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The Substitute Prisoner

by Max Marcin · English · Gutenberg #18965 · 341,684 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Substitute Prisoner

Author: Max Marcin


        
Release date: August 2, 2006 [eBook #18965]
                Most recently updated: January 1, 2021

Language: English

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THE SUBSTITUTE PRISONER

by

MAX MARCIN

Author of "Are You My Wife?" "Britz of Headquarters," etc.







Copyright, 1911, by
Moffat, Yard and Company
New York
Published October, 1911




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

   Mrs. Collins (_Frontispiece_)

   He looked about him in a bewildered way

   She felt herself seized with a desire to weep

   She did not repel the arm




THE SUBSTITUTE PRISONER




CHAPTER I


Did she come to threaten or to plead?

The question, darting swiftly through his mind as his eyes took in the
unfamiliar outline of her figure, produced a storm of agitation which
left him gazing stupidly at her, with fixed eyes in which surprise and
terror mingled.

He had never seen her before--his first moment of survey impressed that
clearly on him. Yet her presence in his home at this compromising hour
signified that she was involved, remotely or intimately, in his own
tangled affairs. The thought impelled him to closer scrutiny of her.

She was pleasing to the eye. But whether her beauty was soft and
alluring or hard and repelling, his bewildered senses could not
determine. Her toilet, fresh and elegant, rich and clinging, harmonizing
with the velvet drapings and melting lights of the room, seemed to
invest her with an air of breeding, gave her an outward show of
refinement. Yet she betrayed certain signs of doubtful comfort, as if
all this magnificence had been borrowed for the occasion.

He came forward noiselessly, his footsteps deadened in the soft pile of
the Brussels carpet. She regarded his approach with cold, impassive
demeanor, nodding slightly as he paused near the carved rosewood table
above which hung an exquisitely wrought silver lamp, suspended by four
silver chains from the ceiling.

"Mr. Herbert Whitmore?" she asked, not without trace of anxiety in her
voice.

He observed that her skin had a warm and pearly tone, that her abundant
hair was of a dark reddish tinge, and that her eyes, of turquoise blue,
gleamed with a strange, impenetrable hue. He was still gazing vacantly
at her, but his mind was working furiously, striving to answer the
harrowing questions that presented themselves in tumultuous succession
before it.

Who was she? What motive prompted this visit at ten in the evening? Did
she come to plead a financial matter?--or was she here for purposes of
blackmail? Did she have knowledge of his incriminating conduct, and was
she sent to ensnare him into further complications? Above all, what
attitude should he adopt toward her?

"What can I do for you?" he inquired in a tone frigidly polite, yet not
devoid of an anxious note.

They regarded each other a moment.

"I hardly know how to begin," she said, lowering her eyes.

He did not credit her hesitancy. It was a deceit, he felt, a bit of
theatricalism,--the simulated modesty of a woman of experience.

"Begin by being seated," he said rather sharply, as if he meant to
convey that he penetrated her sham diffidence.

Ignoring his brusqueness, she dropped into one of the ornate rosewood
chairs near the table.

"It is such a delicate matter on which I have come," she began
timorously, eying him for a sign of encouragement. "Now that I am here I
wish I hadn't come--it's so difficult for me to begin."

His keen gray eyes narrowed on her, but she read no encouragement in his
glance. He had regained control of himself and assumed a non-committal
attitude, as of one ready to listen, but indifferent as to whether she
proceeded or withdrew.

"You haven't revealed the purpose of your visit as yet," he said,
crossing his legs. "If you regret having come, you are at liberty to go
without further explanation."

He hurled it at her as a challenge, but with a positive feeling that it
would not be accepted.

"I have come to warn you," she said with sudden resolution.

"To warn me of what?" His brow knitted in puzzled surprise.

"I have come to tell you that he knows and has worked himself into a
murderous fury."

"I don't understand." But his pretense of ignorance was too shallow not
to be seen through immediately.

"You understand perfectly," she declared. "Moreover, you recognize your
danger. It is useless to try to deceive me--an understanding between us
might work to our mutual advantage."

He imagined that he perceived the sinister import of her suggestion. An
understanding between them--that could mean only one thing. She had come
to blackmail him.

"What sort of an understanding?" he asked experimentally.

She bent forward, thrusting her head directly underneath the overhanging
lamp, revealing a face not untouched by care and suffering. He guessed
her age at twenty-four, but the set earnestness of her expression made
her seem close to thirty. She still possessed a certain girlishness, but
it was marked and marred by an unpleasant maturity, as if she had
arrived too young at a woman's understanding of the world. With physical
beauty she was amply endowed; nor had it been hardened and coarsened
beyond power to allure. There was no visible imperfection to detract
from its charm; but, gazing on her, Whitmore felt something lacking,
something spiritual, imponderable, yet immediately detected and missed.
And this impression was heightened when she spoke.

"You are interested in George Collins and so am I," she said, and
paused.

"And you've come to plead for him?" His manner signified that her errand
was useless.

"Plead for him!" she echoed, a faint smile hovering about her lips. "Why
should I plead for him with you? I came to tell you that he knows--and
has bought a pistol."

"So he knows that I have learned of his conduct!" He studied the woman
as if trying to read her inmost thoughts. "Does he suppose that by
sending you with threats he can prevent me from telling--from
telling--her?"

"He didn't send me," she retorted quickly. "I came without his
knowledge. Nor do I care about what you have discovered! The point is
that he has discovered that you have been urging his wife to divorce
him. He accuses you of trying to disrupt his home. He is aware that you
have been in correspondence with his wife and intends to intercept your
next letter."

Whitmore's brow clouded. "Why did you come to tell me this?"

"For purely personal reasons."

"And who are you, madam?"

"I am----" She hesitated, as if afraid to disclose her identity. Then,
overcoming her hesitancy, she said, "I am Julia Strong."

On hearing the name, the outward calm which he had maintained vanished,
leaving him pale, agitated, apprehensive. Presently a mounting anger
succeeded all other emotions, and he rose to his feet.

"What do you mean by coming here at this hour?" he demanded savagely.
"You came here to warn me!--really, you overestimate my credulity!"

"I did come here to warn you," she persisted.

"And to betray George Collins!" The note of irony in his voice brought
the blood to her cheeks.

"I don't want him to kill you," she said, controlling a clutch in her
voice. "I want you to live. It is necessary--all my hopes and
aspirations demand it."

He was on the point of making a sharp retort, but checked himself
suddenly and regarded her with less aversion. Perhaps she was telling
the truth! If so, the situation in which he found himself was not
without its touch of grim humor. But what motive prompted her to extend
the mantle of protection about him, and simultaneously to betray George
Collins? He pondered the question a full minute. Then the simple
solution, the only tenable one, occurred to him. She was ready to betray
Collins for the same reason that had made her accept his protection.

"Madam," he said, with an eagerness he did not mean to betray, "knowing
who you are, now I can guess at the nature of your hopes and
aspirations. And you did right in coming to me. From what my detectives
have communicated to me, I am led to believe that you are a woman with a
keen appreciation of worldly comfort and luxury. I say this, without
intending the slightest offense. You are aware, undoubtedly, that I am
able to supply you with all you crave for--far in excess of anything
that you can possibly hope to obtain from Collins. If you will consent
to appear at my lawyer's office and make an affidavit----"

The changed expression on her face made him pause. She had risen and
stood facing him, her eyes blazing resentment, her lips curled in a
disdainful smile.

"I don't care to listen to your offensive utterances," she said, gazing
at him as if to impale him with her glance. "I'm sorry I came.
Good-night."

With an angry movement she donned her rich cloak, wrapping it about her
figure and moving toward the door. He followed her with his eyes, until
he saw her pass into the vestibule. Then he hastened forward and opened
the street door.

She descended the broad steps holding herself stiffly erect, head
uptilted--a striking figure, graceful, supple, almost commanding. In
fact, so attractive was the picture she made as she stood a moment on
the sidewalk, that a passing policeman, seized by a gallant impulse,
opened the door of the waiting taxicab and held it ajar while she
entered.

Balancing himself on the edge of the curb, the bluecoat stared after her
in undisguised admiration until the cab swung around the corner; then he
bestowed a curious glance on the house whence she had come. He saw that
the door was half open and that a man's figure stood revealed in the
soft light of the hallway. One hand was on the door knob, one foot was
thrust forward as if the man were uncertain whether to plunge after her.
Evidently he decided against venturing out, for he stepped back into the
vestibule and shut the door.

"Even these people have their little scraps," the bluecoat murmured
sagely, and passed on.

Herbert Whitmore did not return to the room in which he had received the
visitor. Instead, he ascended the stairs to the library, and threw
himself into the soft embrace of a wide leather chair.

The turmoil of his brain gave him an uncomfortable feeling of
excitement, as if he were participating in something active and swift,
which he but partly understood. He was incapable of connected
thought--everything was vague and shadowy before him. In a dim way he
recognized that he was standing in the way of an approaching avalanche,
and gradually he began to discern the nature of the impending
catastrophe. Presently the vague uncertainty that hovered before his
mind resolved itself into action, and his groping forefinger pressed a
button hidden beneath the carved edge of the library table. In response
to the pressure, a liveried butler entered the room.

"Did you mail the letter I gave you?" inquired Whitmore.

"Yes, sir."

"When?"

"Immediately you gave it to me."

"That was about four hours ago?"

"Yes, sir."

"That is all."

The butler effaced himself from the room as noiselessly as he had
entered, and again Whitmore gave himself up to the alarming predicament
in which he found himself.

His reflections centered about the letter which the butler had mailed.
It was not sent in a moment of impulsiveness. The information which it
conveyed was not offered in spite, or in anger, or in envy. It was the
deliberate act of a man habituated to clear thinking and correct action.
Viewed with full knowledge of all the surrounding circumstances, that
letter must be regarded as the noble outpouring of a chivalrous love,
honest, worthy, unselfish. Regarded without the illumination of the
complex conditions which called it forth, the letter was pregnant with
possibility of mischief.

It was addressed to Mrs. George Collins. And George Collins must not be
permitted to intercept it.

With the single resolve to frustrate Collins actuating his movements,
Whitmore went to his apartment, slipped on his topcoat, and left the
house. He paused at the corner to consult his watch. It was eleven
o'clock.

He was sufficiently acquainted with the city to know that over on
Seventh Avenue certain shops kept open until midnight. He had passed
them frequently after theater and observed the industrious proprietors
and barkers noisily soliciting trade on the sidewalk.

Down Fifth Avenue Whitmore swung at a rapid pace, turning west at
Forty-second Street. Through the swirling crowds at Broadway he threaded
his way, finally entering the gloomy thoroughfare that cuts a somber,
murky streak through the illuminated area of Times Square.

Even Whitmore, engrossed as he was in his own affairs, could not help a
feeling of depression as with a single step he emerged from the
throbbing life and light of Broadway into the shabby darkness of Seventh
Avenue. For nowhere in the big city is the contrast of its extremes
brought home so sharply as at this intersection of three busy
thoroughfares.

It is worth while to pause a moment in the blatant glare of that
monstrously hideous variety house, that architectural malformation that
defaces the northwest corner; or opposite in the shadow of the gray
illumined tower that mounts undaunted, a connecting ladder between earth
and sky. Especially profitable is it to pause a moment at the hour when
the neighboring theaters are discharging their crowds, and to glance
behind and beyond the furious activity that bewilders the eye and
dazzles the senses. If you have the eye to see and the mind to
appreciate, you will behold an illuminated canvas whereon is depicted,
within the limited area of your vision, everything that a great city
holds of wealth and poverty, beauty and ugliness, joy and sorrow, luxury
and squalor, purity and degradation, truth and falsehood. It is all
there, in this narrow environment, with the lights and the shadows
meeting and blending, as the noise from below merges with the silence
above.

Nothing of these vivid contrasts struck the sense of Whitmore as with
nervous steps he hurried toward his destination. In the first place,
familiarity with the scene had deprived him of the faculty to read its
pitiless meaning; secondly, a feverish anxiety to have done with the
business that dominated his mind and accelerated his footsteps sent him
unheeding across Seventh Avenue and down that thoroughfare until he
stopped abruptly before one of the shabby second-hand clothing stores
with which the street abounds.

The air of prosperity with which he was invested saved him from being
seized immediately by one of the bawling salesmen and dragged into the
mothy interior of the shop. He was not of the type that submits to being
manhandled and browbeaten into purchasing cast-off garments. But, as he
stood hesitant and uncertain within the narrow radius of the gas-lit
window, one of the barkers found sufficient courage to invite him
within. And, to the utter amazement of the alert salesman, Whitmore
entered the store.

The proprietor of the place, a stooped, be-whiskered man who spoke with
a pronounced Hebraic accent, came forward to wait personally on this
elegant customer. But he found that no especial skill was required to
consummate a sale. Whitmore selected an old, dilapidated suit, a worn
coat, an old slouch hat, and a pair of heavy shoes, and almost caused
the beaming merchant to die of heart failure by paying the first price
demanded of him.

"It's for an amateur theatrical performance," Whitmore explained to the
proprietor, who was unable to hide his surprise that a customer of such
seeming prosperity should invest in these cast-off garments.

With the bundle containing the clothes under his arm, Whitmore returned
to Broadway and entered one of the hotels. He consulted a railroad time
table, after which he called for a taxicab and directed the chauffeur to
take him home.

He entered the house with his latchkey and climbed the stairs to his
room. Divesting himself of coat and vest, he stepped before the mirror
and shaved off his gray mustache. Next he produced a soft tennis shirt,
which he exchanged for the linen one he had on, and an old bow tie took
the place of the blue four-in-hand which he usually wore.

Undoing the bundle with which he had entered the house, he proceeded to
dress in the second-hand garments. When he had pulled the battered
slouch hat well down on his forehead, he surveyed himself in the glass.
The transformation was complete.

Regarding himself in this shabby disguise, he almost deteriorated in his
own estimation. It was difficult to believe that a mere change of
apparel could make such a vast difference. But one satisfaction he could
not deny himself. It was unlikely that anyone would recognize, in the
human derelict before the looking-glass, Herbert Whitmore, millionaire,
owner of the great Whitmore Iron Works. It was certain that his most
intimate friend would have failed to penetrate his disguise.

Dismissing the unpleasant reflections kindled within him, Whitmore
proceeded with characteristic assurance to execute what was in his mind.
He descended silently to the basement of the house, where he obtained a
heavy screw-driver. This he secreted in the inside pocket of his coat.
Next he went to the basement door and peered furtively through the
grating. His anxious eyes swept the street until convinced that no
inquisitive policeman was loitering in the immediate vicinity. Then,
slowly, apprehensively, he opened the door and issued, like a thief in
the night, from his own home.




CHAPTER II


The domestic life of George Collins and his wife was a daily lie which
fooled no one. For five years they had lived completely estranged
beneath the single roof that sheltered both, yet trying desperately to
conceal their conjugal infelicity from the world. But the eyes of the
world are too keen and penetrating when it comes to other people's
affairs, and such painful efforts as the Collinses made to appear
reconciled to each other were measured and appraised at their true
worth.

Marriage is a common institution and the symptoms of its discontent are
familiar to all. They appeared early in the married life of the
Collinses, were faithfully diagnosed by the members of their immediate
circle, and the prognostication based on them called for the early
appearance of Mrs. Collins as plaintiff in the divorce court.

But religious scruples and a natural abhorrence of such a proceeding
combined to keep the wife from making the one essential move necessary
for her freedom.

Rather than do violence to the tenets of her religious faith and to the
rigid principles of her upbringing, she chose to bear the burden of
unhappiness that was imposed on her. Occasionally she and her husband
even appeared in public together, and on such occasions they tried to
give the impression of entertaining for each other all the affection of
a happily married couple. But in their own home they lived continuously
in a state of mutual aversion and estrangement, occupying separate
apartments and holding only the most formal communications with each
other.

The house which they occupied was a stately stucco structure, situated
on top of a terraced lawn and approached by a gravel walk banked with
flowers and shrubs. A sloping roof, painted a dull red and pierced by a
huge chimney, gave a warm and picturesque tone to the place, which
otherwise might have appeared coldly severe and uninviting.

The luxurious seclusion which the Collinses enjoyed was shared by about
sixty neighbors who formed the wealthy colony of Delmore Park, a small
suburb within easy motoring and commuting distance of New York. The park
itself was an attractive inclosure of some three hundred acres,
surrounded by a fence of high iron palings and laid out so as to give
the impression from within of a natural forest, while, as a matter of
fact, the place was a triumph of the consummate skill of expert
gardeners. In this deliberately fashioned woodland it was possible to
combine all the pomp and extravagance of city life with the rustic
attractiveness and simplicity of the country--a combination toward which
the wealthy are turning in increasing numbers each year.

On the morning following Whitmore's strange nocturnal excursion,
Collins's alarm clock set up an ear-splitting din at a most unwonted
hour. On retiring the previous night Collins had set the alarm for
seven-thirty, an hour at which he usually attained his deepest sleep.
Only on rare occasions was he known to retire before two A. M.,
and still rarer were the occasions when he relinquished his bed before
eleven.

A product of the gay night life of the city, he required the mornings
for slumber. Nor did he on this particular morning rouse himself into
immediate activity. Stretching himself languorously, he permitted the
alarm to exhaust itself, then buried his head in his pillow.

But he did not close his eyes. With a painful effort he prevented his
tired eyelids from falling and for half an hour remained stretched
between the sheets, lost in gloomy reflection.

There had been a purpose in setting the alarm at this early hour; the
same purpose now held him awake, absorbed in thought, yet alert to every
sound about the house. He heard the butler unlock the storm doors and
the servants prepare for the morning work. An occasional delivery wagon
ground through the gravel walk, the grating noise of the wheels rasping
his quivering nerves.

Through the open window a stream of sunshine flooded the floor and
distributed itself impartially about the room. The fresh arena of spring
blossoms softened the crisp morning air with a pleasant perfume;
feathered throats chirped happily in pursuit of the early worm.

The swelling chorus of happiness without aroused no responsive quiver in
Collins's heart. It hung within him, a leaden weight coiled with
bitterness and hate. His mind was a blazing furnace of furious
resentment, emitting sparks of rage that kindled other fires in the
storehouse of his emotions, until his temper seemed to reflect the
conflict of all tempers.

The shrill call of a letter-carrier's whistle banished the silent fury
into which he had worked himself. A thrill of expectancy shot down his
frame. Donning his bathrobe and slippers he stepped into the hallway and
listened. The butler and the mail man exchanged a word of greeting, then
the former closed the door. Collins descended the stairs, blinking, with
sleepy dissipated eyes.

"Give me all the mail," he said, extending a tremulous hand.

"There's a letter for madam--"

"Give it to me!"

Reluctantly the butler delivered the letter to him.

"You needn't mention my having received all the mail," Collins growled.
"If madam asks whether there was any mail for her tell her there wasn't
any. And don't forget what I say!"

The butler stared after him as he climbed up the stairs and disappeared
into his own room.

Seated on the edge of his bed, Collins glanced through his personal mail
then tore open the letter to his wife. It was in a familiar handwriting
and the contents brought no look of surprise to his face. But he read it
through half a dozen times, as if to sear it into his memory.

Presently he dressed and went out for a stroll, drinking copious
draughts of the bracing morning air. But the tormenting presence of the
intercepted letter in his pocket drew him back to the house. He
encountered his wife in the hallway.

"There was some mail for me--where is it?" she said, extending a hand
confidently.

He produced the letter from his pocket, poising it tantalizingly between
his fingers. She recognized the handwriting and a wave of red mounted to
her forehead. Also, she observed the ragged slit at the top of the
envelope and the painful realization that he had read the contents
rushed on her.

"How dared you?" She tried to seize the letter, but he, anticipating her
move, withdrew his arm and thrust the missive into his pocket. "I didn't
believe it possible you could sink so low," she murmured. "But this is
the end," she added with sudden vehemence. "I shall leave this house
to-day."

"Oh, no, you won't!" An angry scowl contorted his face. "You've flaunted
your superior virtues in my face--accused me of cruelty and neglect and
selfishness. Everybody, including your brother, believes you to be the
long-suffering, patient little angel. You've been the woman with the
noble soul--I've been the unworthy rascal. Now you stand there, your
feelings outraged, because I had the foresight to intercept an
incriminating letter. You calmly tell me it's the end. You're going to
leave. It makes no difference how much scandal you bring on my name.
You--"

She checked him with a contemptuous toss of the head. All the suffering
which she had endured through the years of their married life now
resolved itself into a fury of resentment.

"Your name!" she exclaimed with cutting irony. "As if anything which I
might do could add to the weight of dishonor that you have imposed upon
it! I don't know the contents of that letter, but it's from Herbert
Whitmore and he's as incapable of a dishonorable act as you are
incapable of anything honorable. And you had the audacity to open and
read that letter!"

She paused, fixing him with her eyes, her lips curled into a disdainful
smile. But the fire of her scorn left him unseared. His calloused
sensibilities had long ago lost their capability of appreciating a
nature such as hers. For his wife to have a letter addressed to her such
as he had intercepted, spelled guilt. The debasing environment into
which he had plunged on inheriting the fortune which his father had
accumulated, had undermined all his faith in womanhood. He could not see
beyond the Tenderloin purview.

But pride and selfishness were screamingly alive within him. To these
was added the inordinate conceit of the habitual libertine, a
combination than which there is nothing more sensitive in the entire
human composition.

But as Collins gazed on the graceful lines of her full figure and on the
almost classic beauty of her marmoreal features, he could not stifle a
pang of anxiety at thought of losing her. The fact that he had discarded
her in all but name, for the dubious pleasures of a life of dissipation,
did not occur to him. He believed in the established moral code that
excuses the offenses of the man and eternally condemns the woman. Yet,
ready as he was to attribute culpability to her conduct, it was hard
even for him to reconcile her smooth, artless brow, her frank, limpid
eyes, her delicate, sensitive lips, with any act that savored of
unworthiness or deceit.

"It's hard to look at you and believe you guilty of wrong," he said
resentfully.

"It makes no difference to me what you believe," she snapped. "I'm
through with you! I shall obtain a divorce."

The storm which had been gathering force within him all morning now
broke in all its fury.

"You're going to get a divorce!" he cried ironically. "You still pretend
to be the injured one. You and Whitmore have it all framed up--eh! But I
tell you you've miscalculated this time! No man can wreck my home with
impunity! No man can enter my house to steal my wife--and get away with
it. I've been blind a long time, but my eyes are wide open now."

He walked to the telephone at the rear of the hall and lifted the
receiver off the hook.

"What are you going to do?" she demanded.

"Call up your brother. We'll see what he has to say about it."

Lester Ward, the brother of Mrs. Collins, also lived in Delmore Park. He
had succeeded to his father's banking business and occupied the house
which his parents had left. Fifteen minutes after Collins summoned him
over the telephone, he was seated in his sister's library, prepared to
mediate in what he guessed to be another quarrel between her and her
husband.

"This letter will explain itself," Collins opened the conversation.
Lifting the note out of the envelope, he read:

     "_My Dear Grace_:

     "Since I communicated with you last, additional reasons have
     developed to justify your leaving him immediately. Your belief that
     with all his faults he has adhered to his marriage vows is but a
     delusion born of your own pure nature. I have the proof, if you
     care to hear it. Grace, you told me you loved me. My love for you
     is undiminished. Why sacrifice yourself longer--why sacrifice
     me? I cannot endure to be parted from you. Start for Reno at
     once--to-morrow is not too soon. Our love is too holy to be smitten
     and made to suffer by one entirely unworthy of your slightest
     consideration. Leave him, Grace, and come to me.

    "Yours devotedly,
     HERBERT."

"Well, what do you think of that?" Collins asked, turning toward his
brother-in-law. "My wife loves another man. And he's urging her to wreck
her home!"

Ward's eyes alternated between his sister and her husband.

"Of course, she's not going to do it," he said as if expressing an
inevitable conclusion.

"I'm going to leave here this very day," she declared firmly.

"And plunge into the scandal of a divorce proceeding?" Her brother
bestowed a reproachful glance upon her. "Grace, you know how I feel
toward your husband. Long ago I urged you to divorce him, but you
refused. Now you must consider me. Think of the notoriety! My
approaching marriage must not be overcast by the awful scandal that will
follow your trip to Reno. Were we less prominent socially, it might be
different. But the newspapers will be full of it. No, Grace, don't do
anything hasty--not just now."

"You counsel me to continue living with him?" she inquired.

"I simply ask you to continue as you're doing."

She bent forward in her chair, her face set in an expression of
unalterable determination.

"I love Herbert," she declared calmly, unmindful of the amazement which
her avowal produced. "I have loved him a long while," she continued
undismayed. "I crave him--I loathe the man to whom I am wedded."

"I sympathize with you," the brother hastened to assure her, "and, were
it not for my marriage, I should urge you to leave him at once. He's a
cad--"

"I'm not the sort of cad that permits another man to destroy his home,"
blurted Collins.

The others ignored his interruption.

"Lester," said the wife, "I shall leave this house to-day. Regardless of
your marriage, I shall apply for a divorce and marry Herbert Whitmore."

The strained silence which followed was broken by Collins. He arose and
walked to the door.

"You'll never marry Whitmore," he said. "There is a higher law that
protects the home."

"Why--what do you mean?" the wife inquired in a tone of alarm. Something
in her husband's face, something she had never seen there before,
frightened her.

"I'm going to kill Whitmore," he said, leaving the room.




CHAPTER III


A premeditated killing wherein the murderer makes no provision to
protect himself from the sure consequences of his act, requires a
certain amount of perverted courage. Neither Mrs. Collins nor her
brother credited Collins with the possession of even this low
courage--at least not in sufficient degree to induce him to relinquish
the comforts of freedom for the inconveniences of a prison. So they
offered no objection to his departure, permitting him to leave without a
word, as though they were entirely unconcerned in what he did.

Knowing Collins intimately as they did, it was impossible to take his
assumption of the rôle of an outraged husband seriously. They saw, only
too clearly, the ridiculous figure he made in the false light with which
he had invested himself. But when he was gone, with his threat still
echoing through their brains, they began to doubt their first impression
of his cowardice.

"That's a fine mess you've made of it," said Ward, who had grown
palpably uneasy.

"I made the mess when I married him," replied the sister. "I shall now
proceed to disentangle myself from it. Until I start for Reno I shall
live at your house."

"You don't think, really, that he would shoot?" The brother's face
expressed incredulity, mixed with worry.

Her forehead contracted in thought.

"As he is now, I feel certain he would not dare. But should he start
drinking--"

Ward was on his feet, his pale face grown paler.

"That's just it!" he exclaimed. "We must forestall him."

The same thought had flashed through her brain and she was already on
the way to the telephone. She called up Whitmore's house and asked for
the merchant.

"He didn't come home last night," the butler informed her.

Although burning with anxiety she made no further inquiries of the
servant. Instead, she rang up Whitmore's office.

"No ma'am, he hasn't been here this morning," the office boy said.

"Then give me Mr. Beard, his secretary."

"He hasn't been here, either."

She hung up the receiver and turned a bewildered countenance to her
brother.

"There is something singular about Herbert's absence from home and his
failure to appear at the office," she said. "I don't know why I should
think so--but I do."

"It's impossible for your husband to have reached the city," Ward
answered reassuringly. "He won't get there for twenty-five minutes and
the chances are he'll stop in various saloons before he tries to find
Whitmore. I'll have my car here in ten minutes and we'll proceed at once
to Whitmore's office and wait for him. Now hurry and get dressed."

Ward paced the drawing-room while waiting for his sister to finish her
toilet. He had telephoned for his automobile and heard the car draw up
at the gate. In the presence of Mrs. Collins and her husband, Ward had
maintained an unruffled demeanor; now that he was alone his face assumed
a tense, rigid look, as though he were staring at an apparition.
Something weighed heavily on his mind and it was plain that he was beset
by uncertainty. He continued to walk up and down the room with short,
nervous strides, until the swish of skirts at the head of the stairs
brought him to an abrupt halt at the doorway. The arm which he extended
to his sister, as he escorted her to the waiting automobile trembled
violently. A cold sweat moistened his face.

"Sis," he said, when the machine had started, "I'm going to tell you
something. Things are headed for a great crisis and it is necessary that
you should know. It's going to shock you--"

He paused, eyeing her quizzically. But her mind, occupied with the
safety of the man she loved, understood but vaguely what he was saying.

The brother took advantage of her preoccupation to gather additional
courage for the communication which he had to impart. He saw clearly
that she was resolved to discard her husband, that it would be futile to
combat her determination. Other occasions there had been, many of them,
when he had averted a final parting between them. But there had never
been another man involved.

"Grace, listen to me!" He placed one hand on her wrist. "We are both in
a terrible predicament, out of which my marriage may lift us. If you do
anything that endangers the marriage, if my engagement should be
broken,--we are both ruined."

"What do you mean?" A puzzled look appeared in her face.

"I didn't tell you before, because I thought it would never be necessary
to do so," he went on, growing more nervous and uneasy. "But little by
little I put all our money into the South American Developing Company
which I promoted, and the enterprise is a failure. Moreover, I induced
most of the clients of the bank to invest--I grow sick every time I
contemplate what's going to happen when they learn that their money is
lost. But there was nothing dishonest, sis--nothing dishonest!"

The news appeared to have no visible effect upon her. Something more
important than money, more alarming than the ruin which his words
implied, distracted her with a vague foreboding of impending evil. She
made no reply to her brother, but sat rigid, eyes staring vacantly
ahead, her hands tightly clasped beneath the heavy fur rug that
protected the lower part of her body.

The automobile sped on, smoothly as though running on steel rails. A
brisk wind beat against the glass shield and was deflected, leaving only
light currents of air to brush the faces of the occupants of the car.
Between Ward and his sister a long silence ensued.

It was broken by the brother.

"Don't you understand the position we're in?" he inquired.

"I understand," she replied absently.

"And don't you care?"

"Nothing matters now, except Herbert."

For weeks the brother had dreaded the moment when he should be compelled
to confess the loss of their fortune. Now, finding that she took it
coolly, even indifferently, he decided to go through with it.

"But I haven't finished--you don't know all," he pursued desperately.
"The situation is aggravated by your resolve to leave your husband. All
his money, save the small income from the trust fund established by his
mother, is likewise sunk in the enterprise. I induced him to invest, I'm
really responsible for the predicament in which he'll find himself.
Don't you see," he added pleadingly, "if you leave him now it will take
on the aspect of desertion. People will say that your brother ruined him
and then you threw him over. While if you wait until after my marriage,
I shall be in a position to settle with him in full and still have
enough to look after you."

For several minutes she remained mute, evidently digesting his words.

"And would you marry without letting her know that you are ruined?" she
inquired in quivering tones. "Would you try to rehabilitate yourself
with her fortune? Do you think it fair?"

The words cut like saber thrusts. But when a man finds the walls of his
house about to fall on him he is apt to clutch blindly at anything which
promises to prop the tottering structure.

"It is cowardly, I confess," he said. "But what am I to do? Besides, I
love her. You know I would not marry without love, even to avert
financial ruin."

"I shall not interfere between you and your intended," she answered
icily. "Neither shall I permit the circumstances which you have
described to alter my determination."

The car now threaded its way through the maze of traffic in the city.
Presently it drew up before a huge, ugly factory that covered a square
block on the upper west side, near the river. Ward and his sister jumped
out of the tonneau and entered the building. They found themselves in a
busy office, consisting of a single room down the length of which a
wooden rail interposed between visitors and employés.

"I wish to see Mr. Whitmore," Mrs. Collins informed one of the office
boys.

"Hasn't come down yet," the boy replied.

"Is he often away as late as this?"

"No ma'am," said the boy. "He's usually here at nine o'clock."

"Has Mr. Beard been here this morning?"

"Not yet. But he telephoned he'll be here at twelve o'clock."

Ward consulted his watch. It was a quarter past ten. He questioned the
boy but was unable to obtain any information as to the possible
whereabouts of his employer or his secretary. So he and his sister
decided to await them at the office.

The visitors looked sufficiently important to warrant the office boy
ushering them into Whitmore's private office. As they passed down the
railed corridor they elicited the further information that no one
answering Collins's description had called that morning.

"He's probably patronizing a bar somewhere between here and the Grand
Central Station just now," commented Ward in an undertone.

They did not enter into further discussion of their impending financial
ruin while awaiting Whitmore. Immediately on dropping into a chair Mrs.
Collins seemed to draw within herself, surrendering to the harrowing
thoughts that filled her mind. Ward also became deeply preoccupied with
his own tangled affairs, his brain striving furiously to find some
solution of the dilemma into which he was plunged.

They took no note of the passing time; but the minutes sped swiftly
while they wrestled silently with the problems that had entered their
lives and when Ward suddenly looked up the hands of the little brass
clock on top of Whitmore's desk pointed to a quarter of twelve. An
instant later the door of the office was flung open and a tall figure,
clean-shaven, with clearly defined features, burst into the room.

On seeing the visitors the man paused, perplexed. It was plain that he
was under great stress of mind. His face was haggard, his eyes were
sunken, his mouth drawn, as if he had not yet recovered from some great
shock.

"Ward--Mrs. Collins!" he stammered.

The voice recalled the woman out of the dreamy state into which she had
lapsed. She scrutinized the man with eyes in which terror and suspense
mingled.

"Mr. Beard--why!--something has happened!" she gave voice to her fear.

"Yes, something dreadful has occurred," he said, trying to avert his
face.

A great fear shook the woman's frame. For an instant she raised her eyes
imploringly, then lowered them.

"Then he has killed him--murdered him?" The words came as though each
syllable wrenched her heart.

"Killed him?" repeated Beard with rising inflection. "Why, what do you
mean?"

"My husband--Mr. Collins--he set out this morning to do it. For God's
sake," she implored, "don't keep me in suspense. Tell me what happened."

By a violent effort Beard recovered sufficient calm to note the
agitation of the woman.

"Why, no," he said reassuringly, "Mr. Whitmore hasn't been killed."

"But what has happened?" demanded Mrs. Collins with a gesture of
impatience.

"I cannot tell you," answered the secretary. "But something has
occurred--a grave crisis has arisen in Mr. Whitmore's life. He will not
be at his office for some time--perhaps not for weeks, or months, or
years. But he asked me to communicate with you, to let you know that he
will notify you the moment he returns. Meanwhile, he asks you to believe
in him, even though he cannot write to you. More than that I cannot tell
you."

Ward and his sister exchanged bewildered glances. The unexpected turn of
events left them speechless. And, before they were able to recover their
dazed senses, Beard slipped out of the office and lost himself among the
small army of clerks and bookkeepers in the outer room.

Ward, finally observing that he was alone with his sister, bestowed on
her a bitter smile.

"What a muddle!" he exclaimed. "Domestic trouble ... financial
difficulties!... Whitmore vanished! What next?"

She stared at him through swimming eyes. Her lips moved but no sound
came from them.

"Take the car home, Grace," he said in milder voice. "I'll go to the
office and try to puzzle this thing out."




CHAPTER IV


What had become of Herbert Whitmore?

Like a thief in the night he had slipped out of his Fifth Avenue home,
disappeared from his business, vanished like a specter, while the
domestic tragedy of the Collinses paused in anticipation of his
reappearance.

Beard, the confidential secretary, had taken possession of his
employer's office, and to all inquiries regarding Whitmore's absence,
made the same reply:

"He is gone indefinitely on a business trip."

Not even the persistent Collins was able to elicit anything additional.
No further information was vouchsafed Mrs. Collins, who had taken up her
abode with her brother; the financially troubled Ward, desperately
fighting off ruin, could learn nothing from the silent, inscrutable
Beard.

Then, one morning, unostentatiously as he had disappeared, Whitmore
returned to his office. He wore a new spring coat, a new soft hat, new
gloves and shoes, an unfamiliar brown tie against a striped shirt-bosom,
as if he had just stepped out of a haberdasher's shop.

Down the long aisle, between the two rows of desks he passed, nodding
with that air of pleasant kindliness that had endeared him to his
hundreds of employés.

"Good morning, Mr. Whitmore--glad to see you back!" was fired at him
with respectful familiarity from a score of clerks.

He smiled amiably, replying occasionally with a cheery rejoinder.
Evidently he was in excellent spirits.

Whitmore's private office, at the rear of the long hall, ran the full
width of the room. It was partitioned off from the main room by a glass
partition through which he was at all times visible to his employés. The
office contained no windows, being shut in on three sides by the thick
walls of the building, and obtained its light through the glass paneling
of the partition. The floor was covered by a green carpet and three or
four chairs rested against the wall.

"Sam!" the merchant called to his office boy. "I shall be very busy with
my papers this morning. Permit no one to enter my office and don't bring
any visitors' cards."

Whitmore placed his hand affectionately on the boy's touseled hair.

"Don't forget my instructions!" he said pleasantly.

The merchant permitted the glass door of his office to remain open.
Divesting himself of his coat he dropped into the revolving chair at his
desk and swung around so as to sit with his back toward the outer
office.

Behind the transparent partition he worked, sorting papers and slipping
them into pigeon-holes. Toward noon one of the clerks observed that the
merchant had slipped down into his chair, that his head hung strangely
to one side.

"What's the matter with Mr. Whitmore?" the clerk asked the office boy.

The two thrust their faces against the intervening glass, noting that
the employer's limbs were rigidly outstretched and that one hand hung
limply at his side while the other rested on the desk.

They tiptoed into the office, like guilty schoolboys bent on
eavesdropping. A single glance at Whitmore's white face and they burst
through the door, their faces distorted with terror.

"Something's happened to Mr. Whitmore!" shouted the clerk.

Drummond, the head clerk, leaped forward in a quick offer of assistance.
He remained a minute or two in the private office, then emerged,
haggard, with eyes staring.

"Mr. Whitmore's been shot!" burst from his lips. "Get a policeman. He's
dead," he added with a sob.

The news seemed to strike the office dumb. The clerks regarded each
other like bewildered sheep, awed, terrified, a vague fear gripping
their hearts. In the midst of their furious, living activity, the
specter of death had suddenly appeared. It had crept in on them
silently, stealthily, selecting the most shining mark as its victim.
Unannounced, it had proclaimed the frailty of human life more
effectively than if it had revealed itself in a lightning bolt. With
noiseless, unseen hands, it had abducted the most beloved figure among
them, deprived them forever of the kindly, fatherly personality of the
man whom they had come to regard more as a friend than an employer.

Recovering from their first terror, the clerks left their desks and
massed forward toward the partition, but the head clerk waved them back.

"Everyone remain in his place until after the police have arrived," he
ordered.

The office boy, who had gone to summon a policeman, now returned with
the bluecoat. The latter examined the dead man an instant, then,
following the usual custom, summoned an ambulance and notified the
coroner.

"Looks like a suicide," he declared over the telephone.

The ambulance was the first to arrive and the young surgeon, after
listening vainly for a promising flutter of the heart, officially
pronounced the merchant dead. When the coroner arrived, he was assured
that nothing in the private office had been disturbed, after which he
proceeded with his investigation.

Almost the first object which he noticed was a shiny revolver lying on
the desk, about an inch from the dead man's fingers. As he lifted the
weapon, he observed that the merchant had been shot in the side, and,
turning toward the policeman, said:

"A plain case of suicide."

More as a matter of form, rather than with any hope of discovering
anything of value, the coroner opened the revolver, and, as he did so,
an exclamation of surprise escaped his lips. His eyes fixed themselves
on the loaded chambers of the barrel in a puzzled stare until he was
convinced that his senses were not deceiving him.

The revolver was fully loaded. It had never been fired.

Switching on the electric lights, the coroner examined the clothing of
the victim. There were no powder marks where the bullet had entered.

"Officer, this is murder!" he exclaimed excitedly. "Notify the detective
bureau. And don't permit anyone to leave this building."




CHAPTER V


While awaiting the arrival of the Headquarters men, the coroner busied
himself with a preliminary examination of the clerks. The coroner was a
small, fussy individual, smooth-shaven, with reddish-brown hair brushed
back in pompadour fashion. Because of his small stature and
insignificant appearance he was compelled to adopt a brisk air of
command, lest witnesses presume to trifle with his authority.

"Gentlemen, I am Coroner Hart," he announced, stepping into the outer
office and addressing the assembled clerks. "I shall immediately begin a
preliminary inquest and you will all regard yourselves summoned as
witnesses. The policeman will permit no one to leave the room without my
permission."

The clerks, unfamiliar with the legal proceedings attached to a homicide
case, exchanged puzzled glances. In the presence of their beloved dead,
this man's unsympathetic attitude seemed almost a profanation. The
policeman, in passing through the office on his way to the door, had let
drop the remark that murder had been committed, yet none of the employés
could bring himself to believe that an alien hand had fired the mortal
bullet. No visitor had entered Whitmore's office; none of the clerks had
been within. Who could have done it?

The coroner called one of the clerks who had sat within a dozen feet of
the door all morning.

"Did you see anyone enter the office?" he asked.

"No, sir," the clerk replied.

"Could anyone have entered without passing you or without your noticing
him?"

"Absolutely not."

"Did you hear the shot fired?"

"I didn't hear a sound after Mr. Whitmore entered the office."

"And your hearing--is it good?"

"Perfect."

After putting the same questions to half a dozen other clerks and
obtaining similar answers, Coroner Hart decided to save time by
addressing himself to the employés in general.

"If anyone saw any person enter that office this morning or heard a
shot, let him come forward," he called.

The men stood mute, eyeing one another expectantly, each hoping someone
else might have valuable information to offer. The hush finally was
broken by a shuffling of feet as two strangers thrust their way through
the crowd and ranged themselves on either side of the coroner.

One of the newcomers, the less heavily built of the two, compelled
immediate attention by reason of his personality. He carried himself
with an air of certainty, as if accustomed to meeting grave
problems--and solving them. As he stood at the right of the coroner, his
keen gray eyes, set deep beneath the arched outline of his eyebrows,
swept the faces of the sorrowing employés, as if trying to read their
inmost thoughts. Despite the severe cast of his features, there was
something engaging about the man, some magic of personality, that drew
one irresistibly toward him.

"Just in time to hear the most important witness," the coroner said to
him, at the same time beckoning the office boy to come forward.

The two visitors and the coroner seated themselves at one of the
flat-top desks, while the boy, pale, trembling, as if conscious of some
guilty act, faced them with fear written in his youthful countenance.
The coroner solemnly administered the customary oath.

"You know what will happen to you if you tell a lie?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, I'll be sent to prison," the boy answered timorously.

"Now what is your name?"

"Samuel Johnson."

The witness further confided that he had been employed in the
establishment three years, that he had seen Mr. Whitmore enter the
office and that thereafter he had occupied a seat within a foot of the
door until one of the clerks called his attention to the peculiar
attitude in which his employer had fallen in the chair.

"What did Mr. Whitmore say to you when he arrived this morning?"
inquired the coroner.

"He'd been away for six weeks, and he put his hand on my head like he
was glad to see me and said that no one was to be admitted to the office
and I wasn't to bring in any visitor's card." The boy sobbed
convulsively as he recalled the last words of his employer.

"Were any visitors here this morning?"

"No, sir."

"Did any of the clerks enter the office?"

"No, sir."

"Did you hear a shot fired, or any other peculiar sound?"

"I did not."

"Are you positive?"

"I hope I may die on the spot if it ain't so," the witness said
fervently.

The coroner's eyes alternated between his two visitors. The smaller of
the two devoted himself to a long scrutiny of the boy's countenance.

"Mr. Whitmore was absent for six weeks?" he suddenly asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know where he was?"

"Mr. Beard told me to tell all visitors that Mr. Whitmore was away on a
business trip."

"Who is Mr. Beard?"

"Mr. Whitmore's confidential secretary. He took charge of the business
while Mr. Whitmore was away."

"Isn't it somewhat unusual that nobody called to see Mr. Whitmore on his
return this morning?"

"I guess they didn't know he was back," the boy replied.

"Did Mr. Whitmore have any trouble with anyone before he left?"

"Not that I know of. But after he was gone a man came around here every
day for four weeks looking for him. The man looked like a Broadway
dude--like he drank a whole lot and didn't sleep much. I once heard him
tell Mr. Beard that Mr. Whitmore had run away from him."

The coroner and the visitors exchanged meaning glances.

"Where is Mr. Beard?" inquired the coroner.

"He didn't come down to-day."

Again the coroner looked gravely at the others, but their faces failed
to indicate what import they attached to the boy's statements.

"Lieutenant, is there any other question you desire to ask?"

"No, coroner, I think we'd better adjourn to the private office," said
the man addressed.

Entering the merchant's office, the coroner closed the door behind them.

"Lieutenant Britz," he remarked cordially, "I'm glad they sent you up.
This looks like a mystery worthy of your talents."

Lieutenant Britz disregarded the implied compliment. He had taken up a
position of survey in the center of the room, from which his eyes
traveled slowly about the place, studying every inch of the carpet,
lingering on the black leather surface of the chairs, covering the wide
area of the walls.

"Have you searched the body?" he asked.

"Yes," replied the coroner. "Only a key ring with four keys attached was
found in the pockets."

"How about the papers in the desk?"

"Nothing but business papers."

At this juncture a clerk poked his head timidly into the room and said:

"Officers, it's three o'clock now and we haven't been out to lunch. May
we go?"

"I'll let you know in a minute or two," answered the coroner. When the
clerk had withdrawn his head, the official stepped over to Britz.

"Those clerks are in a conspiracy of silence," he declared. "This man
could not have committed suicide. The pistol found on the desk was fully
loaded. The clothing is devoid of powder stains. Moreover, a most
careful search has failed to reveal any other weapon. Now, someone
entered this room and fired the shot. Yet all those clerks maintain that
no one has been in here and that they heard no shot, although the door
stood open all the while the merchant was in the office. Somebody has
secreted the pistol with which the shooting was done and it might be
well to search all the clerks."

"That would be a useless procedure," replied Britz. "There is no
conspiracy of silence. If those men outside could shed any light on the
crime, they would do so eagerly. The murderer could not have enjoined
silence on thirty or thirty-five men. No, they have told all they know.
You may permit them to enjoy their lunch."

Although the coroner was the ranking official, his respect for Britz's
judgment was such that he invariably followed the latter's suggestions.
So he informed the clerks they could leave the building at will.

While the coroner was in the big room addressing the employés, Britz
suddenly walked to the chair in which the murdered man still sat
huddled. Bending down, he picked up something long and shiny, which the
others had overlooked. It was a long darning needle, and the detective,
after examining it an instant under the electric light, slipped it into
a leather card case. He did not mention what he had found to the
coroner, when the latter returned.

"Greig," said Britz to his bulky companion, "go out and fetch a
step-ladder. Let us examine the walls and ceiling."

Greig hastened out of the office, returning in a few minutes with the
ladder. The two detectives devoted half an hour to sounding the walls
and ceiling, while the coroner wrote out the necessary permit for the
removal of the body.

"Everything is absolutely solid," declared Britz, when he had finished
his examination. "There are no panels in the wall through which the
assassin might have entered."

"That's what I thought," beamed the coroner. "The murderer entered and
left through the door. And some of those clerks, if not all of them,
must have seen him--or her. I tell you they're in a conspiracy to shield
the murderer."

Britz extended a hand toward the glass partition.

"Look down this room," he said. "The murderer, presuming it was a man,
must have passed down this long aisle into the office. Then, it was
necessary to repeat the journey in order to escape. Had there been a
conspiracy, then those thirty clerks must have remained quietly at their
desks while the assassin walked out of the room. Do you believe these
men would have permitted him to escape?"

"Suppose he carried the pistol in his hand, don't you believe he could
have intimidated them?" ventured Greig.

"Sure!" joined the coroner. "And the men may now be ashamed of their
cowardice."

"That wouldn't have prevented them giving the alarm after the murderer
left," declared Britz. "No, coroner, no one saw the slayer enter or
leave. In fact, he did not enter through the door."

"Then how did he get in?" demanded the coroner. "Through the wall? Or
did he fire through the ceiling or floor?"

"As I said before, there is no secret panel in this room," was Britz's
rejoinder.

"Then you believe Mr. Whitmore committed suicide?" suddenly fired the
coroner.

"No."

"He might have committed suicide, and the clerks, out of regard for
their employer, substituted pistols in order to make it appear like
murder," joined Greig.

"Perhaps," replied Britz. "Relatives and friends frequently endeavor to
give a case of suicide the aspect of murder."

"But you don't really believe it of this case?" asked the coroner.

"I do not," confessed Britz.

"Then your theory must be that some invisible person fired a silent
shot"--the coroner paused a moment, then as if struck by a sudden
thought--"of course, a Maxim muffler might have deadened the sound of
the pistol."

"The office boy would have heard the click of the hammer," interposed
Britz.

The coroner repressed with difficulty the smile that struggled to his
lips.

"Lieutenant," he said disparagingly, "you don't attribute this crime to
the work of spirits, do you?"

"No," laughed Britz. "Spirits don't murder people outside of story
books. No ghostly significance attaches to the murder of Mr. Whitmore."

"Well, what is your theory?" demanded the coroner.

"I haven't any--as yet. I shall wait until I'm in possession of more
facts before formulating one. Of this I am certain, however. Mr.
Whitmore came down here to-day expecting to meet death. In fact, he had
prepared himself for it by destroying or secreting all his personal
papers. More than that I am not prepared to say at present."

"Is there anything further that I can do?"

"Nothing, coroner, beyond ordering an immediate autopsy."

"Very well," replied the coroner, preparing to go. He was about to step
out of the room when his footsteps were halted by an approaching figure
that tore down the aisle as if under the stress of great excitement. The
figure did not pause at the door but brushed past the official, halting
abruptly before the body of the slain man.

"Dead!" he moaned, and the single word conveyed to his hearers the
darting agony which rent him. For a long moment the newcomer stood,
bowed with unutterable grief, holding the hand of the dead man, as if he
would joyfully impart to those lifeless fingers, the largest measure of
his own vitality. Reluctantly he relinquished the limp hand, and the
effort cost him a pang.

As he turned from the rigid features staring vacantly up at him, he was
sobbing inwardly. His handsome face was contorted as if in physical
pain, his head drooped as if his shoulders had suddenly grown too weak
to bear its weight.

"Who are you, sir?" the coroner's voice broke the stillness.

The wave of sorrow which swept over the man seemed to deprive him of the
faculty of speech. He looked about him in a bewildered way, as if unable
to comprehend the presence of the others.

[Illustration: He looked about him in a bewildered way]

"You knew Mr. Whitmore?" the coroner inquired mildly.

"Yes, I was his confidential secretary," the answer came in weak tones.

The coroner and the two detectives exchanged significant glances.

"Then you are Mr. Beard?" the former inquired.

"Yes."

"Can you throw any light on the murder--have you any idea as to who
could have done it?"

As the weighty import of the query slowly dawned on Beard's
consciousness, his face contracted until it took on the expression of
one whose mental vision is gradually clearing; before whose dazed mind
certain images are again taking compact shape, revealing themselves out
of the surrounding darkness, sharply cut like figures illumined by the
long-stretching rays of a powerful searchlight.

Britz noted the changing expression of the man's face with lynxlike
eagerness. There was something touching, pathetic, in the utter
desolation which the secretary felt at his employer's death. Then,
suddenly, a burning anger seemed to succeed all other emotions, and, in
an outburst of tempestuous fury, he exclaimed:

"Collins--George Collins--damn him--damn that scoundrel! He did
it--there was no one else! Officers, arrest Collins--you know who he is.
He threatened to kill Mr. Whitmore, came down here every day for a month
to do it. I'll send that cur to the electric chair--why should I shield
him?"

"Precisely," agreed the coroner. "Now, calm yourself and tell us all
about Collins."

Beard had been carried away by the storm of resentment that had swept
his mind. He had uttered a direct accusation, something which it was
farthest from his purpose to do. Caution had been his life-long habit.
It had deserted him for the instant, but only for the instant. The next
moment it had returned, to abide with him throughout the rest of the
examination.

"This Mr. Collins--can you explain how he got in here without being
observed by the clerks?" asked the coroner.

"No," snapped the secretary.

"What motive had he for killing Mr. Whitmore?" the coroner fired at him.

"None that I know of," declared Beard.

"Well, tell us in your own way what connection Mr. Collins had with this
crime," the coroner said persuasively.

"I have nothing to tell."

It was manifest that the secretary regretted his first outburst against
Collins and was now prepared to counter every effort of his questioner.
The coroner, however, was not to be easily repulsed.

"This, sir, is a solemn inquest into the death of Herbert Whitmore," he
informed the other. "I am now holding court, as authorized by the
statute. You will regard yourself as a duly summoned witness. Raise your
right hand!"

Beard lifted a trembling hand above his head.

"You do solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but the truth!" intoned the official. Producing pencil and paper he
prepared to record the answers of the witness.

"You have accused one George Collins of the crime of murder," he
pursued. "Are you prepared to substantiate that accusation with proof?"

"I do not accuse anyone of murder and I have no proof," asserted Beard.

The coroner decided to try a new tack.

"Where did Mr. Whitmore spend the past six weeks?"

"I decline to tell," Beard answered firmly.

"On what ground do you refuse to answer?"

The secretary shifted uneasily from one position to another. His eyes
roved about the room, finally studying the ceiling as if trying to
discover written thereon some means out of his dilemma.

"I decline to answer--on the ground that my reply might tend to
incriminate or degrade me. I'm sorry, but I must invoke my
constitutional privilege."

Had a tongue of flame shot from the witness's mouth it could not have
produced greater amazement. The coroner and the detectives regarded each
other as if uncertain whether they had heard aright. The changed
attitude of the witness could only denote that he feared to involve
himself. He, who had been so quick to accuse another, now appeared
intent only on shielding himself.

"You have found the customary refuge of guilty men," the coroner frowned
at the witness. "In the presence of murder, all honest men speak
frankly. What motive have you in concealing Mr. Whitmore's whereabouts
during his absence from his office?"

"I must decline to say anything further until I have consulted with
counsel," the secretary answered readily.

Certainly the two last replies smacked strongly of guilt, or at least,
criminal knowledge. If not the actual murderer, he might be an accessory
before the fact. So thought the coroner, and the cold gleam of authority
in his eyes betrayed his belief.

"Since you won't speak, it is my duty to commit you to jail," he
declared.

"On what charge?" demanded the witness.

"On suspicion of being involved in the crime."

The secretary made no effort to combat the coroner's resolve. He simply
bowed his head meekly, ready to submit. Britz, however, who had caught
every fleeting emotion that passed across the witness's countenance, was
not prepared to see Beard silenced through intimidation.

"Coroner," he said, "suppose you adjourn the inquest for the present? I
want to take Mr. Beard with me to Mr. Whitmore's home. He may be of
service there."

"Very well," reluctantly agreed the coroner. "Take him!"




CHAPTER VI


Had Herbert Whitmore, in a spirit of diabolical fun, resolved to present
the New York police with a baffling murder mystery, he could not have
carried out the design more effectively than in the manner of his taking
off. Not a clue to the perpetrator of the crime or the manner of its
accomplishment, was found in the merchant's home. There were not wanting
signs of hasty destruction, but the obliteration of all possible leads
had been complete.

Two hours were consumed in the search of the house, and all the while
Beard looked on silently, offering neither help nor hindrance. Britz,
pursuing the search with the help of Greig, put an occasional question
to the secretary, but the almost invariable reply was a non-committal
shrug of the shoulders.

"Since you won't tell us anything about Mr. Whitmore, kindly inform me
where _you_ spent the morning?" demanded Britz.

"Up to ten o'clock I was in this house," the secretary replied. "Then I
visited the office of the Garfield Safe Deposit Company. I remained in
the vaults, assorting Mr. Whitmore's papers until three o'clock. From
there I came directly to the iron works."

"In other words, you have a complete alibi with which to meet a charge
of murder?"

"Between the time that Mr. Whitmore entered his office and the time he
was found dead, I was at the vault, continuously within sight of two
guards," declared Beard.

The butler and the other servants were entirely empty of helpful
knowledge concerning the crime. All of them united in declaring that Mr.
Whitmore had left the house six weeks ago, that no one had seen him
leave and he had not been back. Mr. Beard had taken charge of his
affairs, in fact he had come to the house to live. None of them had seen
Mr. Whitmore since the night of his disappearance, nor had they received
any word from him. While they had not accepted unequivocally Mr. Beard's
assurance that their employer was on a business trip, nevertheless they
had no other knowledge concerning their master's whereabouts and
therefore did not openly question Beard's assertions.

"Mr. Beard," said Britz, when he had finished questioning the servants,
"I shall not arrest you for the present. But you will hold yourself in
readiness to appear at Police Headquarters whenever I may want you."

"I shall not leave the city," promised Beard.

"Very well. Now kindly leave the house," requested Britz.

The secretary left reluctantly, as if unwilling to permit the detectives
to be alone with the servants. But he offered no resistance as Britz
escorted him to the door and closed it behind him. Relieved of Beard's
presence, the detective summoned the butler.

"Who visited Mr. Whitmore on the night he disappeared?" Britz said
sharply.

"A lady," answered the butler.

"Who was she?"

"I don't know. I had never seen her before."

"Did you see Mr. Whitmore after her departure?"

"Yes, sir, in the library."

"Did he say anything?"

"He asked me about a letter I had mailed."

"Did you observe the address on the letter?"

"Yes, sir. It was addressed to Mrs. George Collins, at Delmore Park."

"Was the lady whom you admitted that night Mrs. Collins?"

"I don't believe so. I don't know Mrs. Collins, but it couldn't have
been she, for Mr. Whitmore did not seem to know the visitor."

"Thank you," said Britz, extending his card. "If Mr. Beard should
discharge the servants, please call me up at Police Headquarters."

"Yes, sir," promised the butler.

Britz donned his hat and coat.

"Come on, Greig," he called to his assistant. "We're going to Delmore
Park."

Outside, they found the newsboys shrieking the crime. The afternoon
papers had worked themselves into typographic frenzy over it. Britz
guessed that the coroner had primed the reporters with all the facts
which had been ascertained at the office, and the reporters, exercising
a lively fancy, had created a mystery that was calculated to absorb
newspaper readers for many days. As Britz perused the news sheets on the
way to the Grand Central Station, he noted with a smile that the
reporters shared with the coroner and the employés of the iron works,
the same mystification as to how the assassin managed to reach his
victim without revealing himself to the clerks in the office.

"It is inexplicable to me how the murderer got in and out of the private
office," one of the newspapers quoted the head clerk. "He must have worn
the fabled invisible cloak," was the only explanation he could offer.

"It's uncanny," another clerk was quoted. "I sat at the third desk from
Mr. Whitmore's door all morning and I'm ready to swear no one entered or
left that office. He could not have committed suicide, for I would have
heard the shot. He came down this morning, after an absence of six
weeks, pleasant and amiable as usual. We all loved him, all of us at one
time or another experienced his kindness. Any intimation that we are
shielding the murderer is absurd. Had we seen him, he never would have
left the office alive."

Dropping the paper, Britz sought in his pocket for the leather card case
in which he had deposited the needle earlier in the afternoon. After
scrutinizing it carefully, he replaced it in the case with an air of
satisfaction.

"Greig," he said, moving his head slightly to one side, so as to face
his assistant, "what do you make of the case?"

"Just this, Lieutenant!" He paused as if in deep reflection. "We've got
to decide whether those clerks are telling the truth. If we accept their
statement that they saw no one enter Whitmore's office and heard no
shot--"

"I have already accepted their statement as the truth," interrupted
Britz.

"The possibility of suicide is eliminated, of course," pursued Greig.
"The pistol we found is brand new and has never been fired. Certainly
Whitmore didn't shoot himself and then swallow the gun. And since the
clerks are sure that no one entered or left the office, why, the only
explanation I can give is that some supernatural agency was employed to
bring about Whitmore's death."

Britz bestowed on his assistant a tolerant smile.

"Then I suppose we might as well charge the crime up to the spirits and
drop the case!" he said ironically. "No, Greig, we're not going on a
still hunt for murderous, disembodied shades. We're going after living
people--and we're not going very far. What puzzles you and the
clerks--how anyone managed to get to him and fire the shot--is so simple
that I'm surprised you're worrying over it. I have already solved that."

Greig stared at his superior in undisguised amazement.

"Why--er--how was it done?" he stammered.

In reply, Britz produced the needle which he had found at the feet of
the murdered man.

"Examine this and see if it doesn't solve the puzzle," he said.

Greig looked a long while at the long, thin, glistening instrument.

"There's blood half-way down from the point," he commented audibly. "But
I don't see what it explains."

"Of itself, it wouldn't mean much," admitted Britz. "But taken in
connection with the fully loaded pistol and the lack of powder marks
about the bullet wound, it explains fully why none of the men in the
office saw the murderer."

"But--but how do you figure it out?" asked Greig, more puzzled than
ever.

"I shall not reveal that at present," answered Britz. "It will help our
investigation to permit the murderer to believe that we don't know how
he got to Whitmore. From the statements we have obtained, it is evident
that conflicting interests are involved in the crime. We shall direct
our energies toward bringing these adverse elements into active
conflict, and, in the heat of battle, the murderer will be revealed."

They had reached Grand Central Station, and, luckily, had to wait only
ten minutes before boarding a train for Delmore Park. During the short
journey Britz fell into one of his deep silences, from which Greig did
not disturb him until the train drew into the Delmore Park station.

Lieutenant Britz was too experienced a detective to rush unprepared into
the home of the Collinses in the hope of obtaining incriminating
evidence. In fact, he had determined not to visit the Collins house, but
to devote himself to ascertaining something about the life and habits of
the man whose name figured so conspicuously in the present stage of the
investigation.

It was seven-thirty when the two detectives entered the home of the
village postmaster and revealed their identity. The postmaster, a
middle-aged, heavy-set man, appeared tired after his day's work. He was
familiar with all the gossip of the wealthy residents of the park, and
he quickly found new energy when the opportunity to display his
knowledge was offered.

"That man Collins is a no good fellow," he confided glibly. "Just a
bum--that's all he is. Stays out all night and sleeps all morning. His
wife is a fine woman and I don't see how she stood for him all this
time. Six weeks ago everybody around here knew that they had separated.
She went to her brother's house--Lester Ward. But last night they seemed
to be reconciled again. I saw Ward and Collins and Mrs. Collins at the
station together and I heard them say they were going to the opera. That
was the first time I'd seen Collins and his wife together since they
separated. And this morning the postman told me that Mrs. Collins had
spent the night in her own house--that she and her husband evidently had
decided to live together again."

The postmaster paused reflectively, as if trying to read the meaning
behind this unexpected reunion of the Collinses.

"Did you hear what brought about the break six weeks ago?" asked Britz.

"No, we had a lot of excitement around here just then," said the
postmaster, his lips curling into a reminiscent smile. "That was the day
of the robbery--or the attempted robbery." Aware that his visitors had
begun to display increased interest, he proceeded with more
deliberation, as if trying to heighten their curiosity. "The night
before the Collinses separated, or about two o'clock that morning I
should say, a fellow tried to break into the post office. Luckily there
was a meeting of the lodge that night and a sociable after it. On the
way home, Hiram Barker and Syd Johnson passed the post office just as
the robber was forcing the door. They landed on him and took him to the
lock-up. I notified the post office people down in New York and he was
taken there for trial."

"Well, what happened?" Britz asked.

"The newspapers didn't seem to take much notice of the case," replied
the postmaster regretfully. "A paragraph or two was all they gave it. A
week ago the fellow pleaded guilty and was sentenced to two years and
six months in the Atlanta prison."

"What was his name?" inquired Britz.

"He gave it as John Travis."

"Rather an unusual name for a post office robber," commented Greig.

"He was a peculiar fellow, all right," declared the postmaster.
"Wouldn't say a word to anybody. Just took his medicine without a
whimper."

For a half hour the two detectives were entertained with gossip of the
wealthy colony but when they left they were in possession of the life
histories of Mrs. Collins, Collins and Ward.

Out in the street Britz consulted his watch.

"We've just got time to catch the eight-forty for New York," he said. "I
guess we won't visit the Collinses to-night."

"Do you perceive any connection between the murder of Whitmore and the
attempted post office robbery?" asked Greig.

"There may be," said Britz. "I'm going to Headquarters now to map out
plans. This investigation will have to be pursued systematically in
order to obtain results."

Three quarters of an hour later Britz was at his desk in Police
Headquarters, studying the various ramifications of the case.
Occasionally he scribbled a note and laid it aside for future reference.
He was attacking the problem just as a business man might proceed with a
commercial proposition--viewing it from all angles and arranging a
programme for his subordinates to follow. At least half a dozen channels
needed to be explored, all of which offered possibilities in the way of
clues. On a typewritten sheet before him were the names of a score of
men available for new cases. Britz pondered the list, carefully weighing
the qualifications of each man, estimating his capability, his
persistency, his resourcefulness. At last he checked off eight names,
and, summoning a uniformed doorman, directed that the eight men be
ordered to report to him forthwith.

"Officer Muldoon of the Eighth Precinct is waiting to see you," the
doorman informed him.

"Show him in," said Britz.

Muldoon entered with the mysterious air of one who has important
information to impart and does not intend that his hearer shall
underestimate its importance.

"I think I've got a line on this Whitmore case," he began.

"Well, what is it?" Britz asked curtly.

"Just six weeks ago last night I was patroling Fifth avenue in front of
the Whitmore house. I saw a lady come out and enter a taxicab. She was a
beauty--fine looking and dressed like a queen. In the half-open doorway
of the house Mr. Whitmore stood, watching her descend the steps. Both he
and she looked as if they'd been quarreling."

"Anything more?" Britz asked impatiently.

"No, sir," the policeman admitted.

"Would you know her again if you saw her?"

"I surely would."

"Very well. Inform your precinct commander that you have been
temporarily assigned to Headquarters and remain outside until I send for
you."

Muldoon, happy to find himself relieved of patrol duty and assigned to
this important case, proceeded toward the door, a broad smile illumining
the wide area of his dull face. He shut the door softly behind him, but
reopened it almost immediately, a look of bewilderment in his eyes.

"The woman--the one I saw--she's outside talkin' to Detective Greig!" he
gasped.

Britz shot one quick glance at him, then said:

"Remain outside until I send for you."

Five minutes later and the door opened again, this time to admit Greig
and a woman--a woman so perceptibly under the influence of overpowering
emotions as to cause her to stagger rather than walk into the room. As
she stood with hands resting on Britz's desk, she suddenly felt herself
seized with a desire to weep. Wiping the moisture from the corners of
her eyes, she accepted the chair which Greig offered, settling herself
in it as if she had come for a long stay.

[Illustration: She felt herself seized with a desire to weep]

There was an awkward pause, which was broken by Greig:

"This lady, Miss Strong, has valuable information."

She turned her moistened eyes on Britz, who, through half-closed lids,
was endeavoring to appraise her.

Keen student of human nature that he was, quick as he was to gather
those little details of personal appearance which, to the trained eye,
reveal with pitiless accuracy the innermost character of a human being,
Britz was unable to form any satisfactory estimate of her. Outwardly,
she had the appearance of a woman crushed beneath a great grief. Yet,
there appeared to be something insincere in her sorrow, something
calculating in her hesitancy. These contradictions in her manner puzzled
and annoyed him, for experience had taught the detective to be wary of
women informers. So he waited for her to speak.

"I wish to deliver the murderer of Mr. Whitmore," she said, stifling a
sob.

Britz nodded encouragingly, but she appeared in no haste to proceed.
Instead, she permitted her gaze to alternate between him and Greig, as
if trying to read the effect of her words in their impassive faces.

Her pause might have been that of the consummate actress waiting to note
the effect of her artfully delivered line; it might have been the
timorous uncertainty of a child affrighted at its own boldness.

"The murderer will be at my home at eleven to-night," she went on in the
same seemingly artless way.

"And you are preparing a trap for his capture?" inquired Britz,
deliberately conveying to her the incredulity which he felt.

"No, not a trap," she dissented. "I am determined to see justice done."

Britz was too well aware of the average woman's distorted notion of
abstract justice to accept her statement at its face value. Woman by her
very nature is incapable of appreciating or applying impartial justice,
and her incapacity grows in proportion to her immediate interest in the
matter involved. This latter might apply with equal force to the average
man; but man, less governed by emotions, will permit his sense of
justice to prevail when not blinded by personal interest. Abstract
justice will frequently appeal to him and he will act with rational
regard for its proper application. To a woman's eyes, however, justice
invariably shapes itself as her emotions dictate.

Britz, mindful of the fact that with a woman justice and self-interest
are inextricably interwoven, immediately began to search for the
visitor's selfish motive in offering to surrender the murderer, if,
indeed, she meant to surrender the real perpetrator of the crime and not
to shield him behind someone against whom she held a grievance.

"Who is the man you wish to surrender?" he asked with aggravating
calmness.

"George Collins," she replied without hesitancy.

"What evidence have you that he committed the crime?"

"He often threatened to kill Mr. Whitmore. He told me of his intention
innumerable times in the past six weeks."

"Have you any evidence bearing on the act itself--on the killing, I
mean?"

"How can I have?" she replied with a faint smile. "He didn't invite me
to see him do it."

"Then you simply believe he committed the murder because he had
threatened to do so?"

In a carefully planned murder it is always safe to mistrust the obvious.
Beard's outburst against Collins had seemed a genuine eruption of
uncontrollable emotions, at first. But his subsequent conduct had given
his words the aspect of shrewd premeditation. Now she appeared intent on
fastening guilt on Collins. Her very anxiety to do so implied a hidden
motive. It was necessary to be on guard against trickery.

Evidently she sensed Britz's lack of confidence, for she hastened to
say:

"I know why he wanted to kill Mr. Whitmore. It was because Mrs. Collins
was preparing to obtain a divorce in order to marry Mr. Whitmore. She
had confessed her love for Mr. Whitmore and Collins had intercepted a
letter from the merchant in which he urged her to obtain the divorce."

"When did Collins intercept the letter?" quickly asked Britz.

"On the morning Mr. Whitmore disappeared."

Here was something tangible at last. Not direct evidence that Collins
was guilty, but circumstantial evidence of the highest importance. Not
only had he threatened to kill the merchant, but he had motive for the
crime, and a motive which could be established easily in a court of law.

"You say Collins will be at your house at eleven to-night?" inquired
Britz.

"Yes," she answered, an eager light in her eyes. "And if you care to be
there and will listen, you shall hear him confess the crime."

Her words and the tone of certainty in which she spoke almost dazed
Greig. Even Britz had to struggle hard against betraying his amazement.
The whole thing seemed incredible--yet the detectives had experienced
more incredible happenings in the course of their long service.

"You say he will confess?" Britz said mechanically.

"More than confess," she answered. "You'll hear him gloat over the
crime. He'll display his exultation before me, and I want you to be
there to listen."

"But why--why are you betraying him?" faltered the detective.

Her face clouded, while her lips parted slightly in an expression of
intense hatred. For an instant she rested her chin on her gloved hand,
staring fixedly before her. Then, with a rebellious toss of her head,
she declared:

"I am betraying him because he betrayed me."

Here was logic which the police could readily grasp. No inconsistency
about a woman betrayed executing vengeance on her betrayer! Nothing
obtuse, or puzzling, or improbable about that! It was not the first time
that Britz had encountered such a woman. Convince a woman that her lover
means to desert her and she will permit his head to rest unsuspectingly
against her cheek, his fingers to entwine themselves lovingly in hers,
his lips to linger caressingly on her lips, while her desecrated love is
setting the trap for his destruction.

Was this woman really about to spring a trap beneath Collins's feet? Was
Collins really the murderer or was she trying to fasten guilt on an
innocent man? Was she ready to really assist the police, or was she
trying to lead them into endless channels of error?

The questions remained unanswered in Britz's mind; must remain
unanswered until the woman herself, should, in some way, disclose the
impelling motive of her visit to Headquarters.

One thing, however, Britz determined on. He would not permit his
watchful nature to be beguiled into slumberous acceptance of conditions
as presented through the mouth of this woman.

"It's now quarter past ten," he reminded her. "Permit me to suggest that
you go home alone, and that we join you in fifteen or twenty minutes."

"Very well," she replied, rising and drawing up her gloves. "I shall
expect you."

As she walked toward the door, Britz lifted himself out of his seat,
and, brushing past Greig, whispered:

"Have Muldoon trail her!"

Greig nodded understandingly, escorted her into the corridor and
repeated Britz's directions to the waiting officer. Returning to the
room, he found Britz leaning back in his chair, absorbed in thought, the
lines of his forehead gathered between the eyebrows.

"Well, it looks as if we're going to get the murderer without much
effort on our part," said Greig jubilantly.

"Greig, don't jump too hastily at every bait that is held out," replied
Britz, emphasizing each word. "All the evidence seems to contradict the
theory that Collins is the murderer. He may have betrayed this woman.
She may be yearning for revenge. But it does not follow that he killed
Whitmore."

"Why, what evidence is there to the contrary?" weakly asked Greig.

"Why, the very murder itself," said Britz, as if stating an
incontrovertible conclusion.

"I don't understand," the other admitted helplessly.

"We have two witnesses who stated that Collins openly threatened to kill
Whitmore," pursued Britz. "For four weeks, it is asserted, he went about
seeking revenge on the man who, he believed, had wrecked his home. It
makes no difference whether Whitmore was a home-wrecker or a man of the
utmost probity. It was sufficient that Collins thought Whitmore was
trying to destroy his home--that he wanted to marry Mrs. Collins. A
murderous fury burned in Collins's mind and he was intent on killing the
merchant. He didn't plan to kill and get away undetected. Not much! His
was to have been a heroic killing, followed by a glorious acquittal in a
courtroom crowded with sympathizers who recognized in him a noble
defender of the American home. No secret murder satisfies the vengeance
of such a man. Had he committed the murder he would have surrendered
immediately and tried to justify the act before an applauding public."

"No, it does not look like the crime of a wronged husband," agreed
Greig.

"Besides," Britz went on, "we have evidence of a reconciliation between
Collins and his wife. It may be simply a pretense, an effort to delude
the police. But from what we have gathered about Mrs. Collins, it is
unlikely that she would consent to live with a murderer, even though she
did not denounce him openly."

"But the reconciliation occurred last night--they went to the opera
together," reminded Greig. "The murder was committed this morning."

Britz bent forward in his seat, favoring his assistant with a tolerant
smile.

"Only one reason could prompt a woman of Mrs. Collins's caliber to
return to a man of Collins's type," he said. "She might hesitate a long
while before leaving her husband. But once she took the decisive step,
nothing short of a desire to save the life of the man she loved could
induce her to return. Don't you see the situation? She must have had
knowledge that Whitmore was coming back. And, isn't it more than likely
that before she consented to return to her husband she exacted a promise
from him not to execute the vengeance which he had threatened?"

"It's certainly an amazing tangle," admitted Greig. "And I had thought
that it was all clear as day!"

"No, Greig," smiled Britz, "it isn't very likely that we're going to
arrest Collins. But we'll go to the woman's house and watch
developments."

The two detectives proceeded uptown in the subway to Ninety-first
street, then walked slowly down Broadway, turning west at Ninetieth
street.

As they turned the corner they became aware of an excited group of men
and women in front of a big, gray-stone house, the name of which
corresponded to that given by the visitor at Headquarters.

The crowd was gathered in front of the entrance, talking excitedly, each
asking the other what had happened. No one seemed to know precisely what
the excitement was about, but that something extraordinary had occurred
was plainly evident.

Britz and Greig plunged into the hallway and pushed the elevator button,
but the car did not descend. They waited impatiently a minute or two,
then proceeded up the stairs.

On the third floor they found most of the tenants of the house massed in
front of the closed door of one of the rear apartments.

"We are officers," said Britz, forcing a lane through the crowd. "Who
lives in there?"

"A woman named Strong," someone answered.

Britz pressed a finger firmly against a button set in the jamb of the
door, and, in response to the insistent clamor of the bell, the door was
opened by Muldoon. On seeing Britz he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Come on into the sitting-room," he said, closing the door on the
curious crowd that pressed forward.

At the threshold of the sitting-room, their forms framed in the wide,
curtained doorway, the two detectives stood, amazement printed on their
faces. Greig's heart was throbbing violently and his breath came in
short gasps. Britz, as he gazed on the unexpected sight that met his
eyes, stood as one stupefied.

On a couch at the side of the room, her pale face a chalky white, her
eyes staring rigidly, a thin line of blood dropping from the corner of
her mouth, the woman they had come to see was stretched--dead.

And, standing over her like a statue of dumb despair, was the figure of
Horace Beard.




CHAPTER VII


Britz recovered gradually from his astonishment. Advancing to the couch
he examined the lifeless form of the woman, noting that the shot which
killed her had entered the mouth and probably penetrated to the base of
the skull. A small pearl-handled revolver gleamed ominously from the
floor, about seven or eight feet from the lounge. Britz picked it up,
examined it, then deposited it on a convenient table.

As the detective moved about the apartment, his activity seemed to
arouse the others from the half-stupefied state into which they had
lapsed. Beard, who had remained standing as if petrified by the tragic
turn of events, suddenly regained his faculties and gazed apprehensively
at the officers.

With studied deliberation Britz disregarded his presence in the room and
continued to busy himself with an examination of the contents of a small
writing table that stood in an angle of the wall.

Evidently drawing courage from Britz's preoccupation and from the
bewildered inactivity of the other officers, Beard bent forward until
his hand touched the floor, and, after groping for an instant beneath
the head of the couch, again drew himself to an erect posture.

"I'll take that paper!" Britz's voice broke the silence.

A tremor shook Beard's frame, while the blood drained from his face.
Then, a rebellious impulse against the detective's calm assertion of
authority possessing him, he made a bold effort to destroy the paper he
had picked off the floor.

But Britz was prepared to anticipate the move. Leaping forward he seized
the other's wrists in an iron grip that caused Beard to groan with pain.

"Greig, take the letter out of this man's hand!" called the detective.

It was not necessary, however, to employ further violence, for the
secretary announced his willingness to relinquish the note. Evidently it
had been written in a hurry, under stress of excitement, and was as
follows:

    "_My Dear Julia_:

     "Don't permit your anger to tempt you into any rash act. There is
     no reconciliation. My wife's return is but a sham, designed to
     avoid a great deal of unpleasantness. Mr. Whitmore's death has not
     changed matters. Follow Mr. Beard's instructions and I shall carry
     out faithfully my promise to you.

    "Yours in haste, GEORGE."

Britz stowed the letter in his pocket, then summoned Muldoon.

"Now tell what happened," he said.

It required some effort on the part of the policeman to gather his
thoughts. The quick succession of events had woven a fog before his
brain, leaving him with but a misty perception of what had occurred.

"I--I don't know exactly where to begin," he stammered.

"Did you follow her to the house?" Britz gave him an opening.

"Yes," he replied. "I got a taxicab and trailed her machine. She got out
in front of the door and went upstairs. About ten minutes later this
gentleman came and must have gone to her apartment. I waited downstairs.
Presently the elevator boy rushed into the street yelling 'Murder!
Police!' I asked him what happened and he said he heard a shot and a
sound like a body falling to the floor. He took me upstairs and I rapped
on the door. This man here opened it and let me in. He said the woman
had killed herself. As I knew you were coming here, I made sure that she
was dead and remained to see that nothing was disturbed."

"This man was in the room when the shot was fired?" asked Britz, as if
to make Beard realize the significance of it.

"Yes," responded the policeman.

"Mr. Beard, have you anything to add to the officer's story?" curtly
inquired the detective.

Beard faced his inquisitor, trying to meet his steady gaze with equal
steadiness. But the consciousness that he was in a serious predicament,
that he might be compelled to meet a serious charge, made him waver. He
was struggling furiously to maintain his composure, but his inward
excitement reacted on his outer frame, rendering him speechless. When,
finally, he found his voice, he turned an appealing glance on the
detective.

"She did commit suicide," he declared as if protesting his innocence
before a hostile judge. "I delivered the letter which you have in your
pocket. She read it, then crumpled it in her hand and threw it on the
floor.

"'Mr. Beard,' she said, 'I've betrayed George to the police. I have
denounced him as the murderer. They have my statement. They'll send
George to the electric chair. I told them all I knew.'

"I informed her that her statement to the police was not competent
evidence and that unless she repeated her testimony in court, it could
not be used against Collins.

"'They'll never make me repeat it!' she exclaimed. Opening a drawer of
the writing table she produced a pistol and before I was able to
interfere, the weapon exploded and she was dead. My account of the
suicide is absolutely true," he declared impressively,--"I swear it is
true."

His face now was as solemn as the tone in which he had uttered the last
sentence. Beard recognized that he was facing a grave moment in his
life, that it was within the power of the man to whom he had spoken,
irretrievably to mar his future, to stain him with an accusation which,
even though disproved before a jury, he could never hope to live down
entirely.

The harrowing fear and uncertainty written in the secretary's face,
produced no quiver of compassion in the detective. Britz was measuring
the man with cool, calculating eyes, that shone in their sockets like
balls of chilled steel. Long ago he had learned to turn an indifferent
ear to protestations of innocence. Such pleas drop with equal fervor
from the lips of the innocent and the guilty. And the shrewdest judge of
human nature is incapable of judging between them.

"I am innocent--before God I swear it!" cries the guilty wretch in a
voice calculated to wring tears from the Accusing Spirit itself.

"I am innocent--before God I swear it!" protests the wrongfully accused
person despairingly.

The experienced detective, or prosecutor, or judge, places as much faith
in the protestation of the one as in the other. He reserves judgment
until sufficient evidence shall have been developed to establish which
of the accused is telling the truth. For, he knows that while the guilty
man's lie may sound entirely plausible, it will collapse like a
perforated gas-bag in the end. Likewise, truth coming from the innocent
man's lips may be utterly lacking in plausibility. Yet, it will
establish itself by reason of its own indestructible qualities.

Regardless of the statement so solemnly delivered by the secretary,
Britz believed that the woman had committed suicide. Not because Beard
said she had, but because of the convincing nature of the attendant
circumstances. It was obvious that between the woman's death and the
murder of Herbert Whitmore was an intimate connection, a chain whose
links were undoubtedly forged by those involved in the Whitmore crime.

Beard's conduct proclaimed him antagonistic to the police investigation
of his employer's death. To place him behind bars would mean the end of
his immediate activities. Apparently he was bent on destroying evidence.
Nor was it beyond the range of probability that he was the assassin and
was busy erecting safeguards for himself.

Yet Britz was reluctant to order his arrest, for he believed implicitly
in the theory of giving a guilty man sufficient rope wherewith to hang
himself. The activities of a man in jail are necessarily circumscribed.
Moreover, his vigilance is never relaxed. Permitted to roam at will,
however, he is invariably his own most relentless enemy, working
unconsciously to encompass his own destruction.

For some minutes Britz debated with himself as to the most profitable
course to pursue with regard to the secretary. Finally an idea flashed
across his mind, and he resolved to carry it into effect.

"Muldoon," he said to the policeman, "notify the coroner and hold Mr.
Beard as a material witness until he arrives. After that, you will carry
out the instructions of the coroner."

Motioning to Greig to follow, Britz left the apartment. Ignoring the
questions fired at them by the curious tenants, they made their way to
the street, where they found that the crowd about the entrance had
greatly increased since their arrival.

"What's happened?" a score of voices shouted.

The detectives waved the questioners aside and hastened to the subway
entrance. In the lighted shelter of the booth they paused, silently
regarding each other, each waiting for the other to speak.

"Now that our most valuable witness is dead--what next?" finally asked
Greig.

"The immediate necessity is to ascertain where Whitmore was during the
six weeks of his absence from business," was Britz's unhesitating reply.

"We ought not to have much difficulty sweating the information out of
Beard," observed Greig.

"He's not the kind that collapses under third degree methods," opined
Britz. "But we'll discover Whitmore's movements--and without much
difficulty."

"How?" Greig eyed his superior in mingled admiration and incredulity.

From the inside pocket of his coat Britz produced a photograph.

"I found this in Whitmore's house," he said. "It is a photograph of
Whitmore, a recent one. You will observe that the mustache he wears is a
heavy one. It is much thicker than the one we saw as we examined his
body to-day. Between the time he had this photograph taken and his
return to his business, he must have had the mustache shaved off. It is
more than probable that he was clean-shaven during his absence, or up to
about two weeks ago. Then, in order not to emphasize his altered
appearance when he came back, he permitted the mustache to grow again."

"But what does all this mean?" inquired Greig.

"It means that Whitmore was not away on a business trip," answered
Britz. "The statement of Beard to visitors at the office was a blind.
Business men don't shave off their mustaches when starting on a business
trip. No, Whitmore was away on a matter intimately associated with his
murder. And, by means of the photograph we shall discover where he was
and what he did. We've put in a hard day's work, Greig," added Britz,
replacing the photograph in his pocket, "and a good night's rest will do
us good. I shall be at my desk promptly at eight to-morrow morning and
then we'll proceed with the investigation."




CHAPTER VIII


Although Britz permitted his assistant to find welcome rest after the
crowded activities of the day, he did not allow himself the same
pleasant relaxation. He felt no craving for sleep. His faculties were
too tensely alert for slumber, an inexhaustible spring of energy kept
him fresh and active. There were certain channels in this mysterious
case which had thus far been entirely neglected. It was necessary to
explore them at once, lest they vanish overnight.

Britz proceeded to the Night Court, where he found the Magistrate
dispensing justice with the bored impatience of one grown tired of
hearing the monotonous repetition of trite excuses.

Accustomed as he had grown to contact with vice and crime, Britz
invariably entered this courtroom with a feeling of depression. There is
little enough romance attached to crime. In the Night Court, where vice
is on continuous parade and crime only an occasional visitor, the
spectacle one beholds is repulsive to the last degree.

Passing down the long aisle between the spectators' seats, Britz entered
the railed enclosure reserved for those having business with the court.
He held a long whispered consultation with the Magistrate, and when he
left he was in possession of a search warrant, duly signed and sealed.
With the document securely hidden in his pocket, he proceeded uptown
again, eventually pausing before a three-story, brown-stone house, two
blocks from the Whitmore Iron Works.

An automobile was waiting at the curb. Britz made mental note of the
number of the machine, and, in the vestibule of the house transferred
the number to the back of an envelope.

It was past midnight, yet the drawing-room was aglow with light. Britz
rang the bell, and after a short wait, the door was slowly opened by a
servant.

"This is Mr. Beard's home, I believe?" the detective inquired.

"Yes, but Mr. Beard is not at home," answered the servant.

"I shall wait for him," decided Britz, thrusting a broad toe into the
narrow crack through which the servant was surveying him.

"It is rather late to call," protested the servant. "Besides, I don't
know you."

"I am an officer of the law," announced Britz. "I have come to search
the premises."

In his astonishment the servant insensibly relinquished his hold of the
door knob and Britz stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind
him.

"You can't come in here!" exclaimed the servant, recovering from his
surprise. "Get out!"

Britz displayed the search warrant.

"If you attempt to interfere with me I shall place you under arrest," he
threatened.

The perturbation of the servant increased. Being a dutiful and watchful
employé, his first impulse was to repel this nocturnal invasion of the
house. But something in Britz's stern attitude convinced him that the
unwelcome visitor would forcibly resent any interference.

"Can't you wait until Mr. Beard comes?" the servant appealed.

"Mr. Beard will not be here to-night," Britz informed him.

The detective's voice had penetrated to the lighted sitting-room, for it
was answered with a painful gasp, followed by the swish of skirts. A
moment later the heavy curtains which overhung the doorway parted,
revealing a woman's form sharply outlined against the background of
light. She was dressed in a dark suit and, as she faced the two men in
the hallway she lifted a heavy black veil.

Britz noted that her beautiful face was haggard from fatigue and long
agitation, but the excitement in her eyes bespoke an energy not to be
conquered by physical weariness.

"You say Mr. Beard will not be here to-night?" she spoke, and her voice
disclosed the fear that had suddenly gripped her heart.

"No," answered Britz.

"Then it is useless for me to wait." She moved toward the door but the
detective interposed.

"I shall detain you only a few minutes," he said; "but having found you
here it is necessary that I should ascertain your identity and the
reason for this late visit."

A shock passed through her, as though he had offered her an indignity.

"I must go," she declared. "You have no right to detain me or to
question me."

"Would you prefer being questioned at Police Headquarters?" he inquired.

The implied threat had an immediate effect on her. She recoiled as from
a blow and moved slowly into the sitting-room. The detective followed
her, after directing the servant not to leave the house.

"Madam, what is your name?" he demanded brusquely.

It was not Britz's habit to be gruff with women. By nature courteous,
considerate of the weaker sex, he nevertheless realized that soft
phrases will not prop a witness who, through sheer desperation of will,
has been staving off physical collapse. On the contrary, harshness in
the inquisitor, by arousing antagonism or fear, will frequently serve to
carry the witness through a most desperate ordeal. In this case,
however, the woman showed neither fear nor resentment. Evidently she had
suffered so much as to have exhausted her capability for further
suffering. She submitted to the other's will like a tired child,
dropping into a chair and eyeing him with a vacuous expression.

"I am Mrs. George Collins," she answered his question in a weak,
listless voice.

Britz's gaze narrowed on her as if questioning her statement. But the
very haggardness of her features accentuated her incapacity for deceit.
Gradually the detective's eyes cleared with belief and his calloused
nature yielded to an impulse of pity.

"I did not expect to find you here, Mrs. Collins," he said more gently.
"I can understand your suffering--I do not wish to add a hair's weight
to it. But the conclusion is inevitable that your visit at such a late
hour has something to do with Mr. Whitmore's death, so I must ask you to
explain your presence."

She leaned back in her chair, a look of meek resignation in her face.

"I came to obtain a letter addressed to Mr. Whitmore," she said frankly.

"A letter which you wrote?"

"No."

"By whom was it written?"

"My brother--Mr. Ward."

Britz tried to guess the hidden significance of the note which had
impelled this woman to a midnight visit to Beard's house. She must have
known, just as Britz had ascertained earlier in the day, that Beard was
a bachelor, occupying the private dwelling with a lone servant. Surely
she would not have been guilty of so unconventional an act except
through desperate necessity.

"That letter--will it throw any light on Mr. Whitmore's death?" asked
Britz eagerly.

"Not the slightest," was her disappointing reply. "It has absolutely
nothing to do with it."

"Then you won't mind identifying it if I find it in my search of the
premises?"

"Not in the least--that is, on one condition," said she.

"And that condition--what is it?"

"Your promise that the letter will not be made public."

It was a condition to which the detective could readily agree. It was no
part of his duty to supply the newspapers with the intimate details
associated with every crime. He was habitually reticent toward
reporters, yet he was not unpopular with them. For, besides recognizing
and admiring his unbending honesty, his courage and resourcefulness,
they were aware that on the rare occasions when he took them into his
confidence, they could rely upon his statements as upon a mathematical
certainty. Not in all his career had he ever been known to discuss in
print his theories, or deductions, or half-baked conclusion. In that
respect he differed radically from most of the detective force. Whenever
he had a statement to make, it embodied the solution of the mystery on
which he had been working. It meant that the guilty man was safely
behind the bars and that the evidence against him was complete.

"Confidential communications obtained by me are never made public except
in a courtroom," he informed the woman. "If the letter has no bearing on
Mr. Whitmore's death it will be returned to Mr. Beard."

"But I want it--that's what I came for," she pleaded. "Can't you give it
to me?"

"Not without Mr. Beard's consent," he replied in a tone of finality.
"And then only after I have assured myself of its lack of bearing on the
Whitmore case."

She bestowed on him a glance of such keen disappointment as to provoke a
doubt of the innocence of the missive. But he did not betray what was in
his mind. Instead, he rose to his feet, and, with a polite bow, said:

"I may trust you to wait until I have completed my search. In the
meantime, kindly pardon me."

His form vanished through the curtains and she could hear him ascending
the steps. To her ears there came a short colloquy between the detective
and the servant, but the words were indistinct and she was unable to
gather their meaning. Huddled in the chair, she waited while the minutes
dragged wearily, until at the end of three-quarters of an hour the
detective's welcome footsteps were heard on the stairs.

Britz entered the room carrying a huge pile of papers which he deposited
on a chair. From the top of the pile he took a letter, and, advancing
toward her, asked:

"Is this the note?"

At sight of the letter her exhaustion vanished and she held out a
trembling hand.

"It isn't that I don't trust you," said Britz, withdrawing the missive,
"but under the circumstances I prefer to retain possession of it."

It required no formal acknowledgment from her to assure him that he held
the right note. Her face, her eyes, her very aspect proclaimed her
anxiety concerning it. Retreating to a position directly beneath the
cluster of electric lights, Britz read the letter. It was dated the
previous day and was as follows:

     "_Dear Whitmore_: Mr. Beard has informed me that I may communicate
     with you through him. For nearly six weeks I have waited anxiously
     for your return, but I am in such sore straits that I can no longer
     delay communicating with you.

     "I require for use in my business the sum of one million, two
     hundred thousand dollars. Unless I am able to obtain the money at
     once, I am ruined. Were I the only one to suffer by the crash I
     should not mind. But it means the loss of my sister's fortune, as
     well as that of her husband. Grace, too, could bear the loss. But
     the thought of plunging Collins into poverty, under the present
     circumstances, is what impels me to appeal to you.

     "To avert this catastrophe my sister joins in the appeal I am
     making. I hope, in the course of the next six months, to be able to
     repay the loan. But it is absolutely necessary to obtain the money
     at once, for my creditors are threatening immediate bankruptcy
     proceedings. And that means the end.

    "Sincerely,
     LESTER WARD."

"So your brother is in a bad way financially?" said Britz, more in the
way of an audible comment than as a question.

Evidently the subject was too painful for discussion, for she averted
her face as if to hide the emotions written thereon.

"Your brother expected Mr. Whitmore to rescue him?" persisted Britz.

"Yes," she acknowledged.

"And Mr. Whitmore's death leaves him in a sad predicament?"

"Ruin is inevitable," she admitted.

"Which makes it clear that it was to Mr. Ward's interest as well as your
own to find Mr. Whitmore alive?"

"Precisely," replied she. "His death was a terrible blow to us."

Britz saw the situation clearly. Ward, rendered desperate by the
impending ruin, had hoped that Whitmore would come to his rescue. But
the latter's death had destroyed all hope of aid from that direction.
The letter, far from furnishing incriminating evidence against anyone,
clearly established Ward's and Mrs. Collins's interest in keeping
Whitmore alive. Nevertheless Britz decided to retain the note on the
bare chance that subsequent developments might give it a changed aspect.

Mrs. Collins, divining with the sure instinct of a woman, the obvious
conclusion which the detective had drawn from the letter, ventured
another attempt to gain possession of it.

"Now that you are convinced that it has no bearing on Mr. Whitmore's
death, may I have it?" she asked.

"Why are you so anxious to obtain it?" retorted Britz.

"Because its possession by someone would be an endless source of
embarrassment to me," answered she.

She spoke as one engaged in a controversy of minor significance. But it
was plain that exhaustion was swiftly overtaking her, that her bruised
senses were near the end of their endurance.

"You need fear no uneasiness from the letter while it is in my
possession," the detective said reassuringly.

She accepted the statement as a final refusal to surrender the missive,
and, consulting the small watch set in her black leather purse, noted
with a frightened gasp that it was two o'clock.

"Where is Mr. Beard?" she asked, as if suddenly recalling his absence.

"He is under arrest," answered Britz in even voice.

Despite the soothing quality which he tried to inject into his tone, she
started like a frightened deer.

"Arrest!" she echoed. "Then he didn't deliver--the woman, Julia Strong,
didn't get the message?"

She shivered, as the chill breath of a new fear stole over her.

"Julia Strong is dead," said Britz, in the same calm, matter-of-fact
voice.

But to the woman the words came like a destructive avalanche. She buried
her face in her hands, while her frame shook with successive sobs. The
last shreds of her outward composure vanished as before the wind, and
she surrendered unresistingly to the turbulent emotions struggling
within her. Several minutes passed before the inward tumult subsided.
Then, lifting herself to her feet, she said with bitter emphasis:

"Four lives wrecked! Two dead!... Mr. Beard and I alive--but what a
future! What a dastardly thing to bring all this about!"

Britz, eagerly drinking in her words, watched her in a fever of
expectancy. But she checked her outburst before the fatal revelation for
which he hoped, received utterance. With a new shock she recalled his
presence, and, as if afraid of having incriminated herself, or someone
whom she wanted to shield, walked hastily toward the door.

"Please escort me to the automobile," she pleaded.

Britz recognized the futility of trying to obtain further admissions
from a woman in her distressful state of mind. The fear that had seized
her would prove a padlock on her lips. So he permitted her to lean
heavily on his arm while she passed through the door and descended the
steps to the street. Then, helping her into the machine, he waited until
the car vanished around the corner.

With a self-satisfied smile Britz slowly ascended the steps, intent on
obtaining the documents which he had left in the sitting-room.

"With those papers we'll soon wring admissions from somebody," he said
to himself. "It's a good night's work--a most profitable night's work."

To his consternation he found that the servant had closed the door. Nor
did his insistent pressure of the electric door-bell produce any effect
on the butler. Then, for the first time, Britz realized that the lights
in the sitting-room had been extinguished.

Consumed with sudden anger he climbed the low iron hand-rail that
protected the stoop, and the next instant the broad toe of his boot had
shattered the window leading to the front room. Reaching forward, he
found it easy to displace sufficient glass to permit him to step safely
into the room. Near the curtained doorway he found the electric switch
which regulated the light. As the cluster of lamps flashed up, he looked
for the documents. They were gone.

His jaw snapped viciously as he leaped out of the room and groped his
way to the head of the basement stairs. By the aid of matches he
achieved a safe passage down the narrow steps, at the bottom of which he
found the button which switched on the basement lights.

In the rear room he found precisely what he had expected. The door
opening into the yard was unlatched. Through this door the butler had
escaped with the papers.




CHAPTER IX


The development of crime detection in the last decade has followed
closely along the line of industrial development. Just as no great
commercial establishment can long survive without systematic management,
so no great detective force can develop efficiency with chaos on the
throne.

Centralization, through closer and ever more close systematization, has
not only been the tendency, but the great phenomenon of the modern
industrial world. The same condition obtains to-day in the police
profession.

A detective force, like the New York Central Office, is managed much the
same way as a big commercial enterprise. Under modern conditions every
large mercantile establishment must depend for success on the wisdom of
its directing genius combined with the intelligent cooperation of its
army of subordinates. In similar manner, the head of a big detective
bureau directs the efforts of his men to success or failure.

Moreover, the same qualities by which a man attains commercial eminence
will win distinction for him as a detective. Intelligence, persistence,
reliability, are the foremost essentials. But these qualities, while
enabling one to achieve success in subordinate posts, seldom carry one
to commercial or professional heights; to the all-commanding peaks of
power and glory. The industrial king is monarch by reason of his ability
to give efficient direction to the labor of others. The present-day
detective king wields his scepter for precisely the same reason.

As great business campaigns are managed and directed from a desk in the
office of the president or manager, so the ceaseless war against
criminals is directed from the desk of the detective chief. For, be it
remembered that the chief function of a detective force is to obtain
evidence that will convict.

In ninety per cent. of all crimes which the police are called upon to
investigate, the identity of the guilty person is soon established. The
baffling problem is to obtain evidence, admissible in a court of law,
which will convince a jury of the defendant's guilt. Even though a
person's guilt be apparent to all, the difficulties in shattering the
protecting wall which the law erects around every accused man or woman,
are frequently insuperable. Evidence which convinces the police or the
prosecuting attorney of the defendant's culpability is as likely as not
to be found incompetent in court and barred from the record. The result
is a verdict of acquittal and all the work of the police goes for
naught.

Unfortunately for the public at large, the Lecocq type of detective does
not exist outside the pages of fiction. But even were there a thousand
Lecocqs, reinforced by half a thousand Sherlock Holmeses, employed on
the New York detective force, it is doubtful whether their peculiar
ability would prove of much practical service. Their deductions,
wonderful and convincing though they might be, would never be permitted
to reach the ears of a jury.

So in the end, the great detective is the one who, seated at his desk,
with the reports of his dozens of subordinates before him, is able to
direct their collective efforts toward a single goal--the production of
such evidence as is admissible in a court of law.

Since countless writers of detective fiction have provided the public
with a most distorted notion of the methods of crime detection, it may
not prove unprofitable to devote a moment or two to a peep behind the
scenes at the Central Office.

Captain Manning is the titular head of the bureau. He finds on his desk
eleven police slips, each bearing in succinct outline the story of a
crime which requires the services of Central Office detectives.
Ordinarily he will assign two men to each crime and perhaps the same
day, or the following one, the detectives will make a verbal or written
report. Out of the eleven cases, perhaps ten will prove to be minor
robberies of no especial significance, except to the victims. On the
face of them, they are the work of professional house-breakers, or
pickpockets or hold-up men.

Manning will deliver a list of the stolen articles to his "pawnshop
men," who will inquire of all pawnbrokers whether anything on the list
has been pledged. Duplicate lists will also be left with all pawnbrokers
with the request that they notify the police if anyone offers to pledge
any of the stolen articles.

Other detectives will drop casually into places suspected as being
"fences," and closely question the proprietors as to what new articles
he has purchased recently. Of course, the "fence" gives little or no
information, but he thereby lays himself open to prosecution as a
receiver of stolen goods should they be found on his premises
subsequently.

Next, Manning starts in operation his most potent machinery for the
apprehension of minor criminals. He is aware that about ninety per cent.
of his detectives have little or no detective ability. They are known as
"stool pigeon" men, and it probably would be no exaggeration to say that
they comprise ninety-five or ninety-eight per cent. of the entire active
detective force. These men, through intimidation, or money, or the
granting of protection for minor derelictions, are able to maintain a
staff of "stool pigeons," or crooks, who keep them informed of the
doings of other crooks. It is through this source that most of the
professional criminals are apprehended.

"But where does the detective work come in?" the reader asks.

It is accomplished by the two or three per cent. of real detectives on
the force.

For instance: A burglary has been committed. Part of the stolen articles
have been traced to a pawnshop. The pawnbroker describes the man who
pledged them, but the description might fit any one of a hundred
professional crooks. He does not recognize any of the Rogues Gallery
portraits as that of the man from whom he received the goods.
Pawnbrokers seldom identify crooks, for it is to their interest to plead
a bad memory in this respect.

But Detectives Burke and Duvaney ascertain from one of their "stool
pigeons" that Michael Ribbs, alias Padlock Mike, is in funds--that he
and his "moll," who may be his wife or his mistress, are enjoying the
fruits of Mike's labors. And as Mike's specialty is burglary, Chief
Manning rightfully decides that he is responsible for one or more of the
recent robberies.

From this point the real detective work begins. The chief assigns two of
his really capable men, not to solve any one of the numerous burglaries
that have been reported, but to ascertain the recent doings of Padlock
Mike and to obtain evidence--legal evidence that will stand the test of
the courts--with which to send the criminal to jail. And the chances are
that in convicting Mike, half a dozen mysterious burglaries will have
been solved.

This is the ordinary routine of detective work. Of course, there are
innumerable variations, and yet not as many as most people imagine.
About eighty-five per cent. of the detective force is constantly
employed at this routine business, while fifteen per cent., or even
less, is engaged on work that is not in a large measure mechanical.

As for Chief Manning, his genius for directing his subordinates is
inconspicuously employed all the time. But occasionally a more exacting
demand will be made on it. It may be in a homicide case in which a wife
has poisoned her husband.

Of course, in a case of this sort, "stool pigeon" men are useless, for
no professional crooks are involved. So Manning assigns six or seven of
his best men to the case. They do not roam about promiscuously, treading
on one another's toes. To each is given a phase of the case to develop
and he reports as frequently as possible to the chief. At the end of
four weeks Manning, surveying the reports of his men, finds himself in
possession of the following:

The chemical analysis of the vital organs shows that the victim died of
arsenic poisoning. Detectives have discovered the druggist who sold the
poison to the wife. Other detectives have turned in competent evidence
tending to establish the woman's dislike of her husband. Moreover, she
was in love with another man in whose company she was frequently seen.
Then it is found that the husband's life was insured and his death not
only released her from matrimonial ties which had become irksome, but
also netted her a considerable sum in cash.

Sufficient motive for the crime has now been established. The poison of
which the husband died has been traced directly to the wife. But a vital
element of the case is still missing. It is necessary to prove that the
wife had exclusive opportunity to administer the drug.

Manning now concentrates all his energies toward this end. Obviously,
all the deductions of Messrs. Lecocq and Sherlock Holmes would be
futile. But through shrewd questioning of the servants in the house he
ascertains that the husband was taken violently ill after supper and
that no guests were present at the meal.

An analysis of the sediment in the husband's coffee cup establishes the
presence of arsenic. It must be inferred that the wife's cup contained
none of the poison, for she developed no symptoms of poisoning after the
meal.

The servants declare that the wife invariably made the after-dinner
coffee in a percolator that stood on the sideboard. On the night in
question, she had boiled the coffee, but none of the servants had seen
her draw it from the percolator or serve it in the cups. But all of them
assert that for a year or more it had been the wife's custom to do the
serving, so it is a fair inference that the husband did not leave his
seat at the table to help himself to coffee, on the occasion of his
fatal illness. No one but the wife being in the room with him, and it
having been ascertained that she purchased the arsenic, hers was the
exclusive opportunity to drop it into the cup--and the evidence against
her is complete.

A case of this nature is not established by the deductive methods of a
Lecocq, but by the patient labor of a score or a half score of
detectives intelligently guided by their chief. The druggist who sold
the poison was found after a canvas of perhaps three or four hundred
apothecaries. The domestic strife in the victim's home was disclosed to
the police by relatives of the husband, whose interests naturally
conflicted with those of the wife. Other evidence was furnished
reluctantly by the servants, and, through the collective efforts of all
the detectives, the woman's crime has been reconstructed in a way
calculated to convince the ordinary juror.

It was because Detective-Lieutenant Britz was endowed with a rare
combination of talents that enabled him to direct the work of others,
even while participating actively in the physical search for evidence,
that he ranked as the foremost detective of the Central Office. Had he
been merely a shrewd, capable, resourceful investigator, he could never
have attained to his present eminence.

Britz occupied a position subordinate to Manning, but his reputation far
exceeded that of the latter. And Manning, conscious of the value of his
lieutenant, reserved his services for the more baffling mysteries which
the Central Office from time to time was called upon to solve.

He was not jealous of Britz's reputation, for he was aware that the
lieutenant did not aspire to the head of the bureau, would not have
accepted the promotion had it been offered. As a subordinate Britz was
relieved of all the routine which occupied so much of the chief's time,
so that he could devote all his energies to the single case to which he
was assigned.

Moreover, Manning by purely voluntary renunciation, exercised none of
the supervision over Britz which his higher rank authorized. So that
Britz having been given command of the Whitmore case, was at liberty to
proceed with the investigation along his own lines.

On the morning following the escape of the butler with the documents
which the detective had gathered in Beard's home, Britz was at his desk
in Police Headquarters at eight o'clock. He had not troubled to search
for the vanished servant, arguing that the man would be easily traced
through his loyalty to Beard.

The first thing Britz did was to call up Dr. Henderson, the Coroner's
physician.

"I am sending the police photographer to the autopsy on Whitmore," he
said. "Please don't cut the body or probe the wound until he has taken a
picture of the bullet hole. It is most important. Also, let me have a
copy of your report on the autopsy as soon as possible."

Britz devoted the next hour to instructing his assistants in the work he
required of them. To each man was assigned a definite object to achieve
and he was sent forth to exercise all his resourcefulness toward a
single end. The cleverest "shadows" in the department were set to watch
the movements of those involved innocently or guiltily, in the
merchant's death. Collins, the detective also favored with a "roper."

"Fanwell," said Britz to the man he assigned to "rope" Collins,
"ingratiate yourself with him as quickly as possible. The subject is an
easy mark for a convivial companion. You'll probably find him around the
restaurants at night. Get an introduction and spend money freely. The
gloom of tragedy doesn't cling long to a man like Collins, and even if
it does, he'll try to dispel it with drink. Don't push him for
information, but lead him on gently. Cunningham and O'Malley will be
trailing him while you're roping."

Having set the secret machinery of the law in motion, Britz donned his
coat and hat and entered Chief Manning's room.

"Chief," he said, disposing himself in a chair, "I've ordered the men to
report to you on the Whitmore case."

The chief made no effort to hide his surprise.

"Not laying down on it, are you?" he asked.

"Not much," laughed Britz. "But I may be out of town a day or two."

"What is the status of the case?" inquired the chief.

"Chaotic," responded Britz. "But there are conflicting interests, and
pretty soon I expect to bring them into violent conflict."

Chief Manning's eyes traveled down the front page of the newspaper lying
open on his desk.

"I see the Coroner has sent Beard to the Tombs," he said. "There is no
doubt in my mind that the woman, Julia Strong, committed suicide. And
for the life of me I don't see just how you're going to connect Beard
with the murder of his employer."

"I'm not responsible for Beard's arrest," declared Britz. "The Coroner
ordered it on his own initiative."

"Shall we keep him in jail?" asked Manning.

"Yes, let him stay there for the present. He's an obstacle to the
progress of the investigation, if not the actual murderer."

Again Manning studied the newspaper account of the crime.

"Confound it!" he exploded, crumpling the paper. "I've read every line
printed about the case. I've talked with the Coroner and discussed the
case with Greig for half an hour this morning. If it meant a seat in
heaven for me, I couldn't offer a guess as to how the assassin got to
Whitmore. That man came down to his office yesterday morning, greeting
his employés with a smile, distributing the most kindly remarks. It
can't be that two or three hours later all those men would join in a
conspiracy to shield his murderer. And yet, if they didn't see him enter
or leave and didn't hear a shot, how the devil did the assassin get in
and out?"

Britz smiled indulgently on his chief.

"When I have examined an enlarged photograph of Whitmore's wound and
studied the report of the autopsy, I'll answer your question. That part
of the mystery gives me no concern. It solves itself. Moreover, the
solution is so simple, you'll kick yourself for not having thought of it
immediately."

Manning looked annoyed.

"Your confounded habit of never revealing anything until you're
absolutely sure you're right is a damned nuisance," he blurted. "But I
suppose it's useless to urge you to tell. I've got a headache trying to
figure it out, but now I'll leave it to you."

"You may," Britz accepted the responsibility. "What we've got to
ascertain is who committed the murder."

"And when we've done that, he'll bring thirty clerks forward to swear
that no one entered Whitmore's room," said the chief, a note of sarcasm
in his voice. "How are we going to obtain legal evidence, not deductions
against him?"

"By first making sure which of the persons intimately connected with the
case did NOT commit the murder, and accusing him or her of the crime."

Manning eyed the lieutenant dubiously.

"In other words, you're going to prepare a lamb for slaughter in the
hope that the wolf will come forward and confess?" drawled the chief.

"Yes," acknowledged Britz.

"It's an established characteristic of wolves--saving the innocent lamb
from slaughter, isn't it?" mocked Manning.

"This wolf may be a domesticated animal--or perhaps not a wolf at all."

"Suppose you find that Beard is the murderer?" the chief shot at the
detective.

"Then we'll release him and lock up someone that isn't."

"That's a new way of capturing criminals--ascertaining who didn't commit
the crime," frowned Manning. "Suppose you lock up an innocent party and
the guilty one doesn't come forward to confess?"

"Then the others who have knowledge of the crime will squeal," answered
Britz. "Persons of refinement may shield a murderer through selfish
motives. But they don't permit an innocent person, especially if he or
she be one of themselves, to perish."

"Well, have your own way," growled Manning, his sullen demeanor only
partly concealing the admiration and affection which he entertained for
his lieutenant. "What do you wish me to do?"

"Take charge of the case while I'm away."

"Shall I take any decisive steps if the facts warrant?"

"Chief, no one has ever disputed that you know your business," said
Britz in frank sincerity. "Our methods may differ, but in the end we
usually reach the same goal. So go right ahead as though I were out of
the case."

Before leaving Manning's office, Britz sent for Greig and inquired
whether it was Officer Muldoon who had taken Beard to the Tombs.

"Yes," replied Greig. "The Coroner turned the commitment papers over to
him."

"Did Beard make any statement on the way to jail?"

"Not to Muldoon. But he telephoned to a lawyer named Luckstone."

"Very well. Now come with me."

After leaving Manning's office, Britz and Greig proceeded to the Federal
Building. The Criminal Branch of the United States Circuit Court was in
session and they made their way to the clerk's desk immediately beneath
the judge's platform. Producing a photograph from his pocket, Britz
showed it to the clerk.

"Do you recognize it?" he inquired.

The clerk studied the picture a long while.

"The features are somewhat familiar, but I can't place them," he finally
said.

"Pass it up to the judge and see whether he recognizes it," requested
Britz.

The judge returned the photograph with a negative toss of his head.

"Do you recall Arthur Travis?" asked Britz of the clerk.

A wave of recollection instantly swept across the clerk's mind.

"Sure," he replied. "Pleaded guilty to attempted post office robbery.
Was sent away for two years and half. He's in the Federal prison at
Atlanta now. And, by George! that picture resembles him slightly. Only
Travis was the ordinary, shabby specimen we invariably get here."

"Who defended Travis?" inquired the detective.

"Tom Luckstone was his lawyer. But no defense was offered. The prisoner
simply pleaded guilty."

"Thanks!" Britz returned the photograph to his pocket and started for
the door. In the corridor Greig laid a detaining hand on Britz's elbow.

"Why--lieutenant--" he gasped,--"that was a photograph of Herbert
Whitmore."

"Precisely," said Britz. "And we're going to hop on board the next train
for Atlanta."




CHAPTER X


Three days later Britz and Greig returned from Atlanta. It had been a
tiresome journey, fifty-five hours of the seventy-two having been spent
in a Pullman coach. But the information which they had obtained kept
their energies awake. So that when their train drew into the new
Pennsylvania station at ten o'clock, they hastened through the
illuminated corridors and out into the refreshing night air, with
elastic steps and excitement in their eyes.

A telegram sent en route had kept Manning at his desk, awaiting his
subordinates. He greeted Britz with unconcealed satisfaction,
acknowledging at the same time that he had grown heartily tired of
directing the Whitmore investigation.

"It is one awful mess," said he with a comprehensive shrug of his broad
shoulders. "And it appears to be getting worse all the time!"

"Let me tell my story first," interrupted Britz. "Mine's an eye-opener!"

The three men disposed themselves in comfortable attitudes about the
chief's desk, bit the ends off fresh cigars, and prepared for a long
interchange of information.

"Well, I discovered where Whitmore spent the six weeks of his absence
from business," began Britz.

"Where?" The chief's face lit with an expression of eagerness.

"In jail," said Britz, and for the life of him he was unable to smother
the smile that struggled to his lips. "Right here in the city," he
added. "In the Tombs."

"Well, I'll be hung!" In his astonishment, the chief could think of no
adequate exclamation beyond the commonplace one which issued from his
widely parted lips.

"Yes," pursued Britz, "Greig and I have been treated to a series of
surprises--even now I haven't recovered entirely from my bewilderment."

"Well, go ahead and spring them," urged Manning. "They can't be much
more astounding than the one I've bumped into."

"In the first place," said Britz, arranging in chronological order in
his mind, the incidents which he was about to narrate, "the man that was
captured trying to break into the post office at Delmore Park, was
Herbert Whitmore. Judging from the statements of Julia Strong and the
butler in the Whitmore house, it is obvious that Whitmore sent a letter
to Mrs. Collins, with whom he was in love. Something transpired to make
him regret having sent the note and he decided to steal it out of the
post office. He was caught before he had succeeded in 'jimmying' the
door, so that the letter must have been delivered at the Collins house.
I take it, from the threats which Collins made against Whitmore, that he
intercepted the note and that a lively scene between him and his wife
followed.

"As for Whitmore, he did a most sensible thing. He kept his identity
effectually concealed. Before arriving at the post office he had
disguised himself in cheap, shabby clothes, so that when he was captured
no one thought he was other than an ordinary burglar. At the police
station, and subsequently in the Federal court, he gave his name as
Arthur Travis. It was such an unusual name for a cheap post office
burglar that I determined instantly there was some connection between
the attempted robbery and Whitmore's murder.

"Ordinarily, we are both aware, the capture of an unimportant post
office robber, would not be allotted more than a paragraph or two in the
newspapers. As the banking investigation was occupying pages of space
seven weeks ago, Travis's arrest was not even mentioned in most of the
papers, while those that took note of it, buried the item on one of the
inside pages.

"Whitmore, alias Travis, had the ablest lawyer in the city to advise
him. Undoubtedly Tom Luckstone counseled him as to the manner in which
he was to conduct himself in jail and in court so as not to arouse
newspaper curiosity. Well, ten days before Whitmore returned to his
death, he pleaded guilty and was sentenced to two years and a half in
jail. And on the day before he returned to his business, a deputy
marshal started with him for Atlanta."

"But how did he get away?" interrupted the chief. "There was nothing in
the papers about an escape."

"Arthur Travis is in the Atlanta prison," said Britz. "But the prisoner
isn't Herbert Whitmore."

The chief's eyes alternated between Britz and Greig, as if trying to
read the explanation of the puzzling circumstances, in their faces.

"I don't quite get it," he acknowledged.

"Of course, the prisoner can't be Whitmore. He's dead. There's no doubt
of that."

"Not the slightest," acquiesced Britz. "Yet Whitmore and Travis were one
and the same person. Now what do you think occurred?"

"A substitution of prisoners," guessed the chief.

"Precisely," said Britz. "I sweated a confession out of the substitute.
He's a poor, sorrowful creature, named Timson. Two weeks ago he was down
and out, broke, jobless, starving. He was shuffling dejectedly along
Broadway when a man tapped him on the shoulder and asked a few minutes'
conversation with him. As Timson had nothing to lose but time, he
offered no resistance when the stranger led him in the direction of a
restaurant.

"'Here's a fifty-dollar bill just to show I mean business,' the host
opened the conversation. Timson nearly went into hysterics at sight of
the bill. 'Now tell me all about yourself--if you're the right man, I
can put you in the way of a lot of money,' said the host. Well, Timson
told all about himself and gave the stranger his address. Two days later
he was sent for by a man named Beard. He visited Beard at his home, and
there the scheme for the substitution of prisoners was unfolded.

"It seems that soon after Whitmore's arrest, Beard made a deal with the
deputy marshal whereby the deputy was to receive fifty thousand dollars
to permit the substitution to be made on board the train on the way to
Atlanta. Of course, the warden of the prison had never seen Travis,
hadn't the slightest idea what he looked like. But in order to be on the
safe side, the deputy insisted that Beard get someone who resembled
Whitmore, alias Travis, in general appearances. For a week Beard
searched and finally lit on Timson. Although the resemblance between
Timson and Whitmore is not sufficient to have fooled anyone who knew
Whitmore, nevertheless a description of the merchant as he appeared in
court, might easily pass for a description of the substitute.

"For one hundred thousand dollars Timson agreed to go to jail in place
of Whitmore. The money was placed in trust for him, so as to net him an
income of five thousand dollars a year for life. Beard found it
comparatively easy to induce the man to fall in with the scheme. In the
first place, Timson was that unhappiest of all living creatures, the
middle-aged failure. So far as he could see, the future loomed dark and
forbidding, his old age was to be attended by the most bitter poverty.
Not being a drinking man and being cursed with an active imagination,
his plight was doubly hard. Under the circumstances, it could make
little difference to him whether he spent his remaining years in jail or
the poor-house.

"He seized the opportunity which Beard offered. At the most he had two
years and six months to serve. By good behavior he could reduce the term
to a trifle less than two years. When he got out, his future comfort was
assured. Five thousand a year looked colossal to him--in the most
hopeful period of his advancing manhood he had never been able to earn
above two thousand a year.

"The day before Whitmore started for prison the trust fund was
established and the interest began to accumulate for Timson. So that on
the day he leaves prison, he'll have ten thousand dollars with which to
begin to enjoy life."

"That is, if he is not sent away for ten years for aiding and abetting
the escape of Whitmore, alias Travis," interrupted the chief.

"Well, I sort of pity him," replied Britz. "The warden was present, of
course, when he made the confession. Timson can get out of jail on a
writ of habeas corpus. Of course, he'll be rearrested immediately and
tried, with the deputy marshal, for having brought about the escape of
the man that was sentenced to prison. However, if Timson can be of
service to us in unraveling the Whitmore mystery, we might arrange with
the Federal authorities to grant him immunity."

"Do you think we can use him?" inquired the chief.

"Yes, in fact we need him," replied Britz.

"It is certainly a most astounding state of affairs," mused Manning. "I
suppose by this time the deputy marshal has cleared out."

"It doesn't concern us whether he has or not," said Britz. "His case is
up to the Federal authorities."

"But when and where was the substitution made?" asked the chief.

"On board the train to Atlanta," Britz informed him. "Whitmore was
handcuffed to the marshal when they left the Tombs. They occupied a
stateroom on one of the through parlor cars. It is unusual for a deputy
to engage a stateroom, or to permit his prisoner to engage one, but no
law is violated by doing so. All that is required of the deputy is to
deliver his prisoner at the jail and obtain a receipt for him.

"The substitute followed the deputy and the prisoner into the
compartment, the handcuffs were slipped from Whitmore's wrist to
Timson's, and, at Philadelphia, Whitmore left the train. It is now up to
us to trace his movements from the time he alighted at Philadelphia
until he walked to his death in his office."

A long interval of silence followed, in which the three men tried to
appraise the precise value of the substitution of prisoners in its
relation to Whitmore's untimely death. Whitmore had escaped prison only
to meet a worse fate, and in less than twenty-four hours after his wrist
was freed from the cold pressure of the steel bracelet.

"It was Beard who engineered the substitution," observed the chief.

"Yes," replied Britz.

"And to save Whitmore from prison he took a chance of going to jail."

"Evidently he stood ready with the deputy and the substitute to forfeit
his liberty for the sake of his employer."

"But was he actuated by loyalty to Whitmore or did he have a sinister
design of his own?" questioned Manning.

"That's for us to ascertain."

"And how are we going to do it?"

"By means of the man he hired as a substitute," declared Britz in
positive tone.

"But how--how?" demanded Manning.

"That will depend on circumstances. Now I'm ready to hear the
developments at this end."

Manning settled back in his chair with the relieved air of one about to
discard an irksome burden. From a drawer of his desk he produced half a
dozen long envelopes which he tossed to Britz.

"They contain all the reports of the men," said he. "You'd better go
through them at your leisure to-night or to-morrow morning. It's useless
to discuss the case further until you've familiarized yourself with
them."

As they left Headquarters for their homes, the three men realized that
despite the many developments of the case, they had, as yet, barely
penetrated the surface. Every new discovery had only succeeded in adding
further complications to the mystery. The evidence thus far was
fragmentary, disconnected, throwing an uncertain light on the crime. The
substitution of prisoners tended to involve Beard, yet it gave not the
least hint of the motive that actuated the killing of Whitmore. Nor did
it reveal how the crime was committed. That it would prove of
importance, of vital significance in solving the crime, Britz believed
implicitly. But, such are the complexities in all human things, that the
possibility of error is never eliminated. And in a criminal
investigation a single error may destroy every chance of success, just
as a single error on the part of the criminal may destroy all the
safeguards which he has so carefully thrown around him.

At the Seventy-second street station of the subway Britz bade his
companions good night. Dismissing the Whitmore case and all other police
business from his mind, he headed straight for his home, retired at once
and fell into a deep sleep.




CHAPTER XI


Fresh as the early morning dew that hung, a gentle, swaying silver
mantle above the ceaseless currents of the North River, Britz awoke and
for a long time permitted his eyes to feast on the restful picture
offered by the now deserted Riverside Drive. Reluctantly he withdrew his
gaze from the alluring vista that spread from his window--the graveled
walks, the well-kept lawns sloping down to the stream, the wide stretch
of shimmering water sending slanting shafts of silver against the rocky
base of the opposite Palisades, and, in the dim distance, the softly
undulating Jersey hills meeting the sky line in a wavy gray thread
indistinctly outlined in the clearing mist.

Britz's salary was inadequate for an entire apartment on the Drive. But
he could afford a large square room overlooking the Hudson in the
apartment of a small family that understood the ways of their lodger and
ministered to his comfort.

A cold shower shook the last vestige of lassitude out of the detective's
system, and, after an ample breakfast prepared and served by the single
servant of the house, Britz devoted himself to the reports which Manning
had delivered to him the previous night.

For three hours he sat absorbed in silent study of the documents,
occasionally jotting down a brief note on a pad of paper or inter-lining
a paragraph which he regarded as having especial significance.

When he finished reading, he indulged in an additional hour of
thoughtful contemplation, arranging in their proper sequence the meager
facts which his men had discovered, and trying to draw from each bit of
new evidence its true relation to the crime.

Meager, indeed, was the helpful knowledge contained in the voluminous
reports of the men. Mrs. Collins had remained secluded in her home most
of the time; Collins had forsaken his customary haunts and also clung
desperately to the solitude of his Delmore Park mansion. Ward spent his
days at his business and his nights at his home. But around Beard things
were transpiring, although the detectives spying on him in the Tombs had
been unable to acquaint themselves with the precise nature of the moves
he was making to accomplish his release from prison.

No trace had been obtained of the butler who vanished with the documents
which Britz had gathered in Beard's home. But of the servant's eventual
capture Britz had not the slightest doubt. It was a safe guess that he
would endeavor soon to communicate with Beard either in person or by
letter, and the moment he did so he would reveal himself to the
authorities.

Of the utmost importance, however, was the report of the Coroner's
physician. The autopsy on Whitmore's body disclosed that the bullet
which killed the merchant had entered the abdomen at the right side,
traveled upward through the abdominal cavity, escaping the vital organs
in its path until it reached the spleen, which it perforated. The bullet
did not pass out of the body and was held by the Coroner as a gruesome
exhibit, to be used against whomever might be accused of Whitmore's
murder.

It was the path which the bullet had traveled that interested Britz. The
absence of powder marks, the disappearance of the pistol with which the
mortal shot was fired, effectually eliminated the theory of suicide.
Yet, a man seated in a chair, and bent on self-destruction, might easily
have inflicted the wound described by the Coroner's physician. Before
arriving at any definite conclusion, however, as to the position of the
assassin when he sent the bullet into Whitmore's body, the detective
decided to study the enlarged photograph of the wound which he had
ordered the official photographer to make.

He found the picture on his desk at Police Headquarters. Greig had
preceded him by two hours to the building in Mulberry street, and was
deep in the intricacies of the case when Britz summoned him. He entered
the room, followed a moment or two later, by Manning.

"What do you make of it?" asked Britz, holding up the picture.

"Pretty jagged wound," commented Manning.

Britz produced a magnifying glass through which the three men examined
the wound more critically.

"There are two perforations of the skin where the bullet entered," Britz
pointed out. "Undoubtedly they were made by the needle which I picked
off the floor of Whitmore's office."

"Well, what of that?" asked the chief.

"It confirms my belief that I have solved the mystery of how Whitmore
was killed."

"I don't see it," snapped the chief. "If you do, why don't you enlighten
us?"

"Because I can't be positive until I have more evidence," answered
Britz, unmoved by the other's irritation. "However, I believe that
before many days we shall have solved the entire case."

The conversation was interrupted at this juncture by the telephone bell.
Britz lifted the receiver to his ear, made several replies in
monosyllables, then returned the receiver to the hook.

"That was Watson up at Delmore Park," he informed the chief. "Says
Josephine Burden is on her way to the Tombs to visit Beard."

"Josephine Burden!" echoed Manning in undisguised surprise. "The cotton
king's daughter! Why, she's engaged to Lester Ward."

"She may be a messenger for Mrs. Collins, Ward's sister," suggested
Greig.

"Whatever her mission, I'll soon know all about it," asserted Britz.
"I'm going to the Tombs."

On the way to the big, gray City Prison, the detective tried vainly to
account for Josephine Burden's appearance in the case. That only the
most urgent reason would bring her to the Tombs at this critical stage
of the case, was self-evident. The newspapers were devoting columns to
it. The more enterprising yellow journals, whose investigations were
conducted independent of the police, were hinting openly that George
Collins ought to exchange places with Beard in prison. Every new figure
in the mystery, every new development, was being exploited frantically
in the press. Surely Josephine Burden was not braving the danger of
unwelcome notoriety merely to deliver a message from Mrs. Collins, or
Collins, or Ward. A less conspicuous messenger would have served them
equally well. No. Josephine Burden was on her way to the prison for a
reason intimately associated with herself, a compelling reason, one that
conquered her innate dislike for the newspaper prominence which she was
braving.

At the Tombs Britz held a brief conversation with the warden, after
which he was conducted to a cell at the end of a tier, behind the barred
door of which Beard must receive all his visitors save his lawyer. The
detective seated himself on a small, round wooden stool, hidden from
view by the heavy iron door of the cell. But every word of what was said
by anyone standing in the corridor, would come to Britz's ears through
the grating.

Half an hour after Britz was locked in the cell, an automobile drew up
at the curb on the Center street side of the prison and a young woman
alighted. Her slim figure was concealed beneath a long fur coat, her
face shielded by a heavy automobile veil. She approached the guard
behind the barred entrance to the jail with the timorous manner of
persons making their first visit to such an institution.

"May I see Mr. Horace Beard?" she inquired weakly.

"Sure, if he'll see you," answered the doorman, unlocking and swinging
open the broad portal.

She entered with a feeling of dread, as if the atmosphere of the place
chilled and repelled her. It is always thus with persons visiting a jail
for the first time. There is something sinister in the suggestions
conveyed by the long, silent tiers of grated iron doors, something that
strikes terror into the stoutest hearts.

A trusty carried her name to Beard and returned at the end of five
minutes with the information that the prisoner was willing to see her.

As if further to rasp her refined sensibilities and shock her, she was
escorted into a little side room and subjected to a thorough search at
the hands of a stout, impassive matron. To Josephine Burden it seemed an
unnecessary humiliation and she shrank inwardly from contact with those
rough, though nimble hands.

Being unaccustomed to the peculiar etiquette of prisons, she was unable
to appreciate how necessary is the precaution of searching all visitors.
Even with the exercise of the utmost care, it is impossible to prevent
the smuggling of weapons and other contraband to the prisoners.

Nothing to arouse the suspicion of the matron was found on Miss Burden
and she was escorted to the tier on which Beard was confined. As she
passed up the winding iron stairs and down the long corridors, catching
glimpses of human faces peering anxiously through the grating of their
cells, she could not help a feeling of pity for the poor wretches
confined like wild animals in their iron cages.

To the ordinary curiosity seeker the spectacle is one which leaves a
feeling of depression that abides with one like a frightful nightmare
prolonged through the hours of wakefulness. What then must be the
emotions of those, who, visiting the prison for the first time, behold
one who is near and dear to them peering helplessly, with that look of
mute appeal that is ever present in the eyes of unfortunate humans
deprived of liberty, from behind the interposing bars of a gloomy cell?

The first flash which Josephine Burden obtained of the man she had come
to visit, produced a feeling of horror not unmixed with revolt at the
relentless cruelty of the steel bars through which she discerned his
haggard face. Beard's form, dimly outlined against the steel door at the
end of a long corridor, seemed to have gathered to itself the wan light
that filtered through a narrow window at the right of the aisle, and
taken on a gray, misty aspect, wraith-like and terrifying. She had come
upon him abruptly, at the turn of the stairs, and for a moment she stood
silent, overcome by a chaos of emotions.

If she expected the door to open she was disappointed, for the trusty
simply withdrew half a dozen paces leaving the prisoner and his visitor
to face each other and converse through the narrow space between the
bars.

"I received your note," Beard broke the embarrassing silence, "and I
can't tell you how much it cheered me."

She advanced nearer the door, and extending a gloved hand through the
bars, permitted it to repose an instant in the prisoner's grateful palm.

"I had to come," she murmured, "although father went into a fury when I
told him."

"And you came to cheer me--to tell me you believe in me?"

Something far deeper than mere gratitude shone in his eyes, and was
reflected in the agitated countenance of the girl.

"I came to tell you that I broke my engagement to Lester Ward," she said
in quivering voice.

Cautiously Britz peered at the couple through the iron grating of his
cell. He noted the tremor which passed down Beard's form and the furtive
caress which he bestowed on the visitor's hand. At the same time the
girl lifted her veil, disclosing a finely molded face of flawless
features, with a skin of exquisite paleness, and flashing brown eyes
shaded by long, dark lashes. As she stood with fingers encircling the
bars that interposed between her and Beard, her beautiful face took on a
purposeful aspect, as of one suddenly possessed of a new and consuming
interest in life.

The news which she had brought the prisoner cheered him perceptibly. But
he regarded her as if even now he found it difficult to credit her with
the courage she must have displayed in discarding the man whom she had
promised to wed.

"How did it happen?" inquired Beard in a voice that betrayed his
bewildered state of mind.

"You must have known, your instinct must have told you that I accepted
him because of father's urging," she said. "Now that you are in trouble
I don't fear to tell you that I wanted you all the time. When I read of
your arrest I wanted to fly to you, to be near you, to sustain you. This
morning I told father of my intention to break the engagement. And, do
you know, he assented at once. But he went into a rage when I told him I
was coming here, although he seemed perfectly pleased to have me break
with Lester."

A person of duller intellect than Britz, from overhearing the
conversation between Beard and the girl, would have discerned the
romance in the lives of the couple. Had they revealed it in its most
intimate detail, they could not have conveyed a better understanding of
it than through the words uttered in this murky prison corridor. It was
plain to Britz that Beard and Ward had been suitors for the girl's hand;
that Ward's suit was successful through the favor which he found in the
eyes of the girl's father. But now, when the man with whom she really
was in love was in desperate straits, that love could no longer be
diverted from its true channel, and, like an irresistible current that
sweeps everything before it, it had carried her to the side of her
endangered lover.

Materialists may find it difficult to distinguish between love and
passion--may deny to their hearts' content the existence of any line of
demarcation between them. But the true lover has no doubt on the
subject. Love distinguishes itself from passion, through sacrifice.
Passion is invariably selfish. Love never is.

Britz, recognizing instinctively the genuineness of the woman's love,
passed over its ennobling aspect, to find therein a potent influence for
the solution of the crime with which he was engaged. The girl had
unconsciously revealed herself to him as a means to an end--that end
being the discovery and punishment of the murderer of Herbert Whitmore.

Had Beard been an experienced criminal, he would have known that no
walls have more ears, nor more delicately attuned ears, than prison
walls. And that knowledge would have inspired a suspicion of the very
bars against which he pressed his fevered face. But being without
previous jail experience, he said in a voice as distinctly audible to
Britz as if he had been talking directly to the detective,--

"Then you don't believe for a single instant the terrible accusation
they have lodged against me?"

"No one who knows you can possibly believe it," she answered in a tone
of conviction.

"Dearest," he said, adopting a confidential air, "I could leave this
prison to-morrow were I so inclined. They haven't the least particle of
evidence against me--they cannot have. Were I to force the issue they
could not make out a case sufficient to justify my being held for the
grand jury. I am staying here because I want to, because it is best that
they should direct their efforts toward trying to prove me the
murderer."

Britz, in the darkness of his cell, indulged in an amused smile. So this
man was endeavoring to draw the fire of the police in order to save the
guilty person! Here was a pretty drama of cross-purposes. Had Beard been
sufficiently shrewd to see through the purpose of his detention, he
would have submitted to his imprisonment with less complacency.

"You mean that you are offering yourself as a target in order to shield
the guilty person?" she inquired incredulously.

"Precisely."

"But why?" she demanded.

"Because I conceive it to be Mr. Whitmore's wish."

"Mr. Whitmore!" exclaimed she, obviously puzzled. "You mean he asked you
to?"

"No," acknowledged he. "But I know what must have been in his mind when
he died. I know what he would have done, had he lived to do it. Dearest,
I shouldn't have hesitated to sacrifice my own life for him. I was more
like a son to him than a secretary. And had I been with him when he
died, I know he would have imposed silence on me."

"Then the men in his office--they know the murderer and he asked them
not to tell?" An expression of astonishment overspread her face.

"No," he answered. "They don't know. They've told the truth."

"Horace,"--her voice grew persuasive--"Horace, you mustn't think of
yourself alone now. I can't bear to think of you imprisoned in this
place. For my sake you must leave it and clear yourself of this
accusation."

He shook his head sadly.

"If you knew all the circumstances you'd approve my course."

"But I don't know them--and it's torturing me." For the first time her
features showed the anguish she was suffering. He saw and was moved.

"Listen!" His eyes searched the corridor and the adjoining cells. Seeing
no one but the indifferent trusty who was too far away to overhear,
Beard continued: "Mr. Whitmore loved Mrs. Collins, as you already know.
Were scandal to break over her head--if I did not sacrifice myself to
prevent it--it would be the vilest ingratitude to an employer whose
memory I venerate."

"Then you are protecting Mrs. Collins?" Her frame throbbed with the
conflict of agonized emotions. "Mrs. Collins!" she repeated, as if
afraid that he had misunderstood.

"Yes," he answered resignedly. "I know I am doing precisely what Mr.
Whitmore would have asked, me to do. And now, dear, please don't press
me farther. I can't tell you more--not at this time. When all this shall
have been forgotten, when Mr. Whitmore's death ceases to occupy the
public and the police, then I'll tell you everything."

When two hearts charged with love begin to exchange confidences, it is
impossible to foretell what revelations will be forthcoming. And the
chances are that had Beard been allowed sufficient time, he would have
unburdened himself of the heavy load that was pressing on his heart. But
unfortunately for Britz, the hour for exercising the prisoners confined
on the tier had arrived, and a deputy warden cut short the interview
between Beard and Miss Burden. She was escorted to the street, while
Beard joined the other inmates for a half hour of exercise and fresh air
in the courtyard.

With Beard's intimation of Mrs. Collins's complicity in the murder
reiterating itself in his mind, Britz left the Tombs and proceeded
toward the Federal Building. The detective had seen, had interviewed
Mrs. Collins. It was impossible to reconcile her artless, engaging
personality with an impulse so base as to lead to murder.

Besides, Beard's remarks were open to more than one interpretation. It
was entirely possible that he was endeavoring to shield her name from
the befouling suspicion of having yielded to Whitmore, a suspicion which
the general public would be quick to convert into an unalterable belief,
once it learned that she had transferred her love from her husband to
the slain merchant. Should the murderer be discovered and brought to
trial the dissensions in the Collins household would be paraded
unsparingly in the public press. Innocent as the relations between
Whitmore and Mrs. Collins were, they would take on a guilty aspect in
the eyes of a world that is ever ready to discern its own debasing
impulses reflected in the conduct of one who has been regarded hitherto
as unstained.

Reviewing all the circumstances of the case, Britz concluded that
Beard's statement was not to be accepted as an intimation of Mrs.
Collins's guilt. For, had he not accused Collins in even stronger terms
in the very presence of his murdered employer?

It was not to be forgotten, too, that a favorite dodge of guilty persons
is to adopt the pose of a martyr. And, in lieu of an adequate defense,
to create a favorable doubt by insinuating that they are accepting
punishment in order to shield a woman. When artfully worked, this deceit
may always be relied upon to create undeserved sympathy.

Were there nothing else to absolve Mrs. Collins from the suspicion that
she was responsible for Whitmore's death, the absence of motive would
have proclaimed her innocence. She loved him. She was ready to discard
her husband for him. She and her brother were looking to him to save
them from financial ruin. No, she had nothing to gain and everything to
lose by the merchant's death.

With this conclusion fixed in his mind, Britz arrived at the office of
the United States District Attorney.

"Where is the deputy who took the convict, Arthur Travis, to Atlanta?"
he inquired.

Wells, the district attorney, smiled musingly.

"Resigned day before yesterday," he replied. "Said a relative had left
him a fortune and he was going on a long trip for his health."

Britz proceeded to enlighten the district attorney as to the real reason
for the deputy's departure. He related all the circumstances that led up
to the substitution of prisoners, Wells listening with growing
amazement. When Britz finished, the district attorney regarded him an
instant, incredulity engraved on his face.

"I can't believe it," he said. "And yet, lieutenant, I don't doubt your
word an instant."

"You'll be able to ascertain the facts for yourself," pursued Britz.
"What I am here for is to ask your help in solving the Whitmore case. Of
course, you'll prosecute the deputy if you ever find him. But I want you
to arrange things so that I can promise immunity to the substitute. His
real name is Timson. I'm going to wire a lawyer in Atlanta to get him
out of jail on a writ of habeas corpus. Now, it is more important that
we land the murderer of Herbert Whitmore than that you should send
Timson to jail for aiding in the escape of a man who was killed within a
day after obtaining his freedom. As for Beard who engineered the deal, I
doubt whether you can convict him. It will be a case of Timson's word
against Beard's and, since it is impossible to obtain corroborating
evidence, the judge will have to charge the jury to acquit Beard. But
with Timson up here to be used as a club, I think I can force Beard to
tell what he knows of the killing of his employer."

"Well, go ahead and obtain your writ of habeas corpus for the
substitute. I'll communicate with the Attorney-General in Washington and
see whether he'll agree to the immunity proposition," said Wells.

From the Federal Building Britz went to the financial district to look
up Ward. A plan of action was forming in his brain, shaping itself as
molten lead shapes itself to the mold. If Horace Beard was stained with
Whitmore's blood, there was one man who could be made to direct the
finger of accusation against him. One man there was in whose heart
bitterness and rancor could be aroused against the merchant's secretary.

Beset by financial difficulties, deserted by the girl to whom he was
engaged, Lester Ward would be an easy prey to the acute mind and
provoking methods of the experienced detective. If jealousy can inspire
hatred, then Ward must feel toward his successful rival all the
ferocious hatred of a man resenting a great deprivation. And that
vengeful passion must not be permitted to expend itself in profitless
inward torture. It was a potent force for Britz's dexterous hands to
manipulate, a destructive fury that should annihilate Beard--if Beard
was the slayer of Herbert Whitmore.




CHAPTER XII


Like one inspired by a great purpose, Britz moved with the human current
down Broadway. It pleased him to think that he had converted Miss
Burden's confiding love into an instrument of justice; that by its means
he would establish ere another hour had sped, the innocence or the guilt
of Beard. What her own feelings in the matter might be, did not concern
him. He might deplore the necessity of causing an innocent woman to
suffer; but if it were necessary for the accomplishment of his
end--well, law and order are exacting taskmasters and cannot pause to
consider the injured feelings of individuals!

Britz turned into Wall street, possessed by a sense of elation, like a
man about to reach out for a long-coveted prize. Through the knowledge
gleaned that morning in the Tombs, he would render Lester Ward pliant to
his will; would extract from his unsuspecting lips the truth concerning
Whitmore's death.

In front of a huge office building the detective halted, permitting his
eyes to linger a moment on a brass door-plate that bore the simple
device--Ward & Co.

Britz was aware that the firm was one of the oldest in the district,
having been established by Ward's grandfather. It did a brokerage and
private banking business, and while not one of the largest houses of its
kind, it bore an enviable reputation for conservatism and fairness
toward its customers.

The front door of the firm's office led into the corridor of the
building, its street frontage consisting of a huge plate-glass window,
above the half-drawn shade of which, one obtained an indistinct glimpse
of wooden partitions and frosted panes. Outwardly the office presented
the same conservative appearance as its reputed business management, and
even the clerks, most of them gray-haired and bent, worked with slow,
labored movement, as if each scratch of the pen, each twist of the
wrist, involved a separate thought of its own.

As Britz plunged through the door of the building, however, he became
instantly aware of the changed aspect of Ward & Company's office. The
corridor was packed with an excited crowd of men and women, fear, anger,
resentment written in their faces. Massed before the door of the office,
a score of men were reaching over one another's shoulders in an effort
to break down the closed portal. On the outskirts of the crowd, an
excited citizen was haranguing those about him:

"Prison for him--prison for the rich thieves!" his thin, piping voice
rose above the dull murmur of the crowd. "My confidence was betrayed,
your confidence was betrayed--the thief! Why, my father's money was
entrusted to his grandfather and his father. It was an honorable house
until he took hold of it. I thought my money was as safe as with the
Bank of England. It's always been a conservative house until he took
hold of it. Damn Lester Ward--he's left me without a dollar in the
world!"

The crowd murmured approval, encouraging the speaker to continue.

"I tell you this speculating with other people's money must be stopped,"
he pursued, gesticulating wildly. "What right had he to use my money in
his enterprises? We've been deceived. We thought he would follow in the
footsteps of his father and his grandfather. But the fever of
speculation got into his blood--and we, and our wives and families are
the sufferers!"

Those who were not listening to the speaker were pressing desperately
against the door, a murderous fury in their eyes.

Cries of "Open the door!" "Break it down!" "I want my money!" echoed
down the corridor and floated into the street. As a consequence, the
crowd of depositors and investors was augmented by the idle and the
curious, who flocked into the lobby from the street and from the floors
above.

Those within the office evidently feared that the door could not much
longer withstand the pressure from without, for it opened suddenly and a
man's form appeared on the threshold.

"It is useless to clamor for admittance," the man shouted, thrusting
back the foremost of the crowd. "It is impossible to give out a
statement until we have examined the books."

"Where's Ward?" several voices demanded. "Where's Lester Ward?"

At the same time a forward movement of the crowd threatened to sweep the
interposing figure off the threshold. Britz, who had elbowed his way to
the door, pinned his shield to his lapel, and, facing the excited men
and women, exclaimed:

"I am a police officer."

"Then why in hell don't you arrest Lester Ward?" cried someone near the
opposite wall.

"If the facts warrant it, he will be arrested," answered Britz. "Your
interests will be protected and you are only wasting your time remaining
here."

As abruptly as he had faced them, Britz now swung around and entered the
office, locking the door behind him.

"What's the trouble?" he inquired.

"I have been appointed receiver by the United States District Court,"
answered the man who had addressed the crowd from the half-open door.
"An involuntary petition in bankruptcy has been filed against Ward & Co.
It looks to me like an awful failure."

Britz's eyes traveled about the office in search of Ward. But the head
of the firm was not to be seen. Instead, the detective saw a score of
clerks, bookkeepers and tellers seated gloomily at their desks, gazing
at one another in appalled silence.

The tragedy of the failure was written in their faces. These men, grown
old in the employ of this seemingly solid establishment, suddenly found
themselves confronted anew with the problem of earning a livelihood.
Nearly all of them had passed into that enfeebled state that comes with
years of unvarying routine. Each seemed to realize the almost utter
hopelessness of obtaining new employment, and several of them were
weeping silently.

Even Britz was moved by this pitiful picture of despairing old age. The
mute suffering of these men was a hundredfold more distressing than the
wild, helpless clamoring of the horde of enraged creditors. A person
born and bred to poverty soon grows insensible to deprivation; for when
one is accustomed to little, a little less doesn't matter. But these men
had occupied comfortable homes all their lives. From their sons and
daughters the colleges and universities recruit the majority of their
students. In a small way they have learned to enjoy the good things in
life. To be cut off suddenly, to learn that the rod on which they have
been leaning for so many years is but a broken reed--it is such men who
feel most acutely the bitter poverty of old age.

Britz contemplated the scene about him with a feeling of growing
depression. Then, suddenly recalling the high hopes which he had based
on his expected meeting with Ward, he asked:

"Has Ward been here to-day?"

"No," replied the receiver. "He seems to have abandoned the office. I've
been unable to reach him at his home."

"Well, fortunately I've had one of my men trailing him since the day of
the Whitmore murder, so it is unlikely he will get away," said Britz.
"Have you any idea at all as to the condition of the business?"

"Nothing except what I have gathered from questioning the manager of the
office. I didn't learn much from him but his attitude indicated to me
that the business is a complete wreck. South American enterprises seem
to have swallowed up all the resources."

"Has the failure any criminal aspect?" asked Britz.

"Of course, I can't tell as yet," answered the receiver. "But these
cases seldom result in criminal prosecutions. A man like Ward
undoubtedly was advised by shrewd lawyers and the chances are that we'll
find he's kept just within the law."

Just then the unceasing murmur in the hall swelled into a chorus of
profanity in which cries of "What's your hurry?" "You can't get in!"
intermingled. Next, a violent pounding on the door announced the
presence of someone more determined than the others to gain admittance.

Britz opened the door and a tall, stockily built individual forced an
entrance with an authoritative shove of his elbow.

"Where's Mr. Ward?" demanded the visitor. "Has he--" The man paused as,
for the first time, he recognized Britz. "Why, lieutenant, I didn't
expect to find you here," he said.

"Peck!" exclaimed Britz. "What brought you here?"

"The chief sent me. He just got word from Delmore Park that Ward has
skipped."

"What!" An angry frown overspread Britz's features.

"Ward must have known that he was being trailed," pursued the visitor.
"This morning, Grady was hidden in the bushes opposite the house waiting
for Ward to come out. Two men set on him, bound and gagged him and left
him lying on the grass. A passer-by found him half an hour ago and
untied him. Grady telephoned immediately that Ward had made a get-away."

"And the chief sent you down here?" asked Britz.

"Yes. We had got word of the failure and the chief thought I'd better
come down here to look things over."

Here was a new disappointment for Britz. The one man whom he wished to
see above all others, had slipped out of his grasp.

"We've got to act quickly," said Britz, consulting his watch. "You stay
right here. I'll go down to Headquarters."




CHAPTER XIII


Fortune had turned her back on Britz on two critical occasions. First,
Julia Strong had eliminated herself as a factor in the investigation of
the Whitmore murder. Next, Lester Ward had been permitted to disappear
at the very moment when he might have been induced to shed light on the
crime. Since all crimes must be proved through witnesses, the loss of
two of the most important ones was a staggering blow to Britz. It did
not diminish his confidence in himself nor in his belief that he would
eventually find the murderer. But to prove his case in court--his future
efforts would have to be attended by more luck than had been vouchsafed
him hitherto, if a successful prosecution were to be achieved.

As though the adverse fates that had pursued him were content with the
havoc they had wrought, Britz was greeted by a rare piece of good
fortune as he entered Police Headquarters. It came in the person of
Muldoon, whom Britz encountered in the corridor.

"Got a prisoner for you!" beamed Muldoon. "The gent you told me to watch
for."

"Where is he?" asked the detective.

"Downstairs."

"Where'd you get him?"

"Just where you said I would. You said he'd come around to the Tombs
lookin' for the boss, and sure enough he came about half an hour after
you left. I remembered having seen him hanging around the place
yesterday and the day before, but I wasn't sure of him so I didn't
molest him. This morning he comes to the door and asks to see Mr. Beard.
Then I knew at once I had the right man. I collared him and had the
nippers on him before he knew what struck him. Also, I relieved him of
the bundle of papers he had and Greig is lookin' through 'em now."

"Did he say anything when you arrested him?" asked Britz, favoring his
subordinate with a smile of approval.

"He cried like a woman," replied Muldoon. "Said he hadn't done anything
and wanted to give me ten dollars to let him go. The papers, he kept
saying, belonged to his boss and he didn't intend to steal them.
Evidently he thinks he's been arrested for stealin' the papers."

Britz found the prisoner in a state of collapse. Opening the door of the
butler's cell, he dragged the shivering inmate into the narrow corridor
and forced him against the wall. With drooping head and sagging body,
the butler regarded Britz as though afraid the detective had come to
execute him on the spot.

Nor did the attitude which Britz adopted toward the prisoner tend to
relieve his terror.

"So you thought you'd elope with the papers I went to all the trouble to
gather?" snarled the detective. "You thought you could fool the
police--eh!"

"No, sir! No, sir, I didn't," quavered the prisoner. "I didn't mean to
fool you. I didn't know you were a detective. I know you said so, but
anybody could say so and show a badge. I took the papers because I
thought Mr. Beard might need them. And ever since I've been in hiding
for fear I'd be arrested! To-day I made up my mind to deliver them to
Mr. Beard. I was afraid to approach that awful looking jail, but finally
I did so and a detective immediately arrested me. He was awfully rough,"
complained the butler. "He hurt my wrists and tore my collar. I gave the
papers to him without any struggle--really, sir, if I'd met you I should
have given them to you."

Britz thrust the butler back into the cell and closed the door.

"Won't you please let me go?" pleaded the prisoner, clutching
frantically at the bar. "I haven't done anything."

Unheedful of the man's appeal, the detective ascended the iron stairs
and hastened into his private office. He found Manning and Greig seated
at his desk scrutinizing the papers.

"Anything of value in them?" asked Britz.

"Not yet," returned the chief. "But we haven't finished with them."

Britz applied himself to the documents, his eyes racing through them in
futile search of something that might shed a welcome illumination on the
dark complexities of the case. But the papers contained nothing of worth
to the police. Mostly they related to Whitmore's business affairs, which
apparently were in a healthy and flourishing condition.

With a shrug of disappointment the detective flung the last of the
documents from him.

"Wasted labor!" he observed to the chief. "Might as well return them to
Beard."

"Here is one we haven't examined," said Manning, offering a long, white
envelope to Britz. "I don't know whether we are justified in opening
it."

The back of the envelope had been sealed with wax in three places, and
the seals were still undisturbed. Across the front of it was written,--

"Last will and testament of Herbert Whitmore."

Britz regarded the envelope with covetous eyes.

"There is no law which prevents the police from examining a murdered
man's will," he remarked. "I suppose the proper thing would be to open
it in the presence of the attorney for the deceased. But we are all
disinterested witnesses so far as the document is concerned, so we'll
proceed to examine it."

With a penknife Britz slit open the long edge of the envelope and,
without waiting for authorization from his chief, spread the document
before him. It consisted of three sheets of legal cap, to the last page
of which Whitmore's signature and the names of two witnesses were
affixed.

"Two pages of minor bequests," commented Britz as he finished reading
the second sheet of the will.

On the final paragraph of the third sheet, the detective's eyes lingered
a long while. Half a dozen times he reread the significant clause, then
passed it to the chief. Manning perused it with widening orbs, finally
handing the paper to Greig. The latter absorbed the contents at a glance
and returned the paper to Britz.

"So Mrs. Collins inherits the residue--practically the entire Whitmore
estate!" exclaimed Manning. "What does it mean?"

Greig bounded out of his seat as if released by a spring. He stood a
moment as if to fling out a loud cry of exultation, but the serious
expression on the faces of the others checked his ardor. A shade of
doubt flitted across his face, but vanished instantly and was succeeded
by a look which seemed to imply a sudden clearness of vision.

"Yes, by George! it's as plain as daylight!" he burst forth. "She's the
one--I suspected her all the time! Now we have it--the motive and the
explanation of her silence! Her brother a bankrupt, perhaps a defaulter.
A fugitive, too! Her money sunk, her husband's money lost! She knew she
was the chief beneficiary of the will--don't you see what Whitmore's
death meant to her? We've deluded ourselves into the belief that it was
to her interest to keep Whitmore alive. What chumps we were."

Britz's glance was alternating between the excited Greig and the
impassive Manning, contrasting the riotous enthusiasm of the one with
the quiet deliberation of the other.

"What do you think of it, chief?" he asked.

"I think we ought to put it up to her good and strong," advised Manning.
"Threaten to lock her up if she doesn't explain."

"She's a clever one, all right," pursued Greig. "Went to Beard's house
to get the letter that her brother had written! They were begging
Whitmore for money. Don't you see the game? Whitmore turned them down.
So what was there to do except to kill him and get his estate?"

To the impressionable mind of Greig the evidence against Mrs. Collins
was conclusive. The grave, complex problem that had baffled his
superiors had suddenly simplified itself. A woman needed money; she
could obtain it through another's death. What more reasonable than that
she should go forth and slay him?

Britz's more penetrating mind, however, did not find the solution so
easily. It discovered a multitude of contradictions which eluded the
narrower vision of his subordinate. Nevertheless he was compelled to
concede that the aspect of the entire case had changed, that Mrs.
Collins now loomed as a figure not to be disregarded.

"I understand that policemen were sent to clear the corridor outside of
Ward's office?" inquired Britz.

"Yes," responded Manning.

"Well, send a man down there to call off the police. Let him encourage
the crowd to remain."

The lines in Manning's forehead gathered in perplexity between his
eyebrows.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"I'm going to put Mrs. Collins to the test."

The chief and Greig watched Britz in a sort of dumb bewilderment while
he lifted the telephone receiver off the hook and called up the Collins
house. After five minutes of anxious waiting, a voice at the other end
of the wire responded.

"Is Mrs. Collins at home?" asked Britz.

"Who wishes to speak with her?"

"This is Mr. Luckstone's office," said the detective. "Mr.
Luckstone--the attorney for Mr. Whitmore."

Evidently a maid had answered the call, for a long silence ensued while
the servant carried Britz's message to her mistress. Finally a voice at
the other end of the wire said:

"This is Mrs. Collins!"

Britz pressed the receiver tightly to his ear, as if afraid that some
word of hers might escape his hearing.

"Mr. Luckstone wishes me to say that Mr. Whitmore's will has been
found," said the detective.

If the woman realized the significance of the information, her voice did
not betray it.

"Well?" she exclaimed, as if the subject held but a mild interest for
her.

"Mr. Whitmore has named you as the chief beneficiary," Britz continued
in even tones. "You have inherited practically his entire estate."

The news provoked no cry of elation, no exclamation of surprise, no
revealing remark of any kind. Simply a non-committal "Yes!" It might
have been the indifferent acceptance of information which she knew must
eventually come to her; it might have been the meaningless affirmation
of stunned surprise.

Britz decided he had accomplished his purpose, so he hung up the
receiver without engaging in further parley.

"Setting one of your famous traps--eh?" beamed Manning.

"Yes--for the guilty one," admitted Britz.

"You have no doubt that she did the trick?" interjected Greig.

"I have no opinion in the matter," Britz informed him curtly. "I may
have a most decided one, however, in an hour or so."

"Well, what do you think is going to happen now?" drawled Manning. While
he guessed that Britz was setting the stage for a grand climax, he had
not the remotest idea of its nature.

"She knows now that she has inherited Whitmore's fortune," said Britz
with slow emphasis. "In view of what has happened to-day, there is but
one obvious course for her to pursue. She may do it indirectly, through
attorneys. She may elect to do it herself. We shall see."

It was an unsatisfying explanation, revealing nothing of the detective's
hidden purpose. But Manning was unable to entice a more explicit
statement from his subordinate. So he instructed a detective to proceed
to Ward's office and direct the policemen on guard there to withdraw to
their precinct station.

"I'm burning up with curiosity," acknowledged the chief, "but I suppose
I shall have to wait until you're ready to confide what you're about."

"You'll not have to wait very long," Britz promised. "It's a case now of
instant success or instant failure."

Gathering the documents which had been recovered from the butler, Britz
deposited them on a small table at the other end of the room.

"You may tie them up and send them to Beard," he instructed Greig.
"We'll hold the butler for the present. He may be of use."

The detective next obtained a telegraph blank and despatched the
following message:

     "_Anderson, Chief of Police, Atlanta, Ga._:

     "Please engage lawyer in behalf of one Timson, alias Arthur Travis,
     now in Atlanta prison. Have writ of habeas corpus sworn out as soon
     as possible and explain matters to Federal attorney down there.
     Adhere to line we discussed on my recent visit. Put Timson, when
     discharged, on board first train and have one of your men accompany
     him to this city. This department will meet all expenses.

     "BRITZ."

The detective waited until his assistant had tied up the bundle of
documents; then, lifting the will from his desk and slipping it into his
pocket, he said:

"Come on, Greig! We're going down to Ward's office. There's going to be
an explosion."




CHAPTER XIV


As the police withdrew from in front of Ward & Co.'s office, the crowd
returned. It flowed into the corridor of the office building, a sullen,
silent mob, full of repressed anger that required only the slightest
spark to transform it into a roaring flame. They massed about the locked
door, gazing at the lettered panel as at a corpse.

Out in the street newsboys were crying the failure of the banking house.
They did a brisk business. Mourners everywhere are feverishly anxious to
read of the deceased, his achievements and his failure and his demise.
And these mourners, gathered at the funeral of an institution that held
for them so vital an interest, devoured every detail of its expired
life.

Inside the office, the clerks worked with their customary deliberation,
tallying the accounts for the receiver. No tentative statement of assets
and liability had been announced by the court's representative. He could
have prepared a fairly accurate statement and posted it on the door. But
he was a charitable man and wished to spare the depositors further
anguish. Give them time to recover from the first great shock before
inflicting a greater one, he argued. So he postponed the evil moment
when he must reveal the wretched condition of the institution.

Each time the door opened and a messenger left, the crowd set on him
beseeching information of the financial condition of the private bank.
But the messengers had nothing to reveal.

As invariably happens with crowds, the dullness and depression wears off
after a while, exhausts itself, so to speak, and is succeeded gradually
by a blind resentment directed against the first object which offers
itself as a handy target. A sort of mob intoxication sets in, as
unreasoning as it frequently is destructive.

And so the crowd now began to hurl maledictions on the innocent head of
the receiver. As if he had brought on the catastrophe!

"Why don't he tell us where we stand?" demanded one obstreperous
creditor. "Smash in the door! Let's find out what's become of our
money!"

"He's in cohoots with thieves!" exclaimed another. "They're all a lot of
crooks! What one has left behind the other'll take."

Britz and Greig, mingling with the crowd, neither encouraged nor
discouraged the destructive fury which they saw gathering. They knew the
psychology of mobs. It is brave with collective courage, but timorous,
hesitant, individually. In the absence of a leader its anger would pass
like a storm overhead. If a leader should appear, it would be time to
interfere; and then it would be necessary to do so before the crowd got
into action.

A half hour passed with nothing more exciting than the frantic appeals
of the janitor of the building for police protection. Failing to obtain
it he implored the depositors to leave. He might as well have appealed
to the ocean tide to change its course.

Britz consulted his watch.

"I wonder whether I've miscalculated this time?" he remarked.

Greig, having but a vague idea of Britz's plan, vouchsafed no reply. He
remained close to the other's elbow.

Another ten minutes passed and Britz began to look uneasily at the door.
A shade of disappointment crossed his face, and did not go unobserved by
his assistant.

The crowd was growing unwieldy. It began to exert a slow, steady
pressure against the door of Ward's office. The mob was composed
entirely of creditors, for the merely curious had grown tired and
departed hours ago. Those who remained were beyond discouragement; they
hung on with the persistency of despair.

"Oh, let's tear down the blamed door!" shouted someone in a voice more
determined than had been heard thus far. "I'm not going home to-day
until I learn just what's happened to my money."

"Yes, break it down!" echoed a dozen voices.

But suddenly the attention of the mob was diverted from the door. A
woman had torn into the corridor and was struggling frantically to make
a lane for herself. There was somet

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