haven't heard anything about the will yet, but I'm pretty certain,
that outside of a few friendly bequests his fortune is divided between
his wife and son, about equally."
"And his jewel collection? Is not that valuable?"
"Very. The emeralds mentioned in that note comprise a fortune in
wonderfully matched stones. And there are many more. Yes, it is an
exceedingly valuable lot."
"He showed them to Mr. Truxton, that evening?"
"To all of us. That was right after dinner. He showed only a few cases,
but of very beautiful stones."
"And then he put them away, where?"
"I've no idea. They were not in sight, that I remember, when the
Truxtons took leave. But I gave them no thought. I've often seen them,
and after their exhibition, Mr. Stannard always puts them in his safe
himself."
"They have not been found in the safe."
"Then he put them in some simple hiding-place. They will turn up.
Unless, of course, there was a real burglar, whose motive was robbery."
"But you do not think so?"
"Frankly, I do not see how there could have been an intruder, unless
dressed as a gentleman. No other could have gained access to the house."
"The servants saw no stranger, in any sort of garb?"
"They say so," returned Beatrice, thoughtfully. "Don't overlook the
possibility of an accomplice among the servants. I've no reason to think
this, but such things have happened."
"They have indeed, and I assure you we have not overlooked the chance of
it."
VII
Natalie, Not Joyce
But the desired interview with Natalie was not achieved before the
funeral of Eric Stannard. It was two days after before the girl would
consent to see Roberts, and then, under protest.
"I've nothing to say," she declared, as she came unwillingly into the
Reception Room to meet him. "I'm not under arrest, and there's no law
that can make me talk if I don't want to."
The lovely face was troubled and the scarlet lips were pouting as Miss
Vernon flounced herself into a chair, one foot tucked under her, and one
little slipper tapping the carpet. She looked so like a petulant
school-girl, it was well nigh impossible to connect her with a thought
of anything really wrong. But Robert Roberts was experienced in guile
and was by no means ready to accept her innocence at its face value.
"No law ought to make you do anything you don't want to," he said
smiling; "but suppose it's to your own advantage to talk?"
The sympathetic, good-natured face of Bobsy Roberts had a pleasant
effect, for Natalie's pout disappeared and a look of confidence came
into her blue eyes.
"I wonder if I can trust you," she said, meditatively, as she gazed at
him, with an alluring intentness.
"You sure can," returned Bobsy, but he consciously and conscientiously
steeled himself against her witcheries.
"No, I don't think I can," she said, after a moment, and with a tiny
sigh of disappointment, she looked away. "Go on; question me as you
like."
"Why can't you trust me?"
"Oh, I trust you, as far as that goes. But I see you suspect me of
killing Mr. Stannard."
"And didn't you?" Bobsy believed in the efficacy of sudden, direct
questions.
But Miss Vernon was not taken off guard.
"No," she said, quietly, "I didn't. But when I say I didn't, it
implicates Mrs. Stannard, and I don't want to do that. Can't you tell me
what to do?"
"Well, it's this way. If Mrs. Stannard is the guilty person, you want it
known, don't you?"
"No, indeed! If Joyce Stannard killed her husband, she had a good reason
for it, and I'd rather nobody'd know she did it."
"What was her good reason?"
"Well, you know, Mr. Stannard was--that is,--he had eyes for other people
beside his wife."
"You, for instance."
"Yes!" and the flower face took on a look of positive hatred, and of
angry reminiscence. "I have no kindly thought of Eric Stannard, if he
_is_ dead."
"He was kind to you."
"Too kind,--in some ways,--and not enough so in others."
"And his wife was jealous?"
"Who wouldn't be! He petted her to death one day and the next he
neglected her shamefully. I will trust you, Mr. Roberts. Now, listen; if
Joyce killed Eric,--I don't say she did, but if she did, why can't we
just hush up the matter, and pry into it no more? Barry wants that and
so do I. And who else is to be considered?"
"The law, justice, humanity, all things right and fair."
"Rubbish! Let those things go. Consider the wishes of the people most
concerned."
"Then straighten out a few uncertain points. Where are the emeralds?"
"Goodness! I don't know! That foolish letter wasn't written to me."
"To whom, then?"
"I don't know that, either. Some one of Eric's lady friends, I suppose.
Fancy my wanting him to divorce his wife and marry me!"
Bobsy looked at her narrowly, distrusting every word. This girl, he felt
sure, was far from being as ingenuous as she looked.
"But he was in love with you?"
Natalie blushed, a real, natural girl blush.
"I can't help that, Mr. Roberts. I am, unfortunately, a type that men
admire. It is the cross of my life that every one is attracted by my
silly doll-face!"
Bobsy Roberts laughed outright, at this naïve wail of woe.
"You needn't laugh, I'm in earnest. I get so sick of having men fall in
love with me, that I'd like to go and live on a desert island!"
"With whom?" and Bobsy looked at her intently.
"With Barry Stannard," she returned, simply. "We're engaged, now. We
couldn't be, while Mr. Stannard lived, for he wouldn't hear of it.
Threatened to disinherit Barry, and all that. But now, it's all right."
"Miss Vernon, to my mind, that speech clears you of all suspicion. If
you had killed Eric Stannard, because he wouldn't let his son marry you,
you never would have referred to it so frankly."
"Of course I wouldn't. Now, don't you see, since I didn't kill him, it
must have been Joyce. It's been proved over and over that it could not
have been a burglar, or anybody like that. And so, I want to stop
investigating, and leave Joyce in peace. And then, after awhile, she can
marry Eugene Courtenay, and be happy."
"Does she want to marry Mr. Courtenay?"
"Of course she does. He was in love with her and she with him, before
she knew Mr. Stannard. Then Eric came along and stole her,--yes, stole
her,--just like a Cave Man. She was carried away by his whirlwind wooing,
and--too--he was celebrated, and--well,--you know,--magerful,--and he just
took her by storm. She never really loved him, but she has been good and
faithful, though he has treated her badly."
"And if she killed him, it was----"
"It was because she had reached the end of her rope, and couldn't stand
any more. And, too, she has seen a lot of Mr. Courtenay lately, and--oh,
well,--she was mad that Eric took such a fancy to me, and so,----"
"Look here, Miss Vernon, just see if you can reconstruct the scene to
fit in with a theory of Mrs. Stannard's guilt."
"How do you mean?"
"Can you remember about the light going out and the cry for help,--and
all that, exactly?"
"No,--I've tried to, but it's all mixed up in my mind. I think, if
Joyce,--I mean, whoever did it,--must have struck the blow, and then
turned off the light, and then gone out of the room, and--and come back
again."
"And that could have been you--as well as Mrs. Stannard! You were both
discovered in practically the same circumstances!"
"You're trying to trip me, Mr. Roberts. But you can't do it. Now, look
here, if that note had been written to me, wouldn't it mean that these
emeralds were mine, and wouldn't I claim them?"
"But it states distinctly that you know where they are, and the
presumption is, that you have them in your possession."
"Indeed, I haven't! I wish I had! I mean, I wish I had them rightfully
in my possession! They're wonderful stones! Look here, Mr. Roberts, why
don't you suspect Mr. Truxton? He's gem crazy,--and you know gem
enthusiasts often go to any length to get the stones they covet."
"I hadn't thought of him. And, supposing he did commit crime to steal
Mr. Stannard's jewels, just how did he get away afterward, without
discovery?"
"Well, suppose he stabbed Mr. Stannard, then turned off the light, and
then slipped out through the Billiard Room when Joyce's back was
turned?"
"Too unlikely. Besides, Mr. Courtenay, who sat on the bench on the lawn,
just then, would have seen him leave the house."
"I suppose he would." Natalie drew a deep sigh. "Do give it up, Mr.
Roberts. You never can untangle it."
"Are you going to stay here long?"
"For a time. Mrs. Stannard has asked me to, and Barry wants me." The
simplicity of the girl's manner almost disarmed Bobsy, but he went on:
"Mrs. Stannard, then, has no hard feelings toward you?"
"I don't know. Honestly, Mr. Roberts, I don't know whether she is
keeping me here because she suspects me, or because she doesn't."
"Did Mr. Stannard leave you anything in his will?"
The rose-pink cheeks flushed deeper, as Natalie replied, "Yes, he did.
You probably know that already."
"No, I didn't. Was it a worthwhile amount?"
"From my point of view, yes. It was seventy thousand dollars."
"Whew! Decidedly worthwhile, from almost anybody's point of view."
"I know what you're thinking," cried Natalie as he paused. "It's an
added reason for suspecting me of killing him."
"It might be construed so."
"Well, I didn't! I was pretty mad, when he made that horrid etching from
my Goldenrod picture----"
"And you smudged the wax impression so he couldn't use it----"
"I did not! I would willingly have done so, if I'd thought of it, but I
didn't do it, all the same."
"Who did?"
"Whoever killed him, I suppose."
"Then that lets out Mr. Truxton, or a burglar of any sort. It leaves
only Mrs. Stannard. Mightn't she have done it?"
"A jealous woman might do anything. But Joyce wasn't especially jealous
of me,--no more than of anybody Mr. Stannard might be attracted to."
"And to whom else was he attracted?"
"Nobody just now,--that I know of. You see, Mr. Roberts, I was just about
to leave this house, because Mr. Stannard was too devoted in his
attentions to me. I tell you this frankly, because I want you to
understand the situation."
"And I want to understand it. Tell me more of this matter."
"Well, Mr. Stannard had told me several times of his affection for me
and had told me he would remember me in his will, and, not more than a
week ago, he told me of Joyce's caring for Mr. Courtenay, though how he
discovered that, I don't know, for Joyce never showed it. She was good
as gold. Well, Mr. Stannard didn't say so in so many words, but he
implied that if he and Joyce--separated--and it could be arranged,--and
she--you know,--married Mr. Courtenay,--would I marry him. And I was so
mad, I flew into a rage, and----"
"And scratched up your picture?"
"No, that wax plate hadn't been drawn then. It was afterward that he
drew that, and then I was madder than ever."
"And in the heat of your passionate rage, you----"
"No, I didn't! I tell you, whoever killed Eric Stannard, I didn't!"
"Then what did he mean, when, in his dying moment, he said, 'Natalie,
not Joyce!' Tell me that!"
"I will tell you," and the girl lowered her voice and looked very
serious. "I know exactly what he meant, and Joyce Stannard knows too. He
meant,--you'll think I imagine this, but it's true; he meant that it was
Natalie and not Joyce, whom he loved, and whom he was trying to beckon
to at that moment."
It was impossible to doubt the honesty of the speaker. The great earnest
eyes were filled with mingled pain and shame, but the girl meant what
she said.
"I know it," she went on. "You see, he had said to me, several times,
'Natalie, not Joyce,' by way of a teasing bit of love-making. Eric was
not a bad man, it was only that he could not keep from making love to
any woman he might chance to be with. And when I would reprimand him and
bid him go to his wife, he would laugh and say 'Natalie, not Joyce,'
till it became a sort of by-word with him. And I know that's what he
meant that night, when he was hurt,--he didn't know he was dying,--and he
called to me in a half-conscious plea to come to his assistance. Also,
he could see me more plainly. Joyce was rather behind him, and his
clouding brain spoke out as he saw me, and called for me. As a matter of
fact, that speech, though made so much of, means nothing at all. He
wasn't entirely conscious and he spoke as one in a dream. But he did not
mean that I had stabbed him."
"Did he know who stabbed him?"
"How can I tell that? But if he had known that I did it, or had thought
that I did it, he would never have said so, had he been aware of what he
was saying."
"You mean, if you had been guilty, he would have shielded you, rather
than accused you with his last breath?"
"Yes, or Joyce either. Or any woman. Eric Stannard would never accuse a
woman of wrongdoing. His speech meant anything rather than that."
"Miss Vernon, this puts a very different light on your connection with
the affair. Why didn't you tell this before?"
"Can't you understand, Mr. Roberts? I have no love for Eric Stannard, I
never had any. His attentions annoyed me, his insistence on painting me
as he wished to, also annoyed me. I would have left him long ago, but
for Barry. Also, I am fond of Joyce. She has been most kind to me, and
never jealous of me until lately. Now, I hated to announce that those
dying words meant that Mr. Stannard put me ahead of his wife in his
affection, especially as it didn't altogether mean that, it was merest
chance that he saw me and not her----"
"But he did see her, for he said 'Natalie, _not_ Joyce.'"
"Yes, I know," and the little foot tapped the rug, impatiently,--"but, I
mean, he saw me, and he was for the moment interested in me, and he was
in pain, or a sort of stupor, or--oh, I don't know what his sensations
were, I'm sure,--but I want to show you that he spoke at random, and it
didn't mean as much as it seems to."
Natalie had grown excited, her lip trembled, and her voice was unsteady.
Either she was desperately anxious to make the truth clear, or she was
making up a preposterous story.
If she were guilty, this was a great scheme to divert the suspicion so
emphasised by the victim's statement, and if she were innocent, the
story she told might well be true.
"Let me follow this up," said Bobsy, looking at her closely. "Then Mr.
Stannard was so in love with you that he called on you in a desperate
moment, rather than on his wife----"
"But he didn't know it was a desperate moment. I don't believe that man
was conscious at all. The stab wound was practically fatal at once. What
he said and did after it, was involuntary. Don't you know what I mean?
He was only half alive physically and almost not at all alive in his
mind--his brain. Couldn't that be true?"
"I suppose so. In fact, I think it must have been--and yet, no, it seems
to me it would be logical for him to tell, even without a clear
consciousness, who his assailant was. Remember Blake asked him outright.
'Who did this?' and he said----"
"I know; but you didn't see him, and I did. He was not looking at Blake,
he didn't even hear him. He was in a dazed state, and, seeing both Joyce
and myself,--he must have seen us both,--his sub-consciousness called out
for me. I am not vain of this preference, I wish it had all been
otherwise, but I insist that explains his words, and--Joyce knows it,
too."
"How do you know she does? Have you talked with her on this subject?"
"Oh, yes. We have discussed it over and over. Mrs. Faulkner and Joyce
and Barry and I have gone over every bit of it a dozen times."
"Is it possible? What does each of the four think? Since you deny the
deed, you can tell what is the consensus of opinion in the household."
"That's just what I can't do. You see, we all hesitate to say anything
that will seem to accuse either of us. Mrs. Faulkner, I can see plainly,
is uncertain whether to suspect Joyce or me. She is convinced, of
course, that it must have been one of us, but she pretends to think it
was a burglar."
"She is fond of you both?"
"Yes, she adores Joyce, and she is most friendly to me. I've only known
her since I've been here, but she seems to believe in me, somehow. She
understands perfectly, that Mr. Stannard meant just what I say he did,
by those words. She knows how he acted toward me, and how Joyce felt
about it."
"Then she suspects Mrs. Stannard?"
"She doesn't say so. She sticks to the safe theory of an intruder. You
can't blame her. None of us can suspect Joyce. It's too absurd."
"And Barry Stannard, what does he think?"
"Oh, he vows it was an intruder. He's thought up a dozen ways for him to
get in and out."
"All equally impossible?"
"I suppose so. Unless,--I hate to say it,--but mightn't Blake have let him
out?"
"Not unless it was somebody known to the household."
"Well?" said Natalie Vernon.
VIII
The Emeralds
"You mean?" prompted Bobsy.
"Oh, nothing. But,--just supposing, you know. I'm sure I don't want to
mention Mr. Truxton or Mr. Wadsworth, but they were both here----"
"Absurd! Why, Mr. Wadsworth was with Mrs. Faulkner in the Drawing
Room----"
"Yes, I know. But he came down and went out the door alone, leaving her
up there. Now, if he had wanted to, and if he had fixed it up with
Blake, couldn't he have gone into the studio, stolen the jewels and
killed Eric, and then turned off the light and fled, Blake letting him
out the front door?"
"But why would Mr. Wadsworth do that?"
"Why would anybody? I'm only showing you that there _are_ theories that
don't include me or Joyce."
"But not tenable theories. Mr. Wadsworth, I've been told, was having a--a
romantic tête-à-tête with Mrs. Faulkner."
"Yes, he was asking her, for the 'steenth time, to marry him. But she
turned him down again."
"Well, even if she did, probably he didn't give up all hope. And a man,
just from a session of that sort, isn't going to commit a crime."
"Oh, well, of course, it wasn't Mr. Wadsworth. But why not consider Mr.
Truxton? He's a jewel sharp, too."
"We have considered him. But he and his wife went home earlier----"
"He could have come back,----"
"But he didn't. Miss Vernon, we've gone into all these matters very
thoroughly. What do you suppose the Police have been doing? There isn't
a possible theory we've overlooked, and it all comes back to the simple
facts of the evidence that incriminate either Mrs. Stannard or yourself.
I see no reason why I shouldn't tell you this frankly. If you care to
say anything further in your own defence, I'd be glad to hear it.
Naturally, you hate to accuse Mrs. Stannard, but it rests between you
two, and it looks as if an arrest would be made soon."
Bobsy was drawing on his imagination a little, but he was bound to
startle some information out of this provoking beauty.
And Natalie was startled. Her face paled as she took in the significance
of Roberts' words.
"They won't arrest me, will they?" she whispered in a scared little
voice.
"I don't see how they can," and Bobsy looked at the girl, wondering.
That child, that little, tender bit of femininity--surely she could never
have lifted her hand against a man's life! Even had she wished to, she
seemed physically incapable of striking the blow.
"Arrest you! Not much they won't!" and Barry Stannard strode into the
room.
Natalie turned to him with a little sigh of relief.
"You won't let them, will you, Barry?" she said, as his arm slipped
round her trembling shoulders.
"I should say not! Are you frightening her, Mr. Roberts? You know you've
no authority for all this."
"It's my duty to learn all I can. If Miss Vernon is innocent, then Mrs.
Stannard is guilty."
"As a choice between the two, it is far more likely to be Mrs. Stannard.
But I do not accuse her. I only insist on the impossibility of this
child's being a criminal."
"'Course I couldn't," and Natalie smiled at the perplexed Roberts. "And
if, to clear myself, I must tell all I know, then I'll tell you that
Mrs. Stannard has those emeralds in her possession now."
"She has! How do you know?"
"I passed her room this morning. The door was ajar, and I was about to
enter, when I saw her, at her dressing-table, looking over the case of
emeralds. I recognised it at once. I've often seen them. I didn't like
to intrude, then, so I went on. I thought I wouldn't say anything about
it, unless it was necessary."
"It is necessary. Has she had them all the time?"
"Let's ask her," said Barry. "I believe Joyce can explain it."
They sent for Mrs. Stannard, and she came, Mrs. Faulkner accompanying
her.
"I found these on my dressing-table this morning," Joyce said, simply,
holding out the case of emeralds to the view of all.
"Found them! Where did they come from?" asked Roberts.
"I don't know," and then, seeing the dark looks on the Detective's face,
Joyce exclaimed, "You tell about it, Beatrice. I--I can't talk."
"This is the story," said Mrs. Faulkner. "About an hour ago, Mrs.
Stannard sent for me to come to her room. I went, and she showed me the
case of gems, saying she had found it on her dressing-table when she
awoke this morning. It was not there when she retired last night.
Further than that, she knows nothing about it."
"You mean, the jewels appeared there mysteriously?"
"Yes. She cannot account for it, herself. We have been talking it over,
and it seems to me the only explanation is that one of the servants took
them, and then decided to return them. Of course it would be practically
impossible for a servant to sell or dispose of them after the publicity
that has been given to the matter."
"Of course. But why a servant? Why not a guest--or a member of the
household,--or--or Mrs. Stannard, herself?"
"I!" exclaimed Joyce. "Why I've just found them!"
"Didn't you have them all the time?"
"Of course not! How dare you imply such a thing? This morning they were
in my room, last night they were not there. They were brought there
during the night. It is for you to find out who brought them."
"Was the door of your bedroom locked?"
"No. It is not our habit to lock our doors,--any of us. The outer doors
and windows are securely fastened, and we have no reason to distrust any
of the servants."
"Where were the gems this morning?"
"On my dressing-table, in my dressing-room, adjoining my sleeping room."
"Who do you think put them there?"
"Whoever stole them the night my husband was killed."
"And who do you think that was?"
"Whoever killed him, of course."
"Perhaps not," said Mrs. Faulkner, thoughtfully. "Perhaps the thief and
the murderer were not the same person."
"That may be so," agreed Bobsy. "Have you any theory or suspicion based
on the return of the jewels, Mrs. Faulkner?"
"No; except a general idea that the emeralds might have been stolen and
returned by a servant, and the murder committed by an intruder."
"Why not assume that the intruder also took the jewels?"
"Only because it would be difficult for him to get into the house and
return them to Mrs. Stannard. I can see no explanation of that act save
that a servant did it."
"Or an outsider with the connivance of one of the servants."
"Yes, that might be," agreed Mrs. Faulkner. "The mere placing of the
case in Mrs. Stannard's dressing-room would not be difficult. The doors
all over the house are open or unlocked at night, and a servant could
easily slip in and out of the room unheard."
"You heard no unusual sound in the night, Mrs. Stannard?"
"None," said Joyce.
"I'm sorry to disagree with the construction you put upon this incident,
Mrs. Faulkner," and Bobsy turned to her as to the principal spokesman,
"but to my mind it strengthens the case against Mrs. Stannard. It seems
more than likely that she had the emeralds all the time, or knew where
they were. She kept them hidden, because she thought the letter written
by her husband, tacitly gave the gems to Miss Vernon. Then when Miss
Vernon saw her, looking at the jewels, Mrs. Stannard thought better to
face the music and own up that she had them."
"Why I didn't let her know that I saw her!" exclaimed Natalie.
"Perhaps she saw you in a mirror, or heard you. Doubtless she knew in
some way that you had seen her looking at the jewels, and concluded to
tell the story that accounted for them."
Joyce Stannard looked at the speaker, and her face blanched. With a
desperate cry of distress, she turned and swiftly left the room. Roberts
kept a wary eye on her retreating figure, and as she went upstairs, he
made no attempt to recall or to follow her.
"She has practically condemned herself," he said. "The reappearance of
the emeralds seems to settle it."
"Why?" asked Beatrice Faulkner. "Why do you condemn her because of
that?"
"Look at it squarely, Mrs. Faulkner. Assume for a moment my theory is
right. Then, Mrs. Stannard, being guilty, and wishing to throw suspicion
on Miss Vernon, claims that the jewels were put in her room
surreptitiously during the night. She is sure Miss Vernon will be
suspected of having had the jewels, and, frightened, restored them
secretly. This will militate against Miss Vernon, and imply her greater
guilt also."
"Why, what an idea!" exclaimed Natalie. "As if I ever had the emeralds!"
"That letter said you knew where they were."
"That letter was not written to me."
"To whom then?"
"I've no idea. But not to me. I'm--I'm engaged to Barry."
"You weren't engaged to the son while the father was alive," probed
Roberts.
"N--no. But only because his father wouldn't allow it. I'm going to look
after Joyce," and without a backward glance, Natalie ran from the room,
and up the stairs.
"You see," began Roberts, looking at Mrs. Faulkner and Barry Stannard,
"you two are the only ones I can talk to frankly. Those two ladies
suspected by the police have to be handled carefully. You are both
material witnesses, and as such are bound to tell me truthfully all you
can of anything bearing on the case. Now, however painful it may be for
you, Mr. Stannard, I must tell you that it is rapidly coming to a
show-down between the two suspects, and the probability is, it seems to
me, that the burden of evidence rests more strongly on the wife than on
the model. The direct evidence is perhaps evenly balanced, but it seems
to the police that the motive is greater and the opportunity easier for
Mrs. Stannard than for Miss Vernon. The wife, let us say, had reason for
jealousy, and had reason for wishing to be free of her uncongenial
husband. The little model, while irritated at her employer's attentions,
was in love with another man, and could easily get away from the artist
without resorting to crime."
"That's right about Natalie," exclaimed Barry, "but it's unthinkable
that Joyce should go so far as to kill----"
"You don't know all the provocation she may have had," said Roberts. "A
jealous wife, or an unloving wife goes through many hard hours before
she reaches the point of desperation, but she sometimes gets there, and
then the climax comes. At any rate, if Miss Vernon isn't guilty, Mrs.
Stannard is. You can't find two women hovering over a dying man, and
acquit them both. So it's one or the other, and I incline toward the
suspicion of the older woman."
"But how do you explain the various clues pointing to Natalie?" asked
Beatrice Faulkner.
"Let's take them one by one. First, that note found on the man's desk.
Even if that were written to Miss Vernon, it needn't condemn her. Even
if she had been in love with the artist, it is no evidence whatever that
she killed him. And the whole tone of the note is against its being
meant for her. It is unexplained so far, but I can't look on it as
evidence against the model."
"I agree with that," said Mrs. Faulkner. "That letter may well have been
to some other woman interested in Eric Stannard, and she may have had
the emeralds, and, through connivance with a servant, returned them to
Joyce last night."
"No, no, Mrs. Faulkner, that isn't right. I don't understand the emerald
business altogether, but I thoroughly believe that Mrs. Stannard has had
them in her keeping all the time. Now, next, we have the evidence of the
dying man's exclamation. That, I think, is perfectly explained by Miss
Vernon's assertion that he meant he loved her and not his wife."
"Of course it is," declared Barry. "I know my father was madly in love
with Miss Vernon, and though he was fond of his wife, it was not the
first time he had been interested in the pretty face of another woman. I
want to say right here, that I revere and respect my father's memory,
but I cannot deny his faults. And he was far too careless of his wife's
feelings in these matters. My mother died many years ago, and for a long
time my father led a butterfly existence, outside of his art, yes, and
in it, too. Then when he married a second time he did not settle down to
the generally accepted model of a married man, but continued to admire
pretty women wherever he met them. Now, it is more than likely that in
his dying moments his brain half dazed, and seeing the two before him,
he protested his love for the model he admired and put her ahead of his
wife. I do not defend my father's speech but to me it is explained."
"It may be so," said Roberts. "Now here's another point. Mrs. Stannard
declares she heard her husband talking to another woman or at least to
somebody, in his studio, as she herself stood in the Billiard Room, near
the connecting door. Shall we say this is an invented story of hers?"
"Let me see," said Barry, "what were the words?"
"To the effect that he was not willing to leave his wife for her, and
that as a consolation she could have the emeralds."
"Practically what was in the note," exclaimed Mrs. Faulkner.
"Almost," returned Roberts. "Now was Miss Vernon there and were these
words addressed to her? this question being quite apart from
consideration of her as the criminal."
"If so, then the letter was to her," said Beatrice.
"And it wasn't," maintained Barry. "My father admired Natalie,--made love
to her, we'll say, but he never went so far as to offer her jewels, nor
did she want him to marry her, as the overheard conversation implies."
"Could this be the way of it?" said Beatrice. "Suppose Mr. Stannard was
even then writing that note----"
"But it was found in his desk."
"Well, suppose he was thinking it over, and muttered to himself the
actual wording of it. Mrs. Stannard says she heard no other voice, so
may he not have been alone in the studio at that time?"
Bobsy Roberts turned this over in his mind. "It is a possibility," he
conceded. "And then, let us say, after hearing those words, Mrs.
Stannard entered the room, and confronted him, and perhaps there was a
quarrel and in a moment of insane rage, Mrs. Stannard caught up the
etching needle and----"
"It isn't at all like her," said Barry, "but I can only say it is more
easily to be conceived of in her case than in Natalie's. I don't want to
admit the possibility of Joyce being the criminal, but I can believe it,
before I can imagine Natalie doing such a thing. And as you say, Joyce
had motive, and Natalie had none."
"I won't subscribe entirely to that, Mr. Stannard. Miss Vernon inherits
a goodly sum, and too, she may have been incensed at the manner of the
artist toward her----"
"No, I wasn't," said Natalie herself, suddenly reappearing. "On the
contrary, I had persuaded Mr. Stannard, that very day, not to ask me to
pose for him, except as a fully draped model. He had apologised for his
previous insistence, and I looked for no more trouble on that score. I
was trying to get up courage to ask him to let Barry be engaged to me,
but I hadn't accomplished that."
"If Mrs. Stannard had had any angry words with her husband just before
he was attacked, could you have overheard them?" asked Roberts.
"I don't think so. Not unless they had spoken very loudly. The door to
the Terrace was closed, or almost closed. And I was not thinking about
what might be going on in the house. Unless there had been an especial
disturbance, I should not have noticed it."
"Yet you heard that gasping cry for help through the closed door."
"Yes. But that was not a faint gasp, it was a penetrating sort of a cry.
An attempted scream, I should describe it."
Roberts looked at her closely. Was she innocent or was she an infant
Machiavelli?
"It is a difficult situation," he said, with a sigh. "We have but two
eye-witnesses. Each naturally accuses the other and denies her own
guilt. One speaks truth and one falsehood. How can we distinguish which
one tells the truth?"
"Don't say eye-witnesses," objected Natalie. "I didn't see the crime
committed. If I think Joyce did it, it's only because I went in and
found her there and nobody else about."
"Suppose," and Bobsy Roberts looked her straight in the face, "suppose
Eric Stannard held in his hand your picture,--that etching, you know, and
suppose he was, in a way, talking to it. Or, say, he wasn't talking to
it, but what he did say, and what his wife overheard, was said while he
held your picture, and she thought he referred to you. Then she, in a
jealous fury, resented the idea of his giving you the emeralds, and----"
"I didn't want the emeralds," said Natalie, coldly, "and I certainly
didn't want Eric to marry me, but even granting your premises right, it
takes suspicion of the murder from me, and places it on Joyce."
"It does," agreed Barry, "and that's where it belongs, if on either of
you two."
"It must be so," said Beatrice Faulkner, "for if Natalie had known where
the emeralds were, and if that letter was written to her, and gave her
the gems,--for it really did give them to the one it was written to,--then
she would have kept them and not have given them back to Joyce."
"By Jove, that's so!" exclaimed Roberts. "Whatever woman that letter was
meant for, is the real owner of the jewels this minute, according to
Eric Stannard's wish, and if she had them she would be extremely
unlikely to give them up unnecessarily. But how, then, explain their
return?"
"It wasn't a return," said Beatrice. "Joyce had them herself all the
time."
"I believe she had," said Roberts.
IX
One or the Other
Bobsy Roberts was at his wits' end. He pondered long and deeply but he
could seem to see nothing to do but ponder. There was no trail to
follow, no clue to track down, and no new suspect to consider.
He sat by the hour in the studio, as if he could, by staring about him
wring the secret from the four walls that enclosed the mystery.
"Walls have ears," he said to himself, whimsically, "now if they only
had eyes and a tongue, they might tell me what I want to know."
The studio furnishings included several small tables and escritoires
which had drawers and pigeon-holes stuffed with old letters and papers.
Like most artists Eric Stannard was of careless habits regarding his
belongings. Roberts patiently and laboriously went over these papers,
and found little of interest. Old bills, old notes of appointment with
patrons, old social invitations and such matters made up the bulk of the
findings.
But he came across a small parcel, neatly tied with fine string and
looking unmistakably like a jeweller's box. Bobsy opened it, and found a
small gold heart-shaped locket. With it was a card bearing the words
"For my Goldenheart. From Eric."
It was quite evidently a gift for the one to whom the letter was
written, but it had never been presented. It was easily seen that the
parcel had been opened, the card put in, and the string retied in the
same punctilious fashion that the jeweller had tied it. The paper
wrapping was uncrumpled, but it was a little faded by time, and dusty in
the creases.
"Bought it for her but never gave it to her," Bobsy surmised. "Surely I
can make something out of this."
But nothing seemed definite. A provokingly blank paper, without address
of any sort, can't be indicative of much. The box bore the jeweller's
name, and possibly a visit to the firm might tell when the trinket was
bought, which might mean some help, or, more likely, none.
Bobsy showed it to Joyce Stannard, but she took little interest in it.
"It must have been bought before I married Mr. Stannard," she said.
"Why?"
"I know by the box. That sort of a box was used by that firm the year
before I was married. In all probability Mr. Stannard did buy it for a
lady, and for some reason or other didn't present it. It's of no great
value."
"No," agreed Bobsy, "except as it proves that his interest in
'Goldenheart' has lasted for some time."
"Then Goldenheart can't be Miss Vernon," said Joyce, wearily. "It seems
to me, Mr. Roberts, that you get nowhere. You make so much of little
things----"
"Because we can't get any big piece of evidence. You know yourself, Mrs.
Stannard, that our principal clue is the finding of you and Miss Vernon
in a situation which _might_ mean the guilt of either of you, and _must_
mean the guilt of one of you."
"Mr. Roberts, I want to say to you very frankly that I wish to be
cleared of suspicion. I did not kill my husband. I can't quite believe
Miss Vernon did, but at any rate I want the mystery cleared up. I don't
know how to set about it myself, and if you don't either, I want to
employ some one else. This is no disparagement of your powers, but if
you know of any--more experienced Detective----"
"There are plenty of more experienced detectives, Mrs. Stannard, but I
am anxious to succeed in this quest myself. Will you not give me a
longer time, and if at the end of, say, another week, I have made little
or no progress, call on whomever you like."
"Very well. But I must be freed myself. I am willing to spend a fortune,
if need be, but I cannot live under this cloud of suspicion."
"Let us work together then. Tell me anything I ask, and you may be able
to give me some help. First, can you state positively that no person
came in through the Billiard Room and went on to the studio while you
were in the Billiard Room, just before the tragedy?"
"Why, of course, nobody passed through."
"The Billiard Room was lighted?"
"Yes. Not brilliantly, but a few lights were on."
"Mr. Courtenay had just left you?"
"A short time before, yes."
"And,--now think carefully,--could you not have been sitting with your
back to the door, or--perhaps, had you your face hidden in your hands, or
for any such reason, could some one have passed you without your knowing
it?"
Joyce hesitated a moment, and then she said, "No; positively not. I was
sitting on one of the side seats, and I may have had my eyes closed, for
I was thinking deeply, but if any one had passed through the room I
should have heard footsteps, of course."
"On the soft, thick rug?"
"Much of the floor is bare, and my hearing is very acute. Yes, Mr.
Roberts, I must have heard the intruder, if one came in that way."
"I do not think one did, but there is no other way for any one to have
entered the studio."
"Why not by coming in the Terrace door, and passing Natalie instead of
me?"
"The probability is less. The Terrace door was closed, and, too, Miss
Vernon sat back on the Terrace, and must have seen any one passing in
front of her."
"But suppose she did see him, and chooses to deny it for his sake?"
Bobsy looked at her. "I've been waiting for this," he said. "You mean
Barry Stannard. There is room for thought in that direction. He had
reason to be angry at his father, first because of his refusal to let
Barry marry the girl, and also, because of Eric Stannard's annoyance of
the little model. The father out of the way, the son steps into a
fortune and wins his bride beside."
"But Barry never did it! I confess I've thought of it as a theory, but I
can't believe it of Barry,--I simply can't."
"Mrs. Stannard, somebody killed your husband. If not a common
malefactor, who was bent on robbery, then it must have been one of Mr.
Stannard's intimates. If that is so, Barry Stannard is no more above
suspicion than Miss Vernon or yourself."
"That's true enough. Well, go ahead, Mr. Roberts. Do all you can, but do
get somewhere. You reason around in a circle, always coming back to the
proposition that it must have been either Miss Vernon or myself."
"That is where I stand at present," said Bobsy, very gravely, "but I
shall try to get some new light on it all,--and soon."
Joyce looked after him sadly as he took leave and went away, and as soon
as he was gone she threw herself on a couch and cried piteously.
The visit to the jeweller merely corroborated what Joyce had said that
the gold heart was bought shortly before her marriage to Eric. The date
was looked up and the purchase verified. So it seemed to tell nothing
save that it was meant for a gift but never given. Probably, thought
Roberts, it was owing to Eric's marriage that he concluded not to give a
keepsake to a woman other than his bride. But, after all, mightn't
Goldenheart be Joyce herself? No, for the letter found in the desk
denied that. But that letter might have been written a long time ago.
Not likely, for it stated that Joyce would not be unwilling to consider
separation from her husband. That of course, pointed to the fact that
Joyce loved another, doubtless Courtenay, but more than all it pointed
to Natalie as Goldenheart. Well, it was not inconceivable that Eric
Stannard, the gay Lothario, had called more than one woman Goldenheart.
Yet had it been Natalie, would he not have said Goldenrod, especially as
he had painted her in that guise?
And so, as usual, Bobsy Roberts puzzled round in circles and came back
to the old idea that it must be one of those two women, and could not by
any possibility be any one else.
And now, to prove it. He planned to delve deeply into the recent past of
the two, and also into Eric's behaviour of late, and he felt he must get
some hint or some clue to go upon.
Then, too, there were the missing jewels. The emeralds had been returned
to Joyce,--that is, she _said_ they had been returned. But the rest of
the collection was still unfound. Bobsy didn't think they had been
stolen or lost, but merely that Eric had hidden them so securely that
they were unfindable. A queer procedure that. It would seem that he
would have left some record of their hiding place. But he was a queer
man,--careless in every way. And the jewels might be in a bank or Safe
Deposit, or might be in some desk or drawer in the house. The whole
business was unsatisfactory, nothing tangible to work on. An out and out
robbery, now, one might track down. But a jewel disappearance that might
be all right and proper, was an aggravating proposition.
So Bobsy Roberts was decidedly disgruntled and not a little chagrined.
He had welcomed this great case as an opportunity to show his powers of
real detective work. But it was not so easy as he had thought it. It was
all very well to say the criminal must be one of two people and quite
another thing to bring any real proof, or even evidence, aside from the
finding of them present at the scene of the crime.
Bobsy tried to balance up the points against each.
Motive? About equal, for Joyce didn't love her husband, and Natalie was
angry at his intentions to her. Inheritance? Equal again, for the
seventy thousand dollars that was Natalie's bequest was quite as
desirable a fortune for her, as the larger portion that Joyce received
was for her. Moreover, Natalie would doubtless marry the son and have a
fortune as great as Joyce's. Opportunity? Certainly equal. Both women
were alone, within a few steps of the victim, unobserved of anybody, and
so familiar with the room and furnishings that they could extinguish the
light and still find the way around quietly.
Bobsy visualised the scene. Whichever one did it, after striking the
blow, she had to cross the room to the electric light switch by the
front hall door, turn it off and then go back again, doubtless meaning
to leave the room as she had entered it. But before she had left the
room she heard sounds from the wounded man, and paused,--or perhaps she
heard the other woman coming in in the darkness, and paused in sheer
fright and uncertainty. Then came the sudden, blinding illumination as
Blake snapped on the key, and then--discovery by Blake and Mrs. Faulkner
both. No escape was possible then. She had to stay and face the issue.
Now, which of the two acted the part of guilt? Though not there at the
time, Bobsy had had the story repeated by all who were there, and knew
it by heart. Natalie had cowered in terror, Joyce had nearly fainted.
Surely there was no choice between these as evidence of guilt! Either
woman's action was quite compatible with a criminal's sudden action at
being discovered, or an innocent woman's horror at the scene before her.
But one had stabbed and one was overcome at the sight. And Bobsy vowed
he'd find out which was which before his week was up.
Returning to The Folly, he asked permission to spend some time in Eric's
rooms on the second floor. Here he studied his problem afresh. The
bedroom, dressing-room and den were all as the dead man had left them.
Here again were the untidy cupboards and drawers, for servants had
always been forbidden by Eric himself to put his personal belongings in
order, and since his death the police had stipulated the same.
But nothing turned up. Sketches, photographs, old letters, all were
scanned and perused without throwing one gleam of light on the great
question.
Slowly Bobsy walked down stairs, after his fruitless quest. Slowly he
went down the great staircase, admiring every inch of the way. He had
made rather a study of staircases and this splendid specimen, with its
big, square landings interested him greatly. The carved wainscoting, the
beautiful newels and balusters were things of beauty and were fully
appreciated by the detective. He reached the lower hall and stood
thinking of Blake's experience. There the footman had stood, listening
at the studio door, when Mrs. Faulkner came down and saw him. Then, in
less than a minute they had both entered the studio. No, there was not
time for any other intruder to have been in there and to have got away,
in the dark, with those two women standing by the dying man. It was a
physical impossibility. Now, once again, which?
Joyce passed him as he stood in the hall. Then she turned back and,
after a moment's hesitation, she spoke to him.
"Mr. Roberts, I've had a strange letter. I want to ask advice about it.
Will you help me?"
"In any way I can, Mrs. Stannard. What is it?"
"Come in the studio. I'll speak to you first about it. I was looking for
Barry, to ask him."
They went into the great room, the room about which hung the veil of
mystery, and sat down.
"Here is the letter," said Joyce, handing it to him. "I wish you would
read it."
Bobsy took the letter curiously. What would he learn?
It was on mediocre paper, and written in a fairly good, though not
scholarly looking penmanship.
It ran:
_Mrs. Stannard_:
Dear Madam: Before writing what I am about to reveal, let me assure
you that I am in no sense a professional medium or clairvoyant. I am a
woman of quiet life and simple habits, but I am a psychic, and in a
trance state I have revelations or visions that are invariably truly
prophetic or as truly reminiscent. I cannot be reached by the general
public, but when a case appeals to me, I communicate with those
interested and if they want to see me, I go to them. If not, there is
no harm done. So, if you are anxious to learn who is responsible for
the death of your late husband, I shall be glad to give you the
benefit of my science and power. If not, simply disregard this letter.
Very truly yours,
Orienta.
The address was given, and the whole epistle showed an honest and
straightforward air, quite different from the usual clairvoyant's
circular letter.
"It isn't worth the paper it's written on," said Bobsy, handing it back.
"But how do you know? I've read up on this sort of thing and while there
is lots of fraud practised on a gullible public, it's always done by a
cheap grade of charlatan, whose trickery is discernible at a glance.
This letter is from a refined, honest woman, and I've a notion to see
what she'll say. It can do no harm, even if it does no good."
"Of course, Mrs. Stannard, if you choose to look into this matter I have
nothing to say, but you asked me for advice."
"I know it," and Joyce shook her head, "but if you don't advise me the
way I want you to, I'll----"
"Ask somebody else?"
"Yes, I believe I will."
"Do. I really think if you confer with Barry Stannard or with Mrs.
Faulkner, they would give you advice both sound and disinterested.
They'd probably tell you to let it alone."
"I'm going to ask them, anyway. I won't ask Natalie, for I don't think
she knows anything about it. Why, Mr. Roberts, if we could just get a
clue to the mystery, it might be of incalculable help."
"Yes, but you can't get a clue from a fraud."
"I don't believe she is a fraud, but even so, I might learn something
from her."
"If you do, I hope you will give me the benefit of the information."
Joyce laid the matter before Barry and Beatrice. Natalie was present
also, and Joyce was surprised to find that the girl was well versed in
the whole subject of psychics and occult lore.
"I don't know an awful lot about it, Joyce," she said, "but I've read
some of the best authorities, and sometimes I've thought I was a little
bit psychic myself. I'd like to see this Orienta."
"It doesn't seem right," objected Mrs. Faulkner. "What do you suppose
she does? Go into trances?"
"Yes, of course," said Natalie. "And then she talks and tells things and
when she comes to again, she doesn't know what she has said."
"Then I don't believe it's true."
"Oh, yes, it is, Mrs. Faulkner. I mean, it's likely to be. Why, if she
could tell us who----"
"Do we want her to?" said Barry, very soberly. "Isn't it better to leave
the whole thing a mystery?"
"No," said Joyce, decidedly. "I want to find out the truth, if there's
any way to do it. I don't think much of detectives, at least, not Mr.
Roberts. Oh, he's a nice man,--I like him personally. But he doesn't
accomplish anything."
"Well, let's have Orienta come here," suggested Natalie. "And we can see
how we like her, and if we don't want her to, she needn't try her powers
in our cause."
"The police might object," said Mrs. Faulkner.
"Oh, no," rejoined Barry. "This is a private matter. We're at liberty to
do a thing of that sort, if we want to. But I don't approve of it."
"I'm going to write to her, anyway," Joyce declared. "I want to see what
she proposes to do."
"Yes, do," urged Natalie. "And ask her to come here as soon as she can
arrange to."
X
Orienta
"I wish you'd use your influence with Joyce, and urge her not to have
this poppycock business go on." Barry looked troubled, and his round,
good-natured face was unsmiling.
"I have tried," returned Beatrice Faulkner, "but she is determined. And,
really, it can't do any harm."
"It might turn suspicion in the wrong direction."
"Barry, what are you afraid of? Do you fear any revelation she may
make?"
"No, oh, no,--not that. But if--well, supposing she should declare
positively that it was Natalie or Joyce,--either of them, don't you see
it couldn't help influencing the police? I want the whole thing hushed
up. Father is gone, it can't do him any good to find out who killed him,
and it may make trouble for an innocent person."
"I'll talk to Joyce again, but I doubt if I can change her determination
to ask this Orienta here. Absurd name!"
"Yes, and an absurd performance all round."
"I'll do my best. And, Barry, I'm thinking of leaving here to-morrow;
I've staid longer than I intended, now."
"Oh, don't go away. Why, you're a kind of a--how shall I express it?"
"A go-between?"
"Well, not in the usually accepted sense of that term, but you are that,
in a nice way. You can tell Joyce what I can't tell her--at least, what I
say to her has no effect. By the way, Joyce wants to go away, too."
"Will they let her?"
"I don't know. But since she is thinking about this Orienta, she's
planning to stay here longer. I don't know what she will do, but don't
you see, Beatrice, if she goes away, even for a short time, Natalie
couldn't stay here without a chaperon? So won't you stay a while longer,
until we see how things are going? You've been such a trump all through
these troubled days,--why, everybody depends on you to--to look after
things, don't you know."
Beatrice smiled at the boy,--for when bothered, Barry looked very
boyish,--and said, kindly, "I will stay another week, then. You see, at
first, Joyce was so nervous and upset, she asked me to look after the
housekeeping a bit, but now her nerves are better, and I think the
routine duties of the house help fill up her time, and are really good
for her."
"Well, you women settle those matters between yourselves. But you stay
on a while, and help me and Natalie through. The girl threatens to go
away, too; in fact, everybody wants to get out of this house, and I
don't blame them." They were in the studio and Barry looked with a
shudder toward the chair where his father had met his death.
"No, I can't blame them either,--and yet, it is a wonderful house. Must
it go to strangers?"
"I suppose so. It's Joyce's, of course, but she doesn't want to live
here. I don't want to take it off your hands, for Natalie won't live
here either. You don't want it, do you?"
"I? Oh, no. My own life here was a happy one, but the memories of those
old days and the thoughts of this recent tragedy make the place
intolerable to me as a home. But strangers could come in, and start a
new life for the old place."
"It isn't old. And it's going to be hard to sell it, because of--of the
crime story attached to it. If we could only get matters settled up, and
the police off the case, we could close the house and go away. Joyce
would go back to her mother's for a time, and eventually, of course, she
will marry Courtenay. He's a good chap, and there's not a slur to be
cast on him. As long as my father lived, Eugene never said a word to
Joyce that all the world mightn't hear."
"How do you know?"
"I only assert it, because I know the man."
"Barry, you're very young, even younger than your years. Try to realise
that I'm not saying a word against Joyce or Mr. Courtenay, either,
but--well, since your father himself realised how matters stood between
them, you ought to see it, too."
"I know they cared for each other, but I mean, Joyce and Eugene both
were too high-minded to let their caring go very far."
"High-mindedness is apt to break through when people skate on thin ice.
But don't misunderstand me. Keep your faith in all the high ideals you
can, both in yourself and others. What did you think of your father
leaving such an enormous sum to Natalie?"
"It was more than I supposed, but father was absurdly generous, and
often in erratic ways. He probably made that bequest one day when he was
especially pleased with her posing, or, more likely, when he himself had
worked with special inspiration and had produced a masterpiece."
"Very likely. Miss Vernon doesn't seem surprised about it."
"Oh, she knew it. He told her a short time ago."
"Do the police know that?"
"I fear so. And those are the things that worry me. If they think
Natalie killed my father to get that money, it is a strong point against
her. Of course, she didn't, but all the evidence and clues in this whole
business are misleading. I never saw or heard of such a mass of
contradictory and really false appearances. That's why I'd rather hush
it all up, and not try to go farther."
"Here comes Natalie now. I'll leave you two alone and I'll go to see
what I can do with Joyce about that clairvoyant matter."
Barry scarcely heard the last words, for the mere sight of Natalie
entering the room was enough to drive every other thought from his mind.
Her white house gown was of soft crêpe material, with a draped sash of
gold silk, a few shades deeper than her wonderful hair. Gold-hued
slippers and stockings completed the simple costume, and in it Natalie
looked like a princess. With all her dainty grace and delicate lines,
the girl had dignity and poise, and as she walked across the room Barry
thought he had never seen anything so lovely.
"You angel!" he whispered; "you gold angel from a Fra Angelico picture!
Natalie, my little angel girl!"
He held out his arms, and the girl went to him, and laid her tiny
snowflake of a hand on his shoulder.
"Why do you stay in this room, Barry? I don't like it in here."
"Then we won't stay. Let us go out on the Terrace in the sunlight."
The Autumn afternoon sun was yet high enough to take the chill off the
crisp air, and on a wicker couch, covered with a fur rug, they sat down.
"Here's where we sat, the night of----" began Barry, and then stopped, not
wanting to stir up awful memories.
"I know it," returned Natalie. "You left me here,--where did you go,
Barry?"
"Off with Thor and Woden for a short tramp. You said you were going
upstairs, don't you remember?"
"Yes. But where did you tramp?"
"Oh, around the grounds."
"Which way?"
"What a little inquisitor! Well, let me see. We went across this lawn
first."
"Did you see Mr. Courtenay on that stone bench there?"
"No, I don't think so. No, I'm sure I didn't. Why?"
"I just wanted to know. Where did you go next? Come, Barry, I'll go with
you. Go over the same path you went that night."