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Lord John in New York

by C. N. Williamson · English · Gutenberg #38470 · 506,689 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Lord John in New York

Author: C. N. Williamson
        A. M. Williamson


        
Release date: January 2, 2012 [eBook #38470]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38470

Credits: Produced by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LORD JOHN IN NEW YORK ***




Produced by Al Haines










[Illustration: Cover art]






LORD JOHN

IN NEW YORK



BY

C. N. & A. M. WILLIAMSON


AUTHORS OF "THE LIGHTNING CONDUCTOR"




METHUEN & CO. LTD.

36 ESSEX STREET W.C.

LONDON




_First Published in 1918_




  BY THE SAME AUTHORS

  The Lightning Conductor
  The Princess Passes
  My Friend the Chauffeur
  Lady Betty Across the Water
  The Car of Destiny
  The Botor Chaperon
  Set in Silver
  Lord Loveland Discovers America
  The Golden Silence
  The Guests of Hercules
  The Demon
  The Wedding Day
  The Princess Virginia
  The Heather Moon
  The Love Pirate
  It Happened in Egypt
  A Soldier of the Legion
  The Shop Girl
  The War Wedding
  The Lightning Conductress
  Secret History
  The Cowboy Countess
  This Woman to this Man





CONTENTS


EPISODE I

THE KEY


EPISODE II

THE GREY SISTERHOOD


EPISODE III

THE GIRL ON THE THIRTEENTH FLOOR


EPISODE IV

THE DEATH TRYST


EPISODE V

THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT


EPISODE VI

THE CLUE IN THE AIR


EPISODE VII

THE WATCHING EYE


EPISODE VIII

THE HOUSE OF REVENGE


EPISODE IX

THE BELL BUOY




TO A CERTAIN KING

OF A CERTAIN CINEMA COMPANY

WHO PUT

"LORD JOHN IN NEW YORK"

ON THE SCREEN




LORD JOHN IN NEW YORK




EPISODE I

THE KEY

"More letters and flowers for you, Lord John," said my nurse.

Not that I needed a nurse; and, above all things, I needed no more
letters or flowers.  The waste-paper basket was full.  The room smelt
like a perfume factory.  The mantelpiece and all other receptacles
having an army of occupation, vases and bowls were mobilising on the
floor.  This would, of course, not be tolerated in hospital; but I was
off the sick list, recovering in a private convalescent home.  I was
fed up with being a wounded hero; the fragrance of too many flowers,
and the kindness of too many ladies, was sapping and mining my brain
power; consequently, I could invent no excuse for escape.

The nurse came in, put down the lilies, and gave me three letters.

My heart beat, for I was expecting a note from a woman to whom somehow
or other I was almost engaged, and to whom I didn't in the least wish
to be engaged.  She would not have looked at me before the war, when I
was only a younger brother of the Marquis of Haslemere--and the author
of a successful detective story called _The Key_.  Now, however; simply
because I'd dropped a few bombs from a monoplane on to a Zeppelin
hangar in Belgium, had been wounded in one arm and two legs, and
through sheer instinct of self-preservation had contrived to escape, I
was a toy worth playing with.  She wanted to play with me.  All the
women I knew, not busy with better toys, wanted to play with me.  My
brother Haslemere, who had been ashamed of my extremely clever, rather
successful book, and the undoubted detective talent it showed, was
proud of me as a mere bomb-dropper.  So, too, was my sister-in-law.  I
was the principal object of attraction at the moment in Violet's zoo--I
mean her convalescent home.  She had cried because men were not being
wounded fast enough to fill its expensively appointed rooms; I was
captured, therefore, to make up for deficiencies and shown off to
Violet's many friends, who were duly photographed bending beautifully
over me.

There was, as I had feared, a letter from Irene Anderson; there was
also--even worse--one from Mrs. Allendale.  But the third letter was
from Carr Price.  On the envelope was the address of the New York
theatre where the play he had dramatised from my book would shortly be
produced.  He had come to England a million years ago, before the war,
to consult me about his work, which would have been brought out in
London if the war had not upset our manager's plans.  I like Carr
Price, who is as much poet as playwright; a charming, sensitive,
nervous, wonderful fellow.  I gave his letter precedence.


"DEAR LORD JOHN," he began, and I judged from the scrawl that he wrote
in agitation--"for goodness' sake, what have you done to Roger Odell
that he should have a grouch on you?  It must have been something
pretty bad.  I wish to Heaven you'd given me the tip last summer that
you'd made an enemy of him.  Roger Odell, of all men in America!  I
suppose the brother of a marquis can stand on his own feet in his own
country, but even if his brother's an archangel his feet are apt to get
cold in New York if Roger Odell turns the heat off.

"The facts--as I've just heard from Julius Felborn--are these.
Yesterday Odell sent for Julius, who went like a bird, for he and Odell
are friends.  Odell's money and influence put Julius where he is now,
as a manager, up at the top, though still young.  What was Julius's
horror, however, when Odell blurted out a warning not to produce any
play dramatised from a book of yours, because he--Odell--would do his
best to ruin it!  Julius asked what the dickens he meant.  Odell
wouldn't explain.  All he'd say was, that he'd be sorry to hurt Julius
and had nothing against me, but _The Key_ would get no chance in New
York or any old town in the United States where Roger Odell had a
finger in the pie.

"Well, you must have heard enough about Odell to know what such a
threat amounts to.  There are mighty few pies he hasn't got a finger
in.  Not that he's a man who threatens as a rule.  He's _made_ a good
many men.  I never heard of his _breaking_ one.  But when he decides to
do a thing, he does it.  Julius is in a blue funk.  He's not a coward,
but even if he felt strong enough to fight Odell's newspapers and other
influence, he says it would be an act of 'base ingratitude' to do so,
as he'd be 'walking on his uppers' now but for Odell's help, tiding
over rough places in the past.  Julius took all night to reflect, and
rang me up this morning.  I'm writing in his office at the theatre now,
after our interview.  He says Odell would have put him wise before, but
he saw the pars (in his own papers!) for the first time yesterday
morning on the way back from the West Indies, where he'd been on a
short business trip.  Queer place for such a man to go on a business
trip!  But the whole thing is dashed queer.  Now he's off again like a
whirlwind to England for _another_ 'short business trip,' so he told
Julius.  But J. let drop one little item of information about a woman,
or rather a girl.  _Can_ that be where _you_ come in on this?  _Have
you taken this girl away_?  Anyhow, whatever you've done, the
consequences seem likely to be serious.  Julius is inclined to call a
halt, bribe, wheedle or bluster the star into throwing up his part at
the first rehearsal, by way of an excuse, and to put on Chumley Reed's
_Queen Sweetheart_, which he kept up his sleeve in case _The Key_
failed.  But, of course, it _couldn't_ fail, unless it was burked.  The
whole cast was wild over _The Key_.  Julius himself was wild, and is
sick at having to turn it down.  But Odell's too big for him.  And I
guess O---- has offered to stand the racket for the loss of wasted
scenery, which has been begun on an elaborate scale.  (Think of the
great casino act at Monte Carlo!)  Unfortunately, I'm constituted so I
can't help seeing both sides of the shield and putting myself in
others' places.  I'm sorry for Julius.  But I'm twenty times sorrier
for Carr Price.  For you, too, my dear fellow, of course.  But I stand
to lose more than you do on this deal.

"I told you confidentially last June just what depends on the success
of _The Key_, and I've counted on that success as certain.  So did
_she_.  I wish to Heaven she weren't so conscientious--yet no, I love
her all the better for what she is.  I shan't ask her to break the
promise she gave her father, who, you may remember, is Governor of my
own State, not to be engaged definitely till I've made good.  But if
I'm to have even my _chance_ to make good snatched away, it's hard
lines.  I wish to the Lord my dear girl weren't such a howling swell,
with such an important parent!  No use hustling around to other
managers.  Your book went like hot cakes here.  So would your play, but
no man will pit himself against Roger Odell, if Odell means fighting.
And there's no doubt he does mean it--unless you can undo whatever the
fool thing is you've done.

"Probably this letter will go to England in the same ship with Odell.
If you're well enough by the time it reaches you, to crawl about, can't
you see him?  I've told Felborn that when you set your wits to work
you're as much of a wonder as your Prime Minister in _The Key_.  I've
worked him up to some sort of superstitious belief in you.  The next
thing is, to make him merely _put off_ the rehearsal on some pretext,
and do nothing one way or the other till I get a cable.  I shan't sleep
or eat till I hear whether there's any hope of your straightening
things with Odell.--Yours, C.P.".


"Straightening things with Odell!"  That might have been simple, if
things had ever been crooked with Odell.  But I had never met, I had
never seen him.  All I knew was what I had read, and vaguely heard from
Americans: that Roger Odell was a millionaire, still a young man, a
popular fellow who had made most of his money out of mines and had
bought up an incredible number of newspapers in order to make his power
felt in the world.  But what grudge had he against me?  How did he know
that I existed?  I decided that I owed it to myself as an expert even
more than to Price and his girl, who was a "governor's daughter," to
turn on the searchlight.

It was nearly my time for an outing.  Lady Emily Boynton was coming in
about an hour to collect me in her car, take me to the park and there
let me try a combination of legs and crutches.  But in my room was a
telephone.  In general I cursed the noisy thing.  To-day I blessed it.
I 'phoned to the doctor that, instead of his coming to me, I should
prefer to call on him, explaining my reason when we met.  Next I rang
up Lady Emily to say that I was going to Harley Street.  She mustn't
trouble to send, as I was ordering a taxi in a hurry.  And lest she
should disobey, I hobbled off before her car could arrive--my first
independent expedition since I had been interned by Violet.

I hoped that Roger Odell might be caught at some hotel in London, and
resolved not to stop going till I found him.  I began at the Savoy, and
it seemed that luck was with me when I learned that he had arrived the
night before.  He had gone out, however, directly after breakfast,
leaving no word as to his return.  This was a blow, especially as it
appeared that he had hired a powerful automobile; and even American
millionaires do not hire powerful automobiles to run about town.

They take taxis.

I gave myself a minute's reflection, and decided that it would be
tempting Providence to intern myself again before seeing Odell, or else
definitely failing to see him.  I refused to leave my name, saying that
I would call later; and on the way to keep my Harley Street appointment
stopped my taxi at a post office.  Thence I sent a cable to Carr Price--


"Count on me to make everything right with Odell.  Postpone rehearsals
if necessary, but assure Felborn he can safely prepare production.
Will wire further details.--JOHN HASLE."


Perhaps Price and Felborn would have considered this assurance
premature had they known the little I possessed to go upon.  But I had
confidence in myself, and felt justified in rushing off a cheerful
message.  Delay and uncertainty were the two fatal obstacles to our
scheme.  It seemed fair to presume that, as I've never met nor harmed
Odell, his objection to me must be founded on some misunderstanding
which a few frank words ought to clear up.  All I had to do was to see
him; and I _would_ see him if I had to camp at his door for a week.

Having got off my cable I called oh the doctor, explaining to him, as
man to man, that I was being killed with kindness, buried under flowers
and jellies, as Tarpeia was buried under shields and bracelets.  "I
must get out from under," I said, "or I shall fade like a flower or
dissolve into a jelly myself.  Can't you save me?"

"I thought you were enjoying life," he replied.  "You're well enough,
as a matter of fact, to do almost anything except go back to the front.
Your legs won't run to that, my boy, for the next six months at least.
If you're such an ungrateful beggar that you want to leave Lady
Haslemere's paradise and all its lovely houris, save yourself.  Don't
put the responsibility on me."

"Coward!" I said.  (I would have hissed it, but, except in novels, it
is physically impossible to hiss the word "coward.")

"The same to you," he retorted.  "Get someone to send you on some
mission and I'll back you up.  I'll certify that you're strong enough
to undertake it, if it doesn't depend on your legs, and is not too
strenuous."

"I may need to run over to America," it suddenly occurred to me to say,
as if by inspiration.  "I should have to depend on brains, not legs.
Would New York be too strenuous?"

"I hear they're pretty strenuous over there, but--well----"

"You don't know what I go through every day at that confounded home for
milksops when your back is turned," I pleaded, as he hesitated.  That
settled it.  We both laughed, and I knew he'd see me through.  Five
minutes before nothing had been further from my mind than a trip to New
York; but now I felt that it had been my secret intention from the
first.  It was strongly impressed upon me that I should have to go.
Why, I could not tell.  But the thing would happen.

It was two o'clock and luncheon time when I got back to the Savoy, but
Odell had not returned.  I wired (I would not 'phone lest I should be
unearthed like a fox from his hole) to the convalescent home, saying
that all was well and I had the doctor's authority to stop out as long
as I liked.  I then ate a substantial meal and inquired again at the
desk.  No Odell.  I said I would wait.  Would they kindly let me know,
in the reading-room, when Mr. Odell arrived?  I being wounded and in
khaki, they waived suspicion of a nameless caller.  I was given the
freedom of the Savoy, and I waited.  I waited three hours, and read all
the magazines and papers.  Then I wandered into the foyer and ordered
tea.  While I was having it, up trotted a sympathetic clerk with a
flurried manner to inform me that Mr. Odell was not coming back at all.
A telegram had just been received, saying that important business
called him home at once.  He was on his way by automobile to Liverpool,
whence he would sail next morning on the _Monarchic_.  His luggage was
to be forwarded by messenger in time to go on board the ship.

For a few seconds I felt as if what remained of my tea had been flung
in my face, scalding hot.  But by the time I'd thanked my informant,
paid my waiter and picked up my crutches, I knew why I had had that
presentiment.  I taxied to Cook's and learned that, owing to the war, I
could get a cabin on any ship I liked.  From Cook's to the doctor's;
found him going out, dragged him home with me, and utilised his
services in wrestling with the matron and nurses.  "The play of my book
is being produced in New York, and I must be there, dead or alive," I
explained.  This seemed to them important, even unanswerable.  It would
not to my sister-in-law.  But she was having influenza at home, and I
sneaked off before she knew (having got leave from the War Office),
sending her a grateful, regretful telegram from Liverpool.

Even the amateur sleuth doesn't let a ship carry him away to sea
without making sure that his quarry is on board.  Roger Odell's name
was not on the passenger list, but neither was mine; we were late
comers.  Nevertheless, I knew he was certain to have a good cabin, and
I inquired casually of a steward on the promenade deck whether he had
"Seen Mr. Odell yet?"  He fell into my trap and answered that he had
not, but his "mate" would be looking after the gentleman who was in the
bridal suite.

I pricked up my ears, remembering that, according to Carr Price, there
was a girl in the case.  Something unexpected had happened to upset
Odell's plans in England.  Could he be running off with anybody's wife
or daughter?

"I didn't know that Mr. Odell was on his honeymoon," I ventured as a
feeler.

The steward looked nonplussed, then grinned.  "Oh, you're thinking of
the bridal suite, sir!" he patronised my ignorance.  "There's nothing
in _that_.  Probably the gentleman wired for the best there was.  He's
alone, sir.  Do you wish to send word to him?  I can fetch my mate----"

I broke in with thanks, saying that I would see Mr. Odell later.  No
doubt I would do so; but how I should recognise him was the question.
Meanwhile, I limped about the deck, hoping to come across a chair
labelled "Odell," and vainly searching I met a deck-steward.  He took
pity on my lameness, and offered to get me a chair at once.  "Where
would you like to sit, sir?"

I wanted to say, "Put me next to Mr. Roger Odell," but that was too
crude a means towards the end.  I looked around, hesitating and
hoping--in a way I have which sometimes works well--for an inspiration,
and my wandering eyes arrived at a girl.  Then they ceased to wander.
She was extraordinarily pretty, and therefore more important than
twenty Roger Odells.  She was just settling into her deck-chair.  To
the right was another chair, with a rug and a pillow on it.  To the
left was an unfilled space.

"There's room over there," I said.  "It seems a well-sheltered place."

"It is, sir," replied the steward.  Without allowing an eye to twinkle,
he solemnly plumped down my chair at the left of the girl, not too
near, yet not too far distant.  She glanced up, as if faintly annoyed
at being given a neighbour, but seeing my crutches, melted and gave me
a brief yet angelic look of sympathy.  If she had been a nurse in my
sister-in-law's home I should never have left it.  For she was one of
those girls who, if there were only half a dozen men remaining in the
world at the end of the war, would be certain to receive proposals from
at least five.  She was the type of the Eternal Feminine, the woman of
our dreams, the face in the sunset and moonbeams.  Perhaps you have
seen such a face in real life--just once.

The girl had on a small squirrel toque and a long squirrel coat.  She
was wrapped in a squirrel rug to match.  She had reddish-brown hair.
All the girls who can take the last men in the world away from all the
other women have more or less of that red glint in their hair.  Yet she
seemed far from anxious to take the man who came striding along the
deck and stopped in front of her as the ship got under way.

What she did was to look up and cry out a horrified "Oh!"  Her cheeks,
which had been pale, flamed red.  She half threw off her fur rug, and
would have struggled out of her chair if the man had not appealed to
her mercy.

"Don't run away from me, Grace," he said, "after all these months."

The name "Grace" suited the girl, or rather expressed her.  The man
stared with hungry eyes.  I was sorry for him.  Somehow, I seemed to
know how he felt.  He had an American voice and looked like an
American--that good, strong type of American who can hold his own
anywhere: not tall, not short, not slim, not stout, not very dark, not
very fair; square-jawed, square-shouldered; aggressive-featured,
kind-eyed; one rebellious lock of brown hair falling over a white
forehead.

"But--I _have_ been running away from you all these months.  I've been
doing nothing else.  I could do nothing else," she reproached him.
They had both forgotten me.  Besides, I was not obtrusively near.

"Don't I know you've been running away--to my sorrow?" he flung back at
her.  "I heard of you in the West Indies.  I went there to hunt you
down.  You'd gone.  I dashed home.  You hadn't come back.  I was
told--I won't say by whom--that you were in England.  I ran over and
got on your track yesterday; flashed off to Bath in a fast auto;
reached there just as you'd left for Liverpool to sail on this ship.
So now I'm here."

She looked up at him, tears on her lashes.  "Oh, Rod!" was all she
said.  It did not need that name to tell me who he was, but eyes and
voice told me something more.  She was not flirting with him.  She was
not pretending to wish that he had not come.  With all her heart and
soul she did wish it, yet--_she loved him_.  I wondered if he knew
that, or if not how much he would give to learn it.

"You can't get away from me this time," he said, not truculently, but
pleadingly, as if he were afraid she might somehow slip out of his
hands.  "We'll have five days and a half--I hope six--together.  If I
can't persuade you in five days and a half----"

"You couldn't in five hundred years and a half!  Rod, what do you
_think_ of me?  Do you suppose I want you to _die_?"

"Do you suppose I'm _afraid_?"

"No.  But I am--for you.  Nothing on this earth can induce me to change
my mind.  You only make us both miserable by keeping on.  Oh, Rod, here
comes Aunt Marian!  This is her chair."

Roger Odell glanced in the direction the girl's eyes gave him.  I did
likewise.  A woman was coming, a tall woman in brown.  A generation ago
she would have been middle-aged; in our generation such women are
young.  She looked about thirty-eight, and so I put her down as ten
years older.  She was dusky olive, with a narrow face, banded black
hair, and a swaying throat: rather a beautiful Leonardo da Vinci sort
of woman.

Evidently she was as much astonished to see Odell as the girl had been,
but she had a different way of showing it.  She did not seem to mind
his presence when she got over her surprise.  She shook hands and let
him put her into her chair, tucking the brown fur rug around her body
and under her slim feet.  I thought she seemed more Italian than
American.  She was very agreeable to Odell, in a cool, detached way,
but when she inquired if he ought not to be going below to lunch, even
a man of his determination was obliged to take the hint.  "We are
having something brought to us on deck," she explained.  "Come back if
you like when you have finished."

My lameness gave me an excuse for troubling the deck steward, who
fetched me a plate of cold chicken at about the time when more
elaborately furnished trays were placed before the two ladies.  They
had more to eat than I, but they finished sooner; at least, it was so
with the younger.  There was no sea on, yet she left her luncheon
almost untouched, and after five minutes' playing with it went indoors.
No sooner had she got safely away than Odell came back to accept the
invitation given by "Aunt Marian," only to find it no longer worth his
acceptance.  (Recalling her words, I realised that she had never
expected "Grace" to stay.)  Odell asked for a chair, nevertheless, and
had it put next to hers, evidently meaning to annex the place
permanently.  These were the right tactics, of course.  Even I should
have adopted them; but they were opposed to a more subtle and deadly
strategy.  "Grace" proceeded to prove that being on board the same ship
with her did not mean being in her society.  She did not appear on deck
again.  Odell was forced to realise that he had made the girl a
prisoner in her cabin.

That afternoon the list of passengers was given out, and I searched
eagerly for her name.  I had not far down the alphabet to go.  There
she was among the "C's"--"Miss Grace Callender."  The name was an
electric shock; and seeing it I could guess but too easily why the girl
might love a man and run away from him.

Nobody who read the newspapers three years ago could have helped
knowing who Grace Callender was; and if they forgot, she would
certainly have been recalled to their minds a year and a half later.
I, at least, had not forgotten.  I owed to the "Callender-Graham
Tragedy" one detail which had helped to make the success of my novel,
and had suggested its name, _The Key_.  Miss Callender was (and is) an
American heiress, but England has its own reasons for being interested
in American heiresses.  Therefore, at the time of the two great
sensational events in Grace Callender's life, London papers gave long
paragraphs to the story.

Her parents--cousins--were both killed in a motor accident in France
while she was a schoolgirl at home in charge of her aunt, a half-sister
of the father, Graham Callender.  Both parents were rich, having, for
their lifetime, the use of an immense fortune, or rather the income
derived from it.  The principal could not be touched by them, but
passed to their only child.  This arrangement had come about through a
family quarrel in the previous generation; but, as Graham Callender and
his wife were of opinion that injustice had been done, they wished
their daughter to atone for it by her marriage.  Half the money ought
rightly to have gone to Philip Callender-Graham, a cousin who had been
disinherited in their favour.  He had died poor, leaving a couple of
sons a few years older than Grace.  The two had been educated at Graham
Callender's expense, and had spent their holidays at his houses in town
and country.  Grace had grown up to look upon both almost as brothers,
though they were only her second cousins.  She was fond of the pair--a
little fonder of Perry, the elder, than of his younger brother Ned.  As
for the brothers themselves, it appeared later that both were in love
with Grace;  but Ned kept his secret and let Perry win the prize.  The
engagement of Grace Callender and Perry Callender-Graham was announced
on the girl's nineteenth birthday.  One night a few months later, and
just one week before the day fixed for the wedding, Perry
Callender-Graham was found dead in a quiet side street near Riverside
Drive.

There were no marks of violence on his body, and apparently he had not
been robbed.  In his pockets were several letters which could have no
bearing on the cause of his death, an empty envelope, a sum of money, a
jewel-case containing a diamond pendant, probably intended as a gift
for his fiancee, and two keys which seemed to be new.  Both were
latchkeys: one rather large and long, looking as if it might belong to
the front door of a house; the other was small, not unlike the key to
the door of the dead man's flat.  Neither fitted any door of the
private hotel in which he lived, however, and consequently suggested
mystery.  But as three specialists certified death by natural causes,
the police came to regard the keys as of no importance.  The doctors
testified to a condition known as "status lymphaticus," which cannot be
diagnosed during life, but which may cause a slight shock to be fatal.
It was thought that Callender-Graham--whose body lay close to a street
crossing--might have started back to save himself from being run over
by a swift automobile suddenly turning the corner, and in the shock of
falling have died of heart failure.

Grace Callender was grieved and distressed, but not prostrated with
sorrow, as she would have been over the loss of an adored lover.
Everyone who knew her knew that she had been going to marry her cousin
not because she was in love, but in order to give him the fortune
wrongfully diverted from his father.  In these peculiar circumstances,
many people prophesied the thing which happened a year later: her
engagement to Ned Callender-Graham, through whom the restitution could
equally well be made.  He seemed to be a popular fellow, even better
liked in general than his dreamy, poetical brother; and as his friends
guessed that he had unselfishly stood in the background for Perry's
sake, all were pleased with his good fortune.  The engagement went on
for six months; and then a week before the wedding was to take place,
Ned Callender-Graham was found dead in the same street and almost on
the same spot where his brother had fallen a year and a half before.

This extraordinary coincidence was rendered even more remarkable by the
fact that nearly every detail of the first tragedy was repeated in the
second.  Not only had the brothers met their death in the same street,
and almost on the eve of marriage with the same girl, but, according to
doctors' evidence, they had died in the same way and at practically the
same hour.  Ned, like Perry, was afflicted with status lymphaticus.
There was no trace of violence on his body.  He had not been robbed,
for his pockets were full of money.  He carried his brother's watch
which Perry's will had left to him--the watch which Perry had worn on
the night of his death--and two or three letters, together with an
empty envelope.  Stranger than all, perhaps, he had in his possession
two new latchkeys--duplicates of the keys found in his dead brother's
pocket.

This time, owing to the almost miraculous resemblance between the
cases, foul play was suspected.  But it seemed that the brothers had no
enemies and, so far as could be learned, no serious rivals with Miss
Callender.  The girl and her aunt clung to the belief that Perry and
Ned had died natural deaths, and that the ghastly coincidence was no
more than a coincidence.  Miss Marian Callender's theory was that Ned
had fallen a victim to his love for his brother, a too sensitive
conviction of guilt in taking Perry's place, and an unhappy
superstition which he had confided to her--though, naturally, not to
her niece.  He believed himself to be haunted by his brother's spirit,
which influenced him to do things he did not wish.  He said one day
that he doubted if Perry would ever let him marry Grace, but would
contrive to break off the engagement in some way, even if all went well
until the last moment.  Miss Marian Callender suggested that the
apparently mysterious keys were the same keys which Perry had
possessed, they having been given, with other souvenirs of the dead
man, to his brother; that it was characteristic of Ned to keep them by
him, as well as the watch, in a kind of remorseful loyalty to the
brother he had superseded; and that the same half-affectionate,
half-fearful superstition had led him that night into the street where
Perry had fallen.  Once there--at an hour the same as that of Perry's
death a week before his appointed marriage--in all probability Ned had
imagined himself confronted by his brother's accusing ghost.  The two
were known to be temperamentally as well as physically alike, though
Ned was undoubtedly stronger physically.  It was not strange if Perry
had a peculiar weakness of the heart that Ned should have the same; and
the shock of a fancied meeting with Perry's spirit at such a time and
such a place might easily have been too great for a man already at high
nervous tension.  Others than Miss Marian Callender talked freely with
reporters and detectives, repeating her story that Ned Callender-Graham
had felt oppressed with a sense of guilt, that he had worried himself
into an emotional state which he had tried to hide, and that he had
attended spiritualistic seances.  All this, together with the fact that
there was no evidence of murder, caused the second verdict to be the
same as the first.  But Grace Callender found herself so stared at and
pointed at, and gossiped about wherever she went, that her life became
a burden.  She knew that terrible nicknames were fastened upon her,
that she was called "Belladonna" and "The Poison Flower," as if her
promise to marry had brought death upon her lovers.  She heard women
whispering behind her back, "If I were a man I simply shouldn't _dare_
be engaged to her in spite of her millions"; and what she did not hear
she imagined.  She in her turn grew superstitious, or so it was said.
She began to feel that there must be something fatal about her; that a
curse which the father of Perry and Ned was said to have pronounced on
her parents in his first fury at losing a fortune had been visited on
her.  Though she had twice come near her wedding she had never yet
deeply loved a man; nevertheless, because of the "curse" and in fear of
it, she resolved to give up all hope of happiness in love, never to
marry, nor even engage herself again.

All this I remembered distinctly, not alone because my memory is a
blotting-pad for such cases, but because the story had captured my
imagination, and because I had used the detail of the keys for my own
book, only substituting one for two.

"By Jove!" I said.  "The key!  Now, can that be the clue to Roger
Odell's veto?"

I set myself deliberately to think the matter over from this new point
of view.  Evidently he was desperately in love with Grace Callender.
Could the mere fact that I had named a book of mine _The Key_, and
turned my plot upon a mysterious key found in a dead man's pocket,
have inspired Odell with revengeful rage?  Except for the title, and
the key in the pocket, there was nothing in my book or in Carr Price's
play which bore even the vaguest likeness to the Callender-Graham
tragedy.  I didn't see how the most loyal lover could feel that I had
"butted in" upon what to him was sacred; still, the new idea had some
substance in it.  Not only had I hit on a possible clue to the man's
enmity, but into my mind from another direction suddenly flashed so
astounding a ray of light that I was almost blinded.  I could hardly
wait to try weapons with Odell.

How to get at him and hold him, so to speak, at my mercy was the next
difficulty.  I had to think that out too, and I did it by process of
deduction.  For reasons of my own, I had not yet secured a seat in the
dining-saloon, but now I limped down below with my inspiration.  Others
had made their arrangements and gone, but I managed to catch the head
steward.

"I suppose you're assigning seats for people who want to sit alone at
these small tables?" I began.

"We have assigned only one such, sir," he cautiously admitted.  "All
we're able to give."

"Why all?" I wanted to know.  "There are plenty of tables and only a
few passengers."

"Yes, sir, that's true.  But also, there's only a few stewards.  We
haven't enough to spare for scattering around."

"Is Mr. Roger Odell the one fortunate person to whom you've been able
to give a table to himself?"  I threw out this question like a lasso.

"Why, yes, sir, as a matter of fact he is," the caught steward
confessed.  "We've several tables with parties of two or three, but for
one alone----"

"I may wish to be alone just as much as Mr. Odell does," I argued.
"But the next best thing to being alone is to sit with another man who
wants to be alone.  Then there's no fear of too much conversation.  Put
me at Mr. Odell's table."  As I spoke I slipped a five-pound note into
a surprised but unresisting hand.  (I had to bribe high to outbribe a
millionaire.)  Even as his fingers closed mechanically on the paper the
steward's tongue began to stammer, "I--I'm afraid he may object, sir."

"He may at first; but not after three minutes.  All I ask is to be put
at the table when Mr. Odell is seated, and without his knowing
beforehand that he's obliged to have a companion.  If he still objects
after three minutes of my company I've had my money's worth.  I'll
leave him in possession of the table; you can put me where you like."

It was a bargain.  The steward pointed out the table selected by Odell.

I was dressed and ready for dinner before the bugle sounded, but did
not go down until I thought that most of the passengers would be
already seated.  Hovering in the doorway, I saw that Odell was already
in his place.  Then I made straight for the table and sat down in the
chair opposite his.

He had been gloomily eating his soup, and looked up from it with a
glare.

"I think you must be making a mistake," he remarked with an effort at
civility.  "I asked to be alone."

"So did I," I said.

"But not at this table."

"At this very table."

"Then I'll leave it to you."

"Please don't," I said.  "If one of us goes, I'll be the one, as I'm
the last comer.  But will you meanwhile be kind enough to answer two
easy questions?  First, are you Mr. Roger Odell of New York?"

"Yes, to question number one.  If the next's as easy, perhaps I'll
answer that too."

(He looked faintly amused.  The space between his straight black
eyebrows was growing visible again.  I had still two minutes and a half
out of the three.)

"Thank you," I said.  "The next should be even easier.  Why have you
warned Julius Felborn that if he brings out Carr Price's play, _The
Key_, you'll quash it?"

The man's face changed.  From half-amused boredom it expressed white
rage.  "You are that fellow John Hasle," he said.  His voice was low
and in control, but his look was vitriolic.  All the same, I liked him.
He was a man, and I had a man's chance with him.

"Yes, I'm that fellow John Hasle.  Let me introduce myself," I replied.

"You've hunted me down.  You said you wanted to sit alone.  That was
not true."

"I said, 'I asked to sit alone.'  I wanted to sit with you.  It was my
way of getting to do it.  I took not only the table and the
opportunity, but my ticket to New York with the same object.  I think I
have the right to inquire what's your motive for wishing to injure me
and to expect that you'll answer.  If you think differently, I'll get
up at once and go.  But I believe I shall have succeeded in spoiling
your appetite."

"You're a cool hand," he said, with no softening of the eyes which gave
me look for look.  "Sit still.  If you get up and hobble away on those
crutches you'll have the whole room gaping at us."  (Not for the first
time were my crutches a blessing in disguise:) "Whether you've a right
to question me or not, I don't mind telling you that I think Americans
are better at detective literature than any Englishman, speaking
generally, and a whole lot better than John Hasle, speaking
particularly."

"I think," said I, "that I shall be able to prove my detective powers
to you later on, speaking very particularly."

"Ah, indeed!  In what way?"

"'Later on' was what I said."

"All right.  I'm in no hurry."

"I am.  Because several matters have got to be settled before I can
progress much further.  For one thing, you haven't answered my second
question.  Your opinion of my book or my British limitations as a
detective has nothing to do with your attitude toward the play."

"If you know so much, perhaps you know more."

"Frankly, I don't.  I ask you to tell me the rest as frankly."

"Very well.  Perhaps the medicine will go to the spot quicker if you
understand what it's for.  It sounds sort of melodramatic, and maybe it
is so; but my wish--my intention--to strangle your play at birth, or
crush it afterwards, has revenge for its motive."

"Revenge for what?"

"For the cruel act of a member of your family to a member of mine."

"There's only one other member of my family beside myself--my brother."

"Exactly!  That's the man.  There's only one other member of _my_
family beside myself.  That's my adopted sister.  I care more for her
than anyone else in the world--except one.  Through your brother, my
sister's health and her hopes are both ruined.  If you didn't know
before, you know now what you're up against."

"I assure you I didn't know," I said.  "This is the last thing that
occurred to me.  I admit I thought of something else----"

"Oh, is there something else?  It's not needed.  Still, you may as well
out with it, so I can put another black mark against the name."

"I'll tell you, when I'm ready to talk of the detective test I spoke
of.  But about my brother injuring your adopted sister.  There must be
some mistake----"

"Not on your life, if you're Lord John Hasle and your brother's the
Marquis of Haslemere."

"I can't deny that."

"It's a pity!"

"So _he_ often says.  He's not proud of me as an author.  He'd be still
less proud of me on the stage.  You'll be doing him a real service if
you prevent _The Key_ from being produced, and so keep the family name
out of the papers in connection with the theatre."

"Oh, will I?" Odell echoed.  He looked rather blank for a moment; then
gathered himself and his black eyebrows together.  "You're mighty
intelligent, aren't you?" he sneered.

"I've always thought so.  I'm glad you agree.  But there's no use our
rotting on like this.  We're wasting time.  Will you tell me what
Haslemere can possibly have done?"

"Yes!  What he positively _did_ do!" the man broke out fiercely, then
controlled himself and glanced quickly round the room as if looking for
someone.  But not even Miss Marian Callender had come into the saloon.
Both she and her niece must have been dining in their own suite.  "Lord
Haslemere wrote a letter to your British Lord Chamberlain, or whatever
you call his High Mightiness, and caused him to have my sister's
presentation at Court cancelled three days before it should have come
off in May last year."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed.  "What an extraordinary thing to do!"

"What a monstrous, what a beastly thing to do!  A defenceless girl.  A
beautiful girl.  One of the best on earth.  It broke her heart--the
humiliation of it, and the shock.  She wasn't very strong, and she'd
been looking forward to making her bow to your Royalties.  Lord knows
why she should have cared so much.  But she did.  She loved England.
She has English blood in her veins.  She had a sort of loyal feeling to
your King and Queen.  That is what she got for it.  She's never been
the same since, and I doubt if she ever will be.  All her friends knew
she was going to be presented--and then she wasn't.  The damned story
leaked out somehow, and has been going the rounds ever since.  That's
why, if your play is produced in New York, I shall see it gets what it
deserves--or, anyway, what your family deserves."

"How do you know Haslemere wrote that letter?" I asked.

"My sister got it from a woman who was to present her--a friend of Lord
Haslemere's wife.  She'd seen the letter."

"Then she must have seen some reason alleged."

"She did.  That to his certain knowledge Miss Madeleine Odell wasn't a
proper person to be introduced to their Majesties.  Maida not a proper
person!  She's a saint."

"What lie about her could have been told to my brother?"

"I know what lie was told, because it has been told to others.  It's
blighted her life for years, go where she would on our side of the
water.  She hoped it wouldn't have got so far as England; and if it
hadn't, she'd have settled down in that country to enjoy a little
peace.  But there it was, like a snake in the grass!  The thing I'd
give my head to find out is, _who spread the lie_?"

"You don't know, then?"

"No, I don't.  It's a black mystery."

"Better let me use my despised detective talents to solve it."

"Oh, _that's_ what you've been working up to, is it?"

"No.  How could it be, as I hadn't heard the story when I began to
work?  But I'm willing to take it on as an extra by and by.  My brother
and I are scarcely friends.  I'm not responsible for his act, and
whatever the motive, I don't excuse it.  Why go out of his way to hurt
a woman?  Yet I may be able to atone."

"Never!"

"Never's a long word.  But just here the time has come to mention the
two things I promised to tell you 'later on.'  I thought what you had
against me might be the name and the plot of my book, dramatised by
Carr Price."

"What the devil is the name or plot of your play to me?"

"Ah, that was what I wanted to know.  It occurred to me as possible
that you resented the incident of a key being found in a dead man's
pocket, and the title of the book and play which might recall a certain
double tragedy to the public mind."

The blood rushed to the man's face.  He understood instantly, and did
not choose to pretend ignorance.  "How dare you presume that I have a
right to resent any such reference?" he challenged me.

"I dare, because of the second of the two things I reserved to tell you
later: the wish I have to prove my detective powers for your benefit.
I couldn't help seeing to-day your meeting on deck with Miss Callender.
I couldn't help hearing a few words.  Because I play at being a
detective I keep my wits about me.  Also I have a good memory for names
and stories connected with them.  Mr. Odell, will you separate me in
your mind from my brother and give Carr Price's play a chance for its
life if I tell you who killed Perry and Ned Callender-Graham, and prove
to Miss Callender that there's no reason why she need be afraid to give
her love to any man?"

Odell stared as if he thought I had gone mad or he was dreaming.

"Who _killed_ Perry and Ned Graham?" he repeated.  "No one killed them."

"You are wrong," I said quietly.

"That's your opinion!" he blurted out.

"That's my opinion.  And if I'm right, if those two were murdered, and
if the murderer or murderers can be found, won't Miss Callender feel
she may safely marry a man she loves without delivering him up to
danger?"

"Yes," Odell admitted.  "Great Heaven, _if_ you were right!"

"Supposing I am, and can prove it?"

"There's nothing on God's earth I wouldn't do for you."

"Well," I said, "I believe there's something in that opinion of mine.
Don't dream that now I am getting at this truth I would bury it even if
you did worse than crush my play.  I'll go on, anyhow, but----"

"You say you are getting at the truth," he broke in.  "What do you
think--what do you know?  But how can you, a stranger, _know_ anything?"

"A stranger to you and those connected with the case, but not to the
case itself.  You may thank that despised detective instinct of mine
for my keen interest in its details."

"If you thought you'd unearthed the clue to a mystery, why didn't you
advertise yourself by pointing it out to the police a year and a half
ago?"

"I certainly should if I'd got hold of it then, though not for the
motive you suggest, Mr. Odell.  My publishers were giving me all the
publicity I wanted.  As it happens, I picked up the clue in question
only--a short time ago."

"Only a few hours ago" were the words which all but slipped out.  I bit
them back, however.  My line with a keen business man like Roger Odell
was not to give away something for nothing.  It was to sell--for a
price.

He tried to keep his countenance, but his eyes lit.  I saw that my
hint, like a spark to gun-cotton, had set him aflame with curiosity.
Already, in spite of himself, he began to look on me less as an enemy
than an agent; perhaps (a wonderful "perhaps" he could not help
envisaging) a deliverer.

"For God's sake, speak out and say what you mean!"  The appeal was
forced from him.  He looked half ashamed of it.

"I can't do that--yet," I returned.  "I might tell you my suspicions;
but that wouldn't be fair to myself, or you, or--anyone concerned.  I
must land first.  Once off the ship, twenty-four hours are all I shall
need to find--I won't say the '_missing_ link,' because I have reason
to think it will not be missing, but the link I can't touch this side
of New York.  I will make a rendezvous with you at the end of that
time, either to tell you I've put two and two together with the link,
or else to confess that the ends of the chain can't be made to fit."

Odell stared at me hungrily.

"You want only twenty-four hours to do what the best police in the
world haven't done in a year and a half," he growled at me.  "You think
something of yourself, don't you?"

"You see, I've known myself for a long time," I said modestly.  "You've
only just been introduced to me, and were prejudiced to begin with.
About that rendezvous--do you consent to my appointing the place?"

"Yes," he agreed.  "Your hotel?"

"No.  In the manager's private office at the Felborn Theatre; the time,
twenty-four hours after we get away from the dock.  That will be the
most convenient place for both of us in case of my success, for Julius
Felborn and Carr Price can be called in to fix a date for the first
rehearsal of _The Key_."

The man could not keep back a laugh.  It was harsh and short; but it
was a score for me and he knew it.  "The Felborn Theatre let it be," he
said grimly.

The weather was fine and we made almost a record trip in point of time.
There was nothing for Odell to regret in the briefness of the voyage,
for Grace Callender remained in her cabin till he sent a message by her
aunt, promising not to try for a word or a look if she came on deck.
After that she appeared again, as if to show appreciation, and Odell
didn't abuse her confidence.  He kept himself to the other side of the
deck; but there was no reason why I should give up my place near the
two ladies.  After the first night's dinner _en tete-a-tete_, Odell and
I had no more meals together; consequently, the Misses Callender, aunt
and niece, were unaware of our acquaintanceship.  They had no reason to
shun their lame neighbour, and my crutches gave me their sympathy, as
they have given me various other blessings.  Instead of my picking up a
dropped book, as a man usually contrives to do if he yearns to know a
girl on shipboard, Grace Callender retrieved one for me.  After that, I
was permitted, even encouraged, to draw my deck-chair closer to theirs
and "tell them things about the war."  I noticed that the girl caught
eagerly, nervously, at any subject which could hold her attention for a
moment, even that of my book and Carr Price's play.  I, having the
secret clue, guessed that she was for ever trying to escape from a
thought too engrossing.  Her aunt, Miss Marian Callender, had the clue
also; and often I caught her long dark eyes--eyes like those of La
Gioconda--fixed with almost painful intentness on Grace.  "She knows
that her niece is thinking about Odell," I told myself.  Evidently she
approved the girl's decision to put him out of her life.  If she had
been Odell's friend and sympathiser, a woman of her superior age and
strong personal charm (for she had a sort of hypnotic charm, like a
velvet-petalled flower with a penetrating perfume) could surely have
influenced an impressionable girl, especially one so devoted to her as
Grace Callender was.

It was nine o'clock on an April morning when we escaped from the
custom-house men and spun away from the White Star docks in a
glittering grey car.  When I say "we," I refer to myself and the two
Misses Callender.  They had befriended me to the extent of recommending
me to an hotel and offering to motor me to it; and I was malicious
enough to hope that Odell might see me going off with them.  There was
little doubt in my mind that he did so, and none at all of what
feelings must have been roused by the sight.  These would have been
still more poignant had he known that it was Grace who impulsively
invited me, Marian who merely followed with a polite echo.  They lived
in a large old-fashioned house in Park Avenue, where the car dropped
the ladies and by their order took me on to the Hotel Belmont.  There
Carr Price was waiting, for when--the day before our landing--the
Callenders had mentioned the Belmont I marconied him to meet me at the
hotel.

"Why did you wire 'Don't come to the dock?'" he asked almost
resentfully.

"Because I thought it might annoy Roger Odell if I dangled you under
his nose," I explained.

"Roger Odell's nose!" Price gasped.  "Where--where----"

"Was it?  On the _Monarchic_.  And I didn't pull it; neither did he
pull mine.  I even have hopes that the two features may come to terms.
To-morrow, at exactly this hour, you're due to know why.  But meanwhile
I want you to promise me patience, blind faith and--unquestioning help.
There's no time to waste over it, so here goes!  Who's the most
influential man you know in New York?"

"George Gould," he said.

"Pooh! a mere millionaire.  He's no use to me.  Do you know anyone in
the police force--high enough up to do you a favour?"

Price pondered for an instant.  "I know Sam Yelverton.  Is that name
familiar to you?"

"It is.  Think we'll find him in now if you take me to call?"

"If this is our lucky day we shall."

"Let's put it to the test.  I've noticed that New York has taxis as
well as London."

"And you'll notice the difference when you've paid for one.  But this
is on me."

The omen of luck was good, for we found our man at the police
head-quarters, and, true to his promise, Carr Price sat as still and
expressionless as an owl while I did the talking.  I had been
introduced to the great Sam Yelverton by my own request as the author
of _The Key_, and it really was a stroke of luck that he had read and
liked it.  He looked interested when I said that I'd got an idea for my
book from a _cause celebre_ in New York--"The Callender-Graham affair,"
I explained.

"Ah, the latchkeys in the dead men's pockets!" he caught me up.

"Exactly.  Now it's a question of a play by Mr. Price, on the same
lines as my book and with the same title, soon, _very_ soon, to be
produced at the Felborn Theatre.  It will be of the greatest assistance
to him and to me in working out an important detail if I can have Ned
Callender-Graham's latchkeys--anyhow, the smaller one--in my hands for
a few hours to-day.  Indeed, I'm afraid we can't get much 'forrarder'
if you refuse."

(This was the literal truth, for, unless I could obtain the more
important of those two keys and do with it what I hoped to do, I should
be unable to "deliver the goods" to Roger Odell.  I should stand with
him where I had stood before the "hold up" interview, and the play
would be pigeon-holed indefinitely.  Price's eyes were starting from
his head, but he kept his tongue between his teeth.)

Mr. Yelverton seemed amused.  "I guess I may be able to manage that,"
he said, "if one or both of those keys are still in our hands, as I
believe they are.  If I do the trick for you I'll expect a box for the
play on the first night, eh?"

"It's a bargain, isn't it, Carr?" said I.

The dazed Price assented.

"Oh, and by the way, Mr. Yelverton"--I arrested the famous man as he
picked up the receiver of his desk telephone--"if the letters and the
empty envelopes found on the bodies of the two brothers are still among
your police archives, would it be possible for me to have a look at
them?"

Yelverton--a big man with a red face and the keenest eyes I ever saw,
deep set between cushiony lids--threw me a quick glance.  "You do
remember the details of that case pretty well, Lord John!" he said.

"I'm an amateur follower in your famous footsteps," I reminded him.  He
smiled, called up a number and began telephoning.  I admired the clear
way in which he put what he wanted--or what I wanted--without wasting a
word.  He asked not only for the keys, but for the whole dossier in the
double case of the Callender-Graham brothers.  Then came a moment of
waiting in which my heart ticked like a clock; but I contrived to
answer Mr. Yelverton's mild questions about our weather on shipboard.
At last a sharp ring heralded an end of suspense.

"Sorry, Lord John," the big man began, taking the receiver from the
generous shell of his ear.  "They're sending round the dossier, but our
chaps have got none of the Callender-Graham 'exhibits in their
possession--haven't had for nearly a year.  I feared it was likely to
be so.  You see, there was no proof that any crime had been committed
on either of the two brothers; in fact, the theory was against it.
When the police definitely dropped the case--or cases--the family was
entitled to all personal property of the deceased.  Everything found on
the body of Ned Callender-Graham was handed over to the relatives by
their request, as had been done a few weeks after the elder brother's
death, even the letters and those empty envelopes you were intelligent
enough to single out for observation.  We had done the same, naturally,
but, in every sense of the word"--he grinned--"there was nothing in
'em."

"The keys on Ned's body were handed over to the Misses Callender,
then?" I inquired, stiffening the muscles of my face to mask my
disappointment.

"Yes.  Perhaps, as you remember so much, you recall the fact that the
first two keys were given to the relatives.  Miss Marian Callender and
her niece believed that Ned had Perry's keys in his pocket, which would
mean there were but the two.  The Callender ladies are the sole
surviving relatives, or, anyhow, the nearest ones.  But I've saved my
bit of good news from head-quarters till the last.  They 'phoned that
there are duplicate keys.  I thought I recalled something of the sort.
Not sure but I suggested making them myself.  That pretty millionairess
girl might get herself engaged a third time, and if there were any more
dead men found with latchkeys in their pockets, sample specimens might
be very handy for our fellows."

Sam Yelverton finished with a laugh; but I couldn't echo it.  I thought
of Odell, of Grace Callender's lovely face and her young, spoilt life.
I remembered the cruel nicknames "Belladonna" and "Poison Flower."  If
even the police prepared for a third tragedy, in case she thought again
of marriage, no wonder the poor girl refused the man she loved.

"Will duplicates do for you, or do I lose my stage-box?" the big man
asked.

I said aloud that I thought duplicates would answer my purpose, and
silently to myself I said that they must do so.

Ten minutes later a policeman of some rank (what rank I couldn't tell,
he being my first American specimen) brought in a parcel of
considerable size.  It contained many affidavits concerning the
Callender-Graham tragedy; and on the top of these documents was a
small, neatly labelled packet containing two keys.

The larger was entirely commonplace; and even the smaller one was at
first glance a rather ordinary latchkey, of the Yale order.  To an
experienced and observant eye, however, it was of curious workmanship.

"Not a Yale, you see," said Yelverton, taking a magnifying glass from a
small drawer of his tidy desk and passing it on to me.  "What do you
make of the thing?"

"Foreign, isn't it?" I remarked carelessly.

"Yes, we thought so.  German--or Italian.  Both the brothers had
travelled abroad.  On a Yale you would read the words 'Yale
paracentric,' and a number.  There's neither name nor number on that."
He flung a gesture toward the key in my hand.

"May I take it away and keep it till to-morrow morning, to work out my
plot with?" I asked.  "The big one I don't care about.  I give you my
word I'll send this back in twenty-four--no, let's say twenty-five
hours.  I have an engagement for the twenty-fourth hour."

"All right," replied Yelverton good-naturedly.  "You might bring the
box-ticket with you.  Ha, ha!"

"I will," I laughed.  "And as to the dossier, may I sit somewhere out
of your way and glance through it in case there's anything we can work
up to strengthen the realism of our scenario?  Of course, we'll
guarantee to use nothing that might recall the Callender-Graham case to
the public or dramatic critics."

"You can sit in the outer office and browse over the bundle till
lunch-time, if you like," said Yelverton.  "There's a table there in a
quiet corner.  I shall be off on business before you finish, I expect.
See you later--at the Felborn Theatre, your first night.  Wish you
luck."

I thanked him and got up.  Carr Price followed suit.

"Weren't you a bit premature mentioning the Felborn?" he reproached me
in the next room, beyond earshot of Mr. Yelverton's secretaries and
stenographers.

"No," I reassured him.  "To-morrow, at this time or a little later,
you'll know why.  Meanwhile, don't worry, but take my word--and a taxi
to the theatre.  Tell Felborn I'm on the spot, and there's a truce
between Odell and me, an armistice of twenty-four"--I pulled out my
watch--"no, twenty-two and a half hours.  Ask him to lend me his
private office to-morrow morning from nine till ten o'clock.  After
that time you and he had better hold yourselves ready to be called in
to discuss dates."

"You're either the wonder child of the British Empire or its champion
fool," remarked Price somewhat waspishly, as he prepared to leave me
alone with the Callender-Graham dossier.

"You've got till to-morrow to make up your mind which," said I, sitting
down to my meal of manuscripts in order not to waste a minute out of
the twenty-two and a half hours which remained to me.  It would not
have been wise to add that I didn't know which myself.

Many of the papers I passed over rapidly.  Others gave me information
that I couldn't have got from Odell without a confession of ignorance,
or from the Misses Callender without impertinence.  Among the latter
was one summarising much of the family history; and, profiting by some
smart detective's researches, I learned a good deal about Miss Grace
Callender and her almost equally interesting aunt.

Even before the girl reached the age of sixteen, it seemed, she had
begun to have offers of marriage.  After her parents' death, when she
was not quite fifteen, she had lived for a while with Miss Marian
Callender at the house in Park Avenue left to her by her father.  She
had been taught by French governesses, German governesses and English
governesses, but all had failed to prevent a kind of persecution by
young men fascinated with the child's beauty or her money.  At last
Miss Callender senior had sent her niece to a boarding-school in the
country where the supervision was notoriously strict, and had herself
gone to Italy, her mother's native land, for a few months' visit.
Eight or nine years before this Marian Callender had fallen in love
with an Italian tenor, singing with enormous success in New York.  The
lady's half-brother--Grace's father--had objected to the marriage, and
for that reason or some other the two had parted.  Gossips said that
the singer, Paolo Tostini, had not cared enough for Marian Callender to
take her without a _dot_; and all she had came from her millionaire
half-brother.  At Graham Callender's death Marian's friends were
surprised that she was left a yearly allowance (though a magnificently
generous one) only while she "continued unmarried and acted as Grace's
guardian."  In the event of Grace's marriage, the girl was free to
continue half the same allowance to her aunt if she chose.  This was
generally considered unjust to Marian, and the only excuse for the
arrangement seemed to be that Graham Callender feared Paolo Tostini
might come forward again if the woman he had jilted were left with a
fortune.

The police of New York had apparently thought it worth while to ferret
out further facts in connection with the singer, who had not again
returned to America.  They learned that the once celebrated tenor had
lost his voice and had spent his money in extravagance, as many artists
do.  He was living in comparative poverty with his father (a skilled
mechanician and inventor of a successful time lock for safes) and his
younger brother in Naples at the time of Miss Marian Callender's visit
to Italy, and Grace's school life.  Although these facts were inquired
into only after some years had passed, and the two brothers
Callender-Graham had died, Marian's movements must have been easily
traced, for it was learned that she had openly visited the Tostinis at
their small villa between Posilipo and Naples.  The family had also
called and dined at her hotel, where they were not unknown.  After that
their circumstances had apparently improved, and it appeared not
improbable that Marian Callender had helped her late lover's people.

When she returned to New York it was to find that Grace was being
bombarded with love letters at school, and that the hotel in the
village near by had for its principal clients a crowd of young men
whose whole business in life was lying in wait for the heiress.  In
consequence, Marian brought her niece back to the house in Park Avenue;
and soon after, before the girl had been allowed to come out in
society, Antonio, the younger brother of Paolo Tostini, arrived in New
York.  His business was that of an analytical chemist.  He had
first-rate recommendations, and was an extremely brilliant, as well as
singularly good-looking young man, some (who remembered the tenor)
thought even handsomer than Paolo.  Antonio Tostini, thanks to his own
ability and the introductions he had from Miss Callender and others,
got on well both in business and society.  No one was surprised, and no
one blamed her, when Marian Callender threw the clever young Italian
and Grace Callender together--except that the girl was young to make up
her mind, and her dead father had favoured a match with one of the
disinherited cousins.

From these rough notes, crudely classifying Antonio Tostini's courtship
of Grace Callender, I gathered that the young Italian had fallen
desperately in love with the girl.  He had assured friends whom they
had in common that even if, to marry him, she were obliged to give up
her fortune, he would still think himself the happiest man on earth to
win her.  Grace's aunt, who had tried to keep the girl out of other
men's way, evidently favoured her old love's brother.  She chaperoned a
yachting party, of which Grace and Antonio were the most important
members, a party in which the Callender-Grahams were not included,
though they wished for invitations.  This match-making effort on
Marion's part stifled all suspicion that she discouraged Grace from
marrying in order to retain a charming home, a large, certain income,
and all kinds of other luxuries for herself.  She had taken Grace's
refusal of Antonio Tostini almost as hard as he had taken it himself.
She had even been ill for several weeks when for the third time Grace
had sent him away, and he returned in despair to Italy.  It was not
long after this affair (the dossier informed me) that, in accordance
with her father's desire, the girl engaged herself to Perry
Callender-Graham, and Marian consented to the inevitable.  Her
affection and support during the tragic experiences that followed had
given great comfort to Grace, and, so far as was known, Antonio Tostini
had had the good taste never to appear on the scene again.

Here were many details which I had been anxious, but not decently able,
to learn, as the Misses Callenders' shipboard friendship had confined
itself to lending me books, telling me what to do in New York, inviting
me to call, listening to talk about the war or the play, and allowing
me to snapshot them on deck.

Having looked through the dossier, I took my departure with the key.
It was only a duplicate, yet I couldn't rid myself of a queer,
superstitious feeling for the thing, as if it were offered to me by the
unseen hand of a dead man.

I taxied back to my hotel and mentioned to a clerk that I wanted to see
houses and flats in the direction of Riverside Drive.  Could he direct
me to an agent who would have the letting of apartments in that
neighbourhood?  If my foreign way of expressing myself amused him, he
hid his mirth and looked up in a big book the addresses of several
agents.

I had not cared to be too specific in my questions, but I chose the
address nearest the street I wanted, taxied there, found the agent, and
inquired if there were anything to be let.  It was the street in which
Perry Callender-Graham and Ned, his brother, had met their death.

"I have been recommended to that particular street by an American
friend in England," I said.  "He has told me that it's very quiet.
There are several apartment houses in it, are there not?

"Yes," replied a spruce young man who looked willing to let me half
residential New York.  "But it's a favourite street; I'm afraid there's
nothing doing there now.  As for houses, they're all owned, or have
been rented for many years.  A little farther north or south----"

"Hold on," I pulled him back.  "Somebody might be induced to let.  My
friend was telling me about a charming flat--oh, apartment you call
it?--in that street which a friend of _his_ took---let me see, it must
have been three years ago or thereabouts.  Anyhow, not later.  He had
reason to believe I might get that very flat.  Stupid of me!  I can't
remember the number or name--whichever it was--of the house.  I know
the flat was a furnished one, however; and if your agency----"

"Oh, if the apartment was furnished, and changed hands three years ago,
there's only one it _could_ be, if you're sure it's in that street?"

"I'm sure," I replied.  I staked all on that sureness, though
logically----  But I would not let my mind wander to any other
deduction than the one to which, for better or worse, I pinned my faith.

"We had the letting of a furnished apartment in the Alhambra, as the
house is named, put into our hands three years ago on the 30th of last
month," said the youth, referring to a book.  "To my certain knowledge
no other furnished one was to be had in the street at that time, and
there hasn't been since.  Isn't likely to be either, so far as I can
see.  That was the grand chance.  German-American lady and gentleman,
Mr. and Mrs. Maurice Lowenstein, going unexpectedly to Europe, and glad
to get rid of their apartment to a good tenant at a nominal price."

"You found the good tenant?" I asked.

"We did, sir--or the tenant found us.  Wanted a furnished apartment,
not too large or expensive, in a quiet street, quietness the great
consideration.  Above all, the proprietors mustn't want to use the
place again for at least five years.  That just fitted in, because our
clients were anxious to let for seven years; the husband had a business
opening in Hamburg.  The new tenant took the place for that period; and
as there's a long time to run yet, I shouldn't have thought there was
much hope for you.  However, your friend may have private information."

"Does the new tenant live there altogether?" I wanted to know.

"Only comes up from the country occasionally.  Expensive fad, to rent a
New York apartment that way.  But what's money _for_?  Some people have
it to burn."

"Quite so," I admitted.  "Have you ever met the tenant?"

"Only once--when the apartment was engaged; fixed up in one interview.
The rent comes through the post."

"It must be the apartment my friend talked about!" I exclaimed.

"Can't be any other.  Is the name of your friend's friend Paulling?"

"Why, yes, I have the impression of something like that.  By the way, I
might be able to find an old photograph, to make quite sure.  Would you
recognise it?"

"I might--and I mightn't.  Three years is a long time."

"Well, I'll do my best through some acquaintances," I finished.  "If
we're speaking of the same person, you may be able to introduce me and
save the delay of communicating with my friend in England."

Each was flattering himself on his discretion, the whole catechism
having been gone through without the question on either side, "Is the
person a man or a woman?"  Eventually we parted with the understanding
that I should return later if, after looking at the Alhambra from the
outside, I fancied it as much as I expected to do.  And then I was to
bring the photograph with me.

So far so good.  But the next steps were not so simple.

I stopped my taxi at the corner (not to advertise myself with
unnecessary noise) and limped the short distance which Perry
Callender-Graham and his brother Ned must have travelled on the secret
errands that led them to their death.  The Alhambra was neither as
picturesque nor as imposing as its name suggested.  It was just a
substantial brick building, six or seven storeys in height, with
facings of light-coloured stone, and large, cheerful windows.  Luckily
for my lame leg, the entrance was but a step above the street level.
As I arrived the door was opened by a chocolate-brown negro in
chocolate-brown livery.  He helped a smart nurse to pass out with a
baby in a white and gold chariot, and while he was thus engaged I
hobbled into the hall.  A hasty glance at a name board on the wall
opposite gave me the list of occupants and the floor on which each
tenant lived.  Evidently there were two flats to each storey.  T.
Paulling had an apartment on the third, so also had G. Emmett.  I had
to risk something, and so when the brown hall-porter turned to me
(which he did with embarrassing swiftness) I risked inquiring for Mr.
Emmett.  I believed, I added, that he was expecting me.

"That's all right, sir.  He's in," was the welcome reply, with a
compassionate grin at the crutches which guaranteed the harmlessness of
an unknown visitor.  "I'll take you in the elevator."

Up we shot to the third floor, where I feared that my conductor might
insist on guiding me to the door of Mr. Emmett.  Fortunately, however,
someone rang for the lift and the porter shot down again, directing me
to the right.

The instant he was out of sight I turned to the left, and, with the
police key in my hand, I stood before the door of T. Paulling.

My blood leaped through my veins, and the hand that tried the key in
the lock shook with the rush of it.  I heard its pounding in my ears,
and through the murmurous sound the question whispered, "What if the
key won't fit?  Down goes the whole theory.  You'll have to confess
yourself a fool to Roger Odell."

As I blundered at the lock in haste and fear that someone might pass,
or that this might be one of T. Paulling's rare days at the flat, I was
aghast at my late self-confidence.  Face to face with the test, it
seemed impossible that my-boast to Odell and Carr could succeed.  I
felt callow and stupid, altogether incompetent.  The key seemed too
large and the wrong shape, which meant that the mystery of the
brothers' death was closed to me, like the door.  A voice not far off
made my nerves jump, and--the key slipped into the lock!  From
somewhere above or below came the sound of voices, but I could not be
seen from the lift.  Almost before I knew what I was doing or what had
happened, I was on the other side of the door, in a dark and stuffy
vestibule.

The sound of voices was suddenly stilled.  It was as if with a single
step I had won my way into another world.  I drew a long breath of
relief after the strain, for the silence and darkness said that the
tenant was not at home, and I might hope to have the flat to myself.

I groped for an electric switch, touched it, and flooded the vestibule
with light.  It was small, with nothing to distinguish it from any
other vestibule of any other well-furnished flat.  Beyond led a narrow
corridor which, when lit, showed me several doors.  I opened the
nearest, switched on another light, and found myself on the threshold
of a moderate-sized sitting-room or study, with bookshelves ranged
along one of the walls.  The window was so heavily curtained that I had
no fear of the sudden illumination being noticed from the street.  The
air was heavy and smelled of moth powder.  The mahogany table in the
centre of the room and the desk under the window were coated with thin
films of dust, but everything was stiffly in order: no books lying
about, no woman's work, no trace of cigarette ash, dropped glove, nor
pile of newspapers with a tell-tale date.

I walked over to the desk and, pulling out the swivel chair, sat down.
In the silver inkstand the ink had dried.  In a pen-rack were two pens,
one stub, the other an old-fashioned quill, both almost new, but
faintly stained with ink.  Neither, it struck me, could have been used
more than once or twice.  There were several small drawers; all were
empty.  No paper nor envelopes, no sealing-wax nor seal, not so much as
an end of twine.  But the blotting-pad--the only movable thing on the
desk beside the inkstand and pen-rack--was more repaying.  It also
appeared to be nearly new.  Just inside the soft green leather cover
lay two sheets of plain, unmonogrammed grey-blue paper with two
envelopes to match.  I annexed one of the latter and made a mental note
that, in the police dossier of the Callender-Graham case the empty
envelope found in the pocket of the younger brother was said to be
blue-grey in colour and of thick texture.  No record had been kept
concerning the colour of the envelope in Perry's pocket, as little
importance had been attributed to it, until the coincidence of the
second envelope was remarked later.

The blotting-pad was as new-looking as the pens.  The two uppermost
sheets were of unspotted white, but the middle pages had both been
used, and traces were visible of two short notes having been pressed
against the paper while the ink was still very wet.  Apparently these
documents had had neither heading nor signature, and consisted of a few
lines only.  On another page a longer letter began "Dearest," and had
been signed with an initial.  There was no mirror in the room in which
to reverse these writings, and, carefully separating the used sheets
from their unsoiled fellows, I folded and slipped them into an inner
pocket.  There was nothing else in the room which could help me, with
the exception, perhaps, of the books; and most of these were in sets,
bound in a uniform way.  These had a book-plate and the monogram
"M.L.," no doubt meaning Maurice Lowenstein.  Of new novels or other
publications there were none: an additional proof (if it had been
needed after the clue of the dried ink and almost unused blotter) that
the new tenants were seldom in the place.

Having deduced this fact, I then went through the remaining six rooms
of the flat without any discoveries, and finally reached, in its due
order, the problem I had left for the last.  This was the examination
of the lock which the dead brothers' latchkeys had fitted.  The work
had to be done with the door open, and therefore I waited until the
hour when most people lunch.  It would look like burglarious business,
what I had to do, and it was important not to be interrupted or
arrested.

The hands of my watch were at one o'clock as mine were on the latch
which, if I were right, could with a single click solve the
Callender-Graham mystery.  If I were wrong, not only were four out of
my twenty-four hours wasted, but my theory fell to the ground and broke
into pieces past mending.

I opened the door of the flat and made sure that, for the moment, no
one was in the hall.  Then, bending down with my back to possible
passers-by, I whipped out a magnifying glass and pocket electric torch
which I had bought on my way to the agent's.

During the next five minutes I had good cause to thank Heaven for the
mechanical bent that had turned my mind to motors and aeroplanes.


The same evening, at a little after six, a "commuter's" train landed me
at the station of a small Long Island town almost too far away from New
York to be labelled suburban.  Big automobiles and small runabouts were
there to meet the tired business men who travelled many miles for the
sake of salt breezes and the latest thing in Elizabethan houses.  I was
more tired than any business man; also, I had encountered as many
setbacks as successes, but nobody and nothing came to welcome me.  I
was able, however, to get a place in an old-fashioned horse-drawn
vehicle whose mission was to pick up chance arrivals.  There were
several of us, and as my rate of locomotion was slow, by the time I had
hobbled off the platform the one seat left was beside the driver.  I
was not sorry, as the other men appeared to be strangers in Sandy
Plain, and having said I would go to the hotel (for the sake of saying
something), I asked my companion if he knew anybody named Paulling.

"There's two families of that name hereabouts," he replied.

"My Paullings," I hazarded, "are retiring people, don't make friends,
and are away a good deal."

"Ah, they'd be the Paullings of Bayview Farm!" returned the driver.
"There's no others answer that description around here that I ever
heard of, and I've lived at Sandy Plain since before the commuters
discovered it."

"Yes, I mean the Paullings of Bayview Farm," I caught him up.

"The farm's about a mile and a half past Roselawn Hotel," my seat mate
went on.  "I can take you there after I drop the other folks."

I thanked him and said he might come back for me if he cared to after I
had dined, and inquired casually if the Paullings were staying at their
farm just then.

The driver shook his head.  He didn't know.  Few persons did know much
about the Paullings, who weren't old residents, but had rented Bayview
Farm two or three years ago.  Maybe the hotel folks might be able to
tell me whether I was likely to find them.

They could not do so, I soon learned.  Mr. Paulling was said to be an
invalid, though he never called in the local doctor.  He was often at
home alone for weeks together, except for a man-servant, a foreigner as
reserved as himself, whom he had brought with him to Sandy Plain.
There was another servant sometimes--a woman--also a foreigner; but
when the Paullings were both away a Mrs. Vandeermans, a country
dressmaker who lived in a cottage near by, looked after the house,
going in occasionally to see that all was well.

I asked as many questions as I dared, but learned little; and as soon
as dusk had begun to fall I started off in the nondescript vehicle
which had returned for me.  The driver spent most of the twenty minutes
it took him to reach the farm in explaining that it wasn't really a
farm except in name.  Nothing was left of it but the house and two or
three acres of orchard; all the rest had been sold off in lots by the
owner before he let it to the Paullings.  What "city folks" admired in
it was beyond the knowledge of my companion, but when we arrived at the
gate and saw the far-off house gleaming white behind a thick screen of
ancient apple trees, I realised the attractions of the place,
especially for such tenants as I believed the Paullings to be.  The
farm-house, with its wide clapboarding, its neat green shutters, and
its almost classic "colonial" porch hung with roses, had the air of
being on terms of long familiar friendship with the old-fashioned
garden and the great trees which almost hid it from its neighbours and
the road.  Its front windows, closed and shuttered now, would look out
when open over sloping lawns and flowerbeds to distant blue glints of
the sea; and altogether Bayview Farm seemed an ideal retreat for
persons who could be sufficient to themselves and each other.

Those shuttered windows, however, hinted at disappointment for me.  Not
a light showed, behind one of them, and when I had rung the bell of the
front door, and pounded vainly at the back, I had to make up my mind
that the Paullings were either away or determined to be thought so.
"Mrs. Vandeermans 'll know all about 'em," my conductor comforted me.
"She lives next door, a quarter of a mile farther on."

We drove the quarter mile, only to be struck by another blow.  The one
person at home in Mrs. Vandeermans' cottage was that widowed woman's
mother, very old, very deaf, half blind, knowing little about anything,
and nothing at all about the tenants of Bayview Farm.

"My darter's gone to my son's in Buffalo," she quavered when I had
screamed at her.  "He's sick, but she'll be back to-morrow to look
after me.  She knows them Paullings.  You come again to-morrow
afternoon if you want to talk to her."

"You seem sure disappointed," remarked my companion, as he drove me and
my crutches back to Roselawn Hotel.

"I am," I admitted; but the words were as inadequate as most words are.
I was bowled over, knocked out, or so I told myself in my first
depression.  Nothing was of any use to me after to-morrow morning at
nine o'clock.

On my way back to New York in a slow train I gloomily thought over the
situation.  Certain startling yet not unexpected discoveries made early
in the day had elated me too soon.  I had collected evidence, but only
circumstantial evidence.  I had no absolute proof to give Roger Odell,
and nothing less would suffice.  I had counted on getting hold of proof
at Sandy Plain, from which place on Long Island (I had learned from the
agent) cheques came regularly each quarter to pay the rent of the flat
in the Alhambra--cheques sometimes signed T. Paulling, sometimes M.
Paulling.  One had arrived only a few days before with the former
signature, so I had reason to hope that T. Paulling might be unearthed
at Sandy Plain.

I could, I told myself, write to Roger Odell and ask for a delay, but
that would kill such feeble faith in me as I had forcibly implanted in
him.  He would think me a fraud, and believe that I had been trying to
gain time in order to spring some trick upon him.  Besides, the
Paullings might come to New York, if they were not already there, and
discover that some person unknown was on their track and had been
tearing sheets out of their blotting-book.  No, I must keep my
appointment with Roger Odell or face the prospect of complete failure.
But how to convince him of what I was myself convinced, with the
disjointed bits of evidence in my possession?  Just as my train came to
a stop with a slight jolt in the Pennsylvania station, I saw as in an
electric flash a way of doing it.  Perhaps it was the jolt that gave
the flash.

I could not wait to get back to my hotel.  I inquired of a porter where
I could get a messenger boy.  He showed me.  I begged two sheets of
paper and two envelopes.  They were pushed under my hand.  I scratched
off six lines to Roger Odell: "Don't think when you get this I'm going
to ask you to put off our interview.  On the contrary, I ask you to
advance it.  Please be in Julius Felborn's private office at a quarter
to nine instead of nine.  This is vitally important.  If he has a large
safe in his office, get the key or combination so that you can open it.
Small safe no use.--Yours hopefully, J.H."

I finished this scrawl and sent it away by messenger to the club where
Odell had said I might 'phone, if necessary, up to one o'clock that
night.  It was only just eleven.

The second letter was longer and more troublesome to compose.  It was
to Grace Callender, and I trusted for its effect to the kindness she
professed for me.  Her aunt also had been friendly and had shown
interest in the prospects of Carr Price's play.  Neither, however,
dreamed that success depended in any way upon Roger Odell.


"DEAR MISS GRACE," I wrote,--"You will think the request I'm going to
make of you and Miss Callender a very strange one, but you promised
that if you could help me you would do so.  Well, extraordinary as it
may seem, _you can make my fortune if you_ will both come to the
Felborn Theatre at the unearthly hour of nine to-morrow morning, and
ask to be shown into Mr. Felborn's private office.  I shall be there,
waiting and hoping to see you two ladies arrive promptly, as more than
I can tell depends upon that.  You happened to mention in my presence
something about dining out to-night and returning rather late, so I
feel there is a chance of your getting this and sending me a line by
the messenger to the Belmont.  He will wait for you, and I will wait
for him.--Yours sincerely, JOHN HASLE."


An hour later the answer came to my hotel.  "Of course we'll both be
there on the stroke of nine.  Depend upon us," Grace Callender replied.

"Thank Heaven!" I mumbled.  Yet I was heavy with a sense of guilt.  If
it had been only for punishment, or only for my own advancement, I
could not have done what I planned to do.  No man could.  But Grace
Callender's happiness was at stake.


Roger Odell was five minutes before his time in Felborn's office next
day, yet he found me on the spot.  I saw by his face that his
well-seasoned nerves were keyed not far from breaking-point.  But he
kept his role of the superior, indifferent man of the world.  He hoped
I didn't see the strain he was under, and I hoped that I hid my
feelings from him.  Each probably succeeded as well as the other.

"Well, what have you got to tell me?" he asked, when we were alone
together in Julius Felborn's decorative private office.

"I've nothing to tell you," I said.  "Nevertheless, I believe you will
hear something if you've done as I suggested.  Have you got the key or
the combination of that big safe in the wall behind the desk?"

"I have the combination for to-day.  Felborn was at the club last night
when your letter came, and I asked him for it.  There aren't many
favours he wouldn't grant me.  But what has Julius Felborn's safe to do
with the case?"

"Please open it.  We haven't much time to spare."  I looked at my
watch.  In a quarter of an hour the Misses Callender ought to be
announced.  If they failed me after all--but I would not think of that
"if."

Odell manipulated the combination, and the door of the safe swung open.
I saw that there was room for a man inside, and explained to Odell that
he must be the man.  "It's absolutely necessary for you to hear for
yourself," I insisted, "all that's said in this room during the next
half-hour.  If you didn't hear with your own ears, you'd never believe,
and nothing would be said if you were known to be listening."

"You want me to eavesdrop!" he exclaimed, ready to be scornful.

"Yes," I admitted.  "If you can call it eavesdropping to learn how and
by whom Perry and Ned Callender Graham were done to death."

Without another word Odell stepped into the safe.

"With the door ajar you can hear every word spoken in this room," I
said.  "In a few minutes you'll recognise two voices--those of Miss
Grace and Miss Marian Callender.  I tell you this that you mayn't be
surprised into making an indiscreet appearance.  Remember your future's
at stake and that of the girl you love.  All you have to do is to keep
still until the moment when the mystery is cleared up."

"How can it be cleared up by either of those two?" Odell challenged me,
anger smouldering in his eyes.

"It will be cleared up while they are in the room," I amended.
"Further than that I can't satisfy you now.  By Jove! there goes the
'phone!  I expect it's to say they're here, though it's five minutes
before the time."

My guess was correct, and my answer through the telephone, "Let them
come up at once," passed on the news to the man behind the door of the
safe.  I went out to the head of the stairs to meet my visitors, and
led them into Felborn's office.  The two were charmingly though very
simply dressed, far more _les grandes dames_ in appearance than they
had been on shipboard, and their first words were of amused admiration
for the Oriental richness of Julius Felborn's office.  It was evident
that, whatever their secret preoccupations were, both wished to seem
interested in their bizarre surroundings and in my success which they
had come to promote.  I made them sit down in the two most luxurious
chairs the room possessed.  Thus seated, their backs were toward the
safe, and the light filtered becomingly through thin gold silk curtains
on to their faces.  I placed myself opposite, on an oak bench under the
window.  If the door of the safe moved, I could see it over the
fashionable small hats of the ladies with their haloes of delicate,
spiky plumes.

When I got past generalities I blurted out, "I've a confession to make.
I won't excuse myself or explain, because when I've finished--though
not _till_ then--you'll understand.  On shipboard I talked of my book,
and told you it was called _The Key_, but I didn't tell you that the
title and one incident in the story were suggested--forgive my
startling you--by the murder of Perry and Ned Callender-Graham."

"Oh!" exclaimed Grace, half rising, "you asked us here to tell us
_that_?  It doesn't seem _like_ you, Lord John."

"Give me the benefit of the doubt and hear me to the end," I pleaded,
grieved by her stricken pallor and look of reproach as she sank into
the chair again.  Marian was pale also, even paler than usual, but her
look was of anger, therefore easier to meet.

"You must not use the word 'murder,'" she commented, a quiver in her
voice.  "Your doing so shows that you've very little knowledge of the
case."

"I beg your pardon," I said.  "On the contrary, it precisely shows that
I have knowledge of it.  The brothers were murdered by the same hand,
in the same way, and for the same motive."

Marian rose up, very straight and tall.  "It would be more suitable to
give your theories to the police than to us.  I cannot stay and let my
niece stay to listen to them."

"I shall have to give not my theories, but my knowledge, my proof, to
the police," I warned her; "only it's better for everyone concerned for
you to hear me first."

"You've brought us to this place under false pretences!" Marian cried,
throwing her arm around the girl's waist.  "It's not the act of a
gentleman.  Come, Grace, we'll go at once."

"For your own sakes you must not go," I insisted.  "If you stay and
hear me through some way may be found to save the family name from
public dishonour."

"Dearest, we _must_ stay," Grace said steadily, when the older woman
urged her toward the door.

Marian looked at her niece with the compelling look of a Fate, but the
girl stood firm.  Gently she freed herself from the clinging arm and
sat, or rather fell, into the big cushioned chair once more.  Her aunt
hesitated for a moment, I could see, whether or not to use force, but
decided against the attempt.  With a level gaze of scorn for me, she
took her stand beside Grace's chair, her hand clenched on the carving
of its high back.  I realised the tension of her grip, because her grey
suede glove split open across a curious ring she always wore on the
third finger of her left hand, showing its great cabochon emerald.  I
had often noticed this stone, and thought it like the eye of a snake.

"Say what you wish to say quickly, then, and get it over," she sharply
ordered.

"The double murder was suggested and carried out by a man, but he had
accomplices, and his principal accomplice was a woman."  (Miss
Callender's command excused my brusqueness.)  "They had the same
interest to serve; purely a financial interest.  It was vital to both
that Miss Grace Callender shouldn't marry--unless she married a person
under their influence who would share with them.  They preferred some
such scheme, but it fell through.  That drove them to extremes.  Now
I'll tell you something about this couple--this congenial husband and
wife.  Afterwards I'll give you details of their plot.  They were
married secretly years ago, and lived together when they could, abroad
and on this side.  The man was rich once, but lost his money--and the
capacity to make it--by losing his health.  Life wasn't worth living to
either unless they could have the luxury they'd been used to.  They
took an old house on Long Island--Bay View Farm, near Sandy Plain.  The
man lived there for several months each year under the name of
Paulling.  His wife paid him flying visits.  She provided the money,
and had a banking account in the town.  At Bay View Farm, when Miss
Grace first engaged herself to her cousin, the two thought out their
plot to suppress Perry.  It took them some time to elaborate it, but a
week before the wedding they were ready.  The woman, still under the
name of Paulling, engaged a furnished flat in New York, near Riverside
Drive.  She took this flat for a term of years, realising it might be
needed more than once as time went on.  In this apartment, in a house
called the Alhambra, she sat down one day at her desk and wrote an
anonymous letter to Perry Callender-Graham.  She asked him to call at
that address at midnight the next night and learn a secret concerning
his cousin Grace's birth, which would change everything for them both
if it came out.  Her handwriting was disguised by the use of a quill
pen, which used so much ink that most of the words left traces on the
blotter.  The envelope and paper were blue-grey, and thick.  Inside was
enclosed a small latchkey and a key to the front door of the house, for
the hall-porter would be in bed by the time she named.  Perry
Callender-Graham could not resist the temptation to keep the
appointment.  He went to the Alhambra, let himself in, was seen by
nobody, walked up to the third floor, and fitted the latchkey into the
door on the right side of the hall.  As he tried to turn the key
something sharp as a needle pricked his forefinger.  He was startled,
yet he went on trying to unlock the door.  The key turned all the way
round, but the door stuck.  It seemed to be bolted on the inside.  He
began to feel slightly faint, but he was so angry at being cheated that
he pushed the electric bell, determined to get in at any cost.  No
answer came, however, and at last he gave up in despair.  Some vague
idea of warning the police and of going to see a doctor came to his
mind, but he was already a dying man.  Before he got as far as the
street corner he fell dead.  Exactly the same thing happened in the
case of Ned, when every effort to frighten him into breaking his
engagement had failed, when his love for his brother, his sensitive
conscience and his superstitious fear had all been played upon in vain.
Even the same formula was used for the anonymous letter, with a
slightly different wording.  That was safe enough, for if Perry had
mentioned the first letter to Ned he would have told the police at the
time of Perry's death; it would have been a valuable clue.  It wasn't
necessary to make new keys, for the two originals had been
returned--'to the family.'  They were sent anonymously to Ned as they'd
been sent to Perry, and he also yielded to curiosity.

"The same ingenious lock, made for the plotters by a skilled
mechanician (whom they had reason to trust), shot out its poisoned
needle at the first turn of the latchkey in his hand.  As for the
poison, it, too, was supplied by a trusted one---one who had something
to gain and vengeance to take as well.  As the mechanician specialised
in lock-making, so did the chemist employed specialise in poisons.  The
one he chose out of his repertory had two virtues: first, it began to
stop the heart's action only after coursing through the blood for
twenty or thirty minutes.  Anything quicker might have struck down the
victim in front of the door and put the police on the right track.
Secondly, the poison's effect on the heart couldn't be detected by
post-mortem, but presented all the symptoms of status lymphaticus,
enlargement of the thyroid gland and so on.  As for the lock, the
second turn of the key caused the needle to retire; and for a further
safeguard, an almost invisible stop, resembling a small screw-head,
could hold the needle permanently in place inside the lock, so that the
door might be opened by a latchkey and the existence of a secret
mechanism never suspected, except by one who knew how to find it.  The
mechanism is in working order still, ready for use again, in case Miss
Grace Callender should change her mind and decide to marry."

"Who is it you are accusing, Lord John?" Grace stammered in a choked
voice.

I glanced from the drooping figure in the chair to the tall figure
standing erect and straight beside it.  Marian Callender no longer
grasped the oak carving.  The hand in the ragged glove was crushed
against her mouth, her lips on the emerald which had pressed through
the torn suede.  The woman gave no other sign of emotion than this
strange gesture.

"I accuse Paolo Tostini, with his father, his brother, and his
wife--known still as Miss Marian Callender--as his accomplices," I said.

Grace uttered a cry sharp with horror, yet there was neither amazement
nor unbelief in the pale face which she screened with two trembling
hands.  The story I had told--hastily yet circumstantially--had
prepared her for the end.  But the keen anguish in the girl's voice
snapped the last strand of Odell's patience.  He threw the iron door of
the safe wide open, and in two bounds was at Grace's side.  I saw her
hold out both arms to him.  I saw him snatch her up against his breast;
and then I turned to Marian Tostini, who had not moved from her place
beside the big carved chair.  She was staring straight at me, her dark
eyes wide and unwinking as the eyes of a person hypnotised.  The hand
in the torn glove had dropped from her lips again and clasped the
carving.  She seemed to lean upon the chair, as if for support.  Her
fingers clutched the wood.  The grey suede glove was slit now all
across its back, but the snake-eye of the emerald had ceased to shoot
out its green glint.  The stone hung from its setting like the hinged
lid of a box, showing a very small gold-lined aperture.

"There need be--no stain on the name of--Callender--if you are as
clever in hiding the secret as you've been--in finding it out," she
said, with a catch in her breath between words.

"What have you done?" I asked.

"You know--don't you--you who know everything?  The ring was my Italian
mother's--and her mother's before her.  Who can tell how long it has
been in our family?  It was empty when it came to me, but----"

"But you put into it some of the same poison Antonio Tostini made up
for Perry and Ned Callender-Graham?"

"Do you think you can force me to accuse the Tostinis?  You shall not
drag a word from me.  When Paolo hears I am dead he will die also,
before you can find him.  Antonio you cannot touch.  He is in Italy.
Thank Heaven their father is dead!  And now I think--I had better go
home or--or to my doctor's.  Grace and Roger Odell--wouldn't like me to
die here.  It might--start scandal.  I am feeling--a little faint."

"Aunt Marian!" Grace sobbed.  But Odell held the girl in his arms and
would not let her go.

"Take Miss Callender away, Odell--quickly," I advised.  "I'll attend
to--Mrs. Tostini."

Like one who walks in a dream I shut the safe on my way to the desk,
and telephoned downstairs for a taxi.  "One of the ladies who called
has been taken ill, I must drive her to a doctor's," I explained.

"You think of everything," Marian Tostini said.  She laughed softly.
"My heart has always been weak."

"Taxi is here, sir," a voice called up through the 'phone.

"Very well.  We'll be down at once.  Tell Mr. Felborn his office is
free.  Now, Miss Callender--I mean Mrs. Tostini, let me help you."

"I'm afraid I must say 'Yes,'" she smiled.  "My heart--beats so slowly.
Tell me, Lord John, as we go--how did you find out--the secret?  It
seemed so--well hid!"

"I guessed part, and bluffed the rest.  I had to," I confessed, half
guiltily.  The woman could make no ill use of such a confession now.
"I found the flat--and the lock--and two sheets of blotting paper.  I
made out the anonymous letters, and one to your husband.  I showed the
snapshot I got of you on shipboard to the house-agent.  But he couldn't
be sure--said Mrs. Paulling wore a veil when he saw her.  The name
'Paulling' was a clue too--enough like Paolo to be suggestive.  Some
criminals love to twist their own names about.  And Paolo Tostini is a
criminal.  He has brought you to this----"

"If there is guilt, I am the guilty one," she said calmly.  "So sorry.
I have to lean on you a little.  Ah! it's good to be downstairs--and in
the air.  My doctor's name is Ryland.  His address is The Montague,
East 44th Street.  It's so near--we can get there, I think, in time.
You'll tell him--nothing?"

"I'll tell him nothing," I echoed.

As I put her into the taxi I noticed that she had snapped the emerald
back in its setting, and the green snake-eye glinted up harmlessly once
more from the limp hand in the torn glove.




EPISODE II

THE GREY SISTERHOOD

LORD JOHN'S FIRST ADVENTURE IN LOVE

When applause forced the curtain up again and again on the last scene
of our play--Carr Price's and mine--I wasn't looking at the stage, but
at a girl in the opposite box.  The box was Roger Odell's, and I was
sure that the girl must be his adopted sister Madeleine.  But because
of the insult she had suffered through my brother, I might not visit
the box uninvited.

If Grace had been with her husband and sister-in-law there might have
been hope.  But the wedding had been private, because of Miss Marian
Callender's death, and it was not to be supposed that the bride would
show herself at the theatre, even as a proof of gratitude to me.  I was
in Governor Estabrook's box, with him and Carr Price, and the girl
whose engagement to Price depended, perhaps, on the success of this
night; but I thanked my lucky stars--that I was invited by Grace to
dine after the theatre, _en famille_.

"Surely I shall meet _Her_," I tried to persuade myself.  "She's here
with Roger, to show that she bears no grudge against my family.  She
can't stop away from supper when I'm to be the only guest."

This hopeful thought repeated itself in my head whenever I was thwarted
by finding my eyes avoided by the girl--the wonderful girl who, with
her lily face, and parted blonde hair rippling gold-and-silver lights
was like a shining saint.  She was so like a saint that I would have
staked my life on her being one, which made me more furious than ever
with Haslemere.  I felt if she would give me one of her white roses
lying on the red velvet of the box-rail, it would be worth more to me
than the Victoria Cross I was wearing for the first time that night.

"Author!  Author!" everybody shouted, as the curtain went down for the
tenth time.  I heard the call in a half-dream, for at that instant
Madeleine Odell dropped the opera-glasses through which she had been
taking a look at the audience.  They fell on the boxrail among the
roses, and pushed off one white beauty, which landed on the stage close
to the footlights; but I had no time to yearn for that rose just then.
I had thought only for the girl, who shrank back in her chair as if to
hide herself.  Startled, Roger bent down with a solicitous question.
Thus he screened his sister from me, as a black cloud may screen the
moon; and my impulse was to search the house for the cause of her alarm.

The audience as a whole had not yet risen, therefore the few on their
feet were conspicuous, and I picked out the man who had seemingly
annoyed Miss Odell.  Just a glimpse I had of his face before he turned,
to push past the people in his row of orchestra chairs.  It was a
strange face.

"That man has some connection with the mystery of Madeleine Odell's
life!" was my thought.  I knew I had to follow the fellow, and there
wasn't a second to lose, because, though he was perhaps twice my age, I
had to get about with a crutch and he had the full use of his long,
active legs.  Before I'd stopped to define my impulse I was on my feet,
stammering excuses to Governor Estabrook and his daughter.

"You mustn't leave now.  We're wanted on the stage!"  Carr Price caught
my arm; but a muttered, "For God's sake, don't stop me," told him that
here was some matter of life or death for me, and he stood back.  After
that, I must have made the cripple's record; and I reached the street
in time to see the quarry step into a private car.  I knew him by the
back of his head, prominent behind the ears and thatched with sleek
pepper-and-salt hair; but as he bent forward to shut the door, he
stared for half a second straight into my eyes.  His were black and
long--Egyptian eyes, and the whole personality of the man suggested
Egypt; not the Arabianised Egypt of to-day, but rather the Egypt which
left its tall, broad-shouldered types sculptured on walls of tombs.  He
made me think of a magnificent mummy "come alive," and dressed in
modern evening clothes.

After the meeting of our eyes the man turned to his chauffeur for some
word, and the theatre lights seemed to point a pale finger at a scar on
the brown throat.  The length of that thin throat was another Egyptian
characteristic, and though the collar was higher than fashion decreed,
it wasn't high enough to cover the mark when his neck stretched
forward.  It was the queerest scar I ever saw, the exact size and shape
of a human eye.  And on the white neck of Miss Odell I had noticed a
black opal with a crystal centre, representing the eye of the Egyptian
god Horus.  This fetish was the only jewel she wore; and if I hadn't
already been sure of some association between her and the man now
escaping, that eye would have convinced me.

Roger Odell had forced on me the gift of an automobile, and Price and I
had motored Governor Estabrook and his daughter to the theatre; but as
it was waiting in the procession which had just begun to move, my only
hope of following the man was to hail a passing taxi.  I was about to
try my luck, when a hand jerked me back.

"Good heavens, Lord John, are you going to leave us in the lurch?  The
audience are yelling their heads off!" panted Julius Felborn.

I would have thrown him off, but the second's delay was a second too
much.  The dark car was spinning away with its secret--which might be a
double secret, for I caught a glimpse of a grey-clad woman.  Somebody
grabbed the taxi I'd hoped to hail, and it was too late to do anything
except note the licence number.  Since my war-experience and wounds,
I've lost--temporarily, the doctors say--my memory for figures.  It is
one form which nerve-shock takes; and fearing to forget, I made a note
with a pocket pencil, on my shirt cuff.

"A man like that is no needle in a haystack," I consoled myself.  "I
can't fail to lay my hand on him if he's wanted."  Then, making the
best of the business, I allowed Felborn to work his will.  He dragged
me back into the theatre, and on to the stage, where I bowed and
smirked at the side of Price.  Queer, how indifferent the vision of a
girl made me to this vision of success!  But I'd never fallen in love
at first sight before, or, indeed, fallen in love at all in a way worth
the name.

The vision was still there when I looked up, though it would soon be
gone, for Roger had put on his sister's cloak, and both were standing.
The girl shrank into the background; but as I raised my eyes perhaps
the S.O.S. call my heart sent out compelled some faint answer.  Miss
Odell leaned forward and it seemed that she threw me a glance with
something faintly resembling interest in it.  Perhaps it was only
curiosity; or maybe she was looking for a rosebud she had lost.  I
couldn't let the flower perish, or be collected by some Philistine; so
I bent and picked it up.  I trusted that she would not be angry, but
when I raised my head the vision and the vision's brother had both
disappeared.

This was the happiest night of Carr Price's life, because Governor
Estabrook had journeyed from his own state with his daughter to see the
play.  If he could, he would have kept me to supper in order that I
might talk to the Governor while he talked to the fascinating Nora; but
I had yet to learn whether there was a chance of its being the happiest
night of my life, and I flashed off in my new car at the earliest
moment, to find out.  Down plumped my heart, however, when only Grace
and Roger appeared to welcome me.

As soon as I dared, I invented an excuse to ask for the absent one; or
rather, I blurted out what was in my mind.  "I hoped," I stammered, "to
see Miss Odell again--if only for a few minutes.  I felt sure it was
she at the theatre.  And I wanted to beg--that she'd let me try to
atone--to compel Haslemere to atone."

"Oh, she's sorry not to meet you," Roger broke in, "But she's not
strong.  And she--er--was rather upset in the theatre.  She doesn't go
out often; and she never takes late supper.  She's probably in bed by
this time----"

"Oh, Roger, do let me tell him the truth!" exclaimed Grace.  "Think how
he helped us in our trouble?  What if he could help Maida?  You must
admit he has a mind for mysteries, and if he could put an end to the
persecution which has spoiled her life, Maida wouldn't join the
Sisterhood."

"She's going to join a Sisterhood?" I broke out, feeling as if a hand
had squeezed my heart like a bath sponge.

"Yes," said Grace, glancing at Roger.  "You see, Rod, it slipped out!"

"I suppose there's no harm done," he answered.  "Only, it's for Maida
to talk of her affairs.  Lord John's a stranger to her."

"But," I said on a strong impulse, "I've taken the liberty of falling
in love with Miss Odell, without being introduced, and in spite of the
fact that she has a right to despise my family.  This is the most
serious thing that's ever happened to me.  And if she goes into a
Sisterhood the world won't be worth living in.  Give me a chance to
meet her--to offer myself----"

"Great Scott!" cried Roger.  "And the British are called a slow race!"

"Offer myself as her knight," I finished.  "Do you think I'd ask
anything in return?  Why, after what Haslemere did----"

"Oh, but who knows what might happen some day?" suggested Grace.  "Rod,
I _shall_ make Maida come down."

Without waiting to argue, she ran out of the room.  She was gone some
time, and the secret being out, Roger talked with comparative freedom
of his adopted sister's intentions.  The Sisterhood she meant to join
was not a religious order, but a club of women banded together for good
work.  At one time the Grey Sisters, as they called themselves, had
been a thriving organisation for the rescue of unfortunate girls, the
reformation of criminals, and the saving of neglected children; but the
Head Sister--there was no "Mother Superior"--had died without a will, a
promised fortune had gone back to her family, and had not a lady of
wealth and force of character volunteered for the empty place, the
Sisterhood might have had to disband.  The new Head Sister had
persuaded Madeleine Odell to join the depleted ranks.  They had met in
charity work, which was Maida's one pleasure, and the mystery
surrounding the woman had fired the interest of the girl whose youth
was wrecked by mystery.  The New York home of the Sisterhood had been
given up, owing to lack of money, but the new Head Sister, whose life
and fortune seemed dedicated to good works, had taken and restored an
old place on Long Island.  More recruits were expected, and various
charities were on the programme.

"It's a gloomy den," said Roger, "and stood empty for years because of
some ghost story.  But this friend of Maida's has a mind above ghosts.
They're going to teach women thieves to make jam, and child pickpockets
to be angels!  No arguments of mine have had the slightest effect on
Maida since she met this foreign woman.

"The child has vowed herself to live with the Sisterhood--I believe it
consists at present of no more than five or six women--for a year.
After that she can be free if she chooses.  But I know her so well that
my fear is, she _won't_ choose.  I'm afraid after all she's suffered
she won't care to come back to the world.  And the sword hanging over
our heads is the knowledge that Maida's pledged herself to go whenever
the summons comes."

If Roger's talk had been on any subject less engrossing, I should not
have heard a word.  As it was, I drank in every one.  Yet the soul
seemed to have walked out of my body and followed Grace upstairs.  It
was as if I could see her pleading with my white-rose vision of the
theatre; but I was far enough from picturing the scene as it really
was.  Afterward, when I heard Maida Odell's story, I knew what strange
surroundings she had given herself in the rich commonplaceness of that
old home which had been hers since childhood.

"The shrine" adjoined her bedroom, I know now, and for some girls would
have been a boudoir.  But the objects it contained put it out of the
"boudoir" category.  There were two life-size portraits, facing each
other on the undecorated walls, on either side the only door; there was
also a portrait of Roger's father; and opposite the door stood on end a
magnificent painted mummy-case such as a museum would give a small
fortune to possess.  Even without its contents the case would have been
of value; but behind a thick pane of glass showed the face of a
perfectly preserved mummy, a middle-aged man no doubt of high birth,
and of a dynasty when Greek influence had scarcely begun to degrade the
methods of embalming.  When I saw these treasures of Madeleine's and
learned what they meant in her life, I said that no frame could have
been more inappropriate for such a girl than such a "shrine."

Grace told me afterwards that she induced Maida to put on her dress
again and come downstairs, only by assuring her that "Poor Lord John
was dreadfully hurt."  That plea touched the soft heart; and my fifteen
minutes of suspense ended with a vision of the White Rose Girl coming
down the Odells' rather spectacular stairway, with Grace's arm girdling
her waist.

We were introduced, and Maida gave me a kind, sweet smile which was the
most beautiful present I ever had.  How it made me burn to know what
her smile of love might be!

Supper was announced; indeed, it had been waiting, and we went into the
oak-panelled dining-room where the girl was more than ever like a white
flower seen in rosy dusk.  At the table I could hardly take my eyes off
her face.  She was more lovely and lovable than I had thought in the
theatre.  Each minute that passed, while I talked of indifferent
things, I spent in mentally "working up" to the Great Request--that she
would show her forgiveness by accepting my help.  At last, after butler
and footman had been sent out, and words came to my lips--some sort of
inspiration they seemed--a servant returned with a letter.

"For Miss Odell, by district messenger," he announced, offering the
envelope on a silver tray.

"Is there an answer?" Maida asked, her face flushing.

The footman replied that the messenger had gone; and with fingers that
trembled, Maida opened the envelope.  Quite a common envelope it was,
such as one might buy at a cheap stationer's; and the handwriting,
which was in pencil, looked hurried.  "I have to go to-morrow morning,"
the girl said simply.  She spoke to Roger, but for an instant her eyes
turned to me.

"Oh, darling," cried Grace, springing up as Maida rose, "it's not
fair--such short notice!  Send word that you can't."

"The only thing I _can't_ do, dear, is to break my promise," the girl
cut in.  "I must go, and she asks me to travel alone to Salthaven.
That's the nearest station for the Sisterhood House.  She gives me the
time of the train I'm to take--seven o'clock.  After all, why isn't one
day the same as another?  Only, it's hard to say good-bye."

To leave my love thus, and without even the chance to win her, which
instinct whispered I might have had, seemed unbearable.  But there was
no other course.  She gave me her hand.  "Could it be that she was
sorry?" I dared ask myself.  But before I had time to realise how
irrevocable it all was, I stood outside Odell's closed door.  I stared
at the barrier for a minute before getting into my car, and tried to
make the oak panels transparent.  "I won't let her go out of my life
like this," I said.  "I'll fight."

Before I'd reached my hotel I had thought out the first move in a plan
of action.  But maybe there is another thing I ought to mention, before
I speak of that plan.  Roger gave me, when I left him, an interesting
description of an electrical contrivance by which he protected the
chief treasure of his sister's shrine from burglars.  He insisted on
giving me the secret in writing, also, because he would have to go away
shortly, and wanted someone to know what to do "in case anything went
wrong."  The servants, though trustworthy, were aware only that such a
protection existed and was dangerous to meddlers.

Consulting with West, the chauffeur, I learned that to reach Salthaven,
Long Island (the nearest village to Pine Cliff), passengers must change
at Jamaica.  I told him to get to that junction in the morning without
fail, before the seven o'clock train was due, and we arranged to start
even earlier than necessary, to allow for delay.  In the hotel office I
asked to be waked at five, in the unlikely event that I should
oversleep, and was going to the lift when the clerk at the information
desk called after me, "I believe, Lord John, a big box arrived for you.
It was before I came on duty, but you'll find it in your suite."

Nothing seemed less important in that mood of mine, than the arrival of
a box.  I had ordered nothing, expected nothing, wanted nothing--except
a thing it seemed unlikely I could ever have; so when I found no box in
my bedroom or small sitting-room, I supposed that it--whatever it might
be--would be sent next morning.  Then I forgot the matter.

I wished to sleep, for I needed clearness of brain for my task.  But
sleep wouldn't come.  After I had courted it in the dark for a few
minutes, I switched on the electric light over my bed, smoked a
cigarette or two; and when my nerves were calmer, began studying
Roger's electrical invention as described in two documents, a sketch of
Miss Odell's famous mummy-case, with the wiring attached, and a
separate paper of directions how to set and detach the mechanism.

Suddenly, in the midst, a wave of sleep poured over me, sweeping me to
dreamland.  I have a vague recollection of slipping one paper under the
pillow, and I must have dropped off with the other in my hand.  I was
seeing Maida again, asking her permission to keep the white rose, and
receiving it, when some sound brought me back to realities.  I sat up
in bed and looked around the room, my impression being that someone had
been there.  Nothing was disarranged, however.  All seemed as I had
left it--except--yes, there was one change!  My eyes fastened upon the
shirt cuff on which I had written the licence number of the automobile.
I had flung the shirt over a low screen, and had forgotten, in the rush
of crowding thoughts, to copy the number in my journal.  There hung the
shirt as I had left it, but the number, which I had written clearly and
distinctly, had become a black blur on the glazed linen.

I sprang out of bed, and switched on more lights.  Surely I had not
smudged the number by any clumsy accident.  The noise I had heard--that
sound like the "click" of a lock?  One swift look at the shirt cuff
came near to convincing me that a bit of rubber eraser had been used,
and then I remembered Roger's documents.  The one I had slipped under
my pillow was gone.  Fortunately it was useless to the uninitiated
without the other!

I got to the door almost as quickly as if I'd never been wounded, but
found the key still turned in the lock.  To have slipped out and locked
the door on the _inside_, meant a clever thief, a skilled _rat
d'hotel_, provided with a special instrument; but that the trick could
be done I knew from hearsay.  I threw open the door and looked into the
dimly lit corridor.  No one was visible, except the flitting figure of
a very small child, in a sort of red-riding-hood, cloak, with a hood.
The little creature seemed startled at the noise I made, and ran to a
door which it had nearly reached.  Someone must have been waiting for
its return, for it was let in and the door closed.

"If anyone's been in my rooms, he's probably there still," I said, and
began to search in the obvious way--looking under the bed.  What I
found sent me to the door again; for a curious, collapsible box, just
big enough to hold a small child, turned the innocent, flitting figure
I'd seen into something sinister.  Quicker than light, thoughts shot
through my head; the arrival of a "big box," my failure to find it in
my room, the click of the lock, some knowledge of me by the man with
the scar, and a fear of my vaunted "detective skill."  Slipping on a
dressing-gown as I went, I stalked down the corridor to the door which
opened to admit the child; and the knob was in my grasp when a voice
spoke sharply at my back.  "Haven't you mistaken the room, sir?" the
night watchman warned me.

I had met the man before, when coming in late, and he knew my number.
He was a big Irishman, twice my size.  I foresaw trouble, but went to
meet it.  "I've reason to believe a thief's been in my rooms, and taken
refuge here," I explained.  "I want this door opened."  With that I
rattled the knob and knocked threateningly.  Almost at once the door
was unlocked, and the sweet face of a young woman in a neat, plain
dressing-gown peeped out.  "Oh, what's the matter?" she faltered.  "Is
it fire?  We have a child here."

"I _thought_ yuh was mistaken, sir!" cut in the watchman.  "Two ladies
and a little midget came in late.  I saw 'em.  No, madam, there's no
fire.  This gentleman thought a thief had slipped into one of your
rooms."

"Indeed, he is mistaken," the young woman assured us.  "We haven't
finished undressing yet.  I'm the child's nurse.  If necessary, I can
call my mistress, but she's very nervous."  As she glanced back into
the room I caught a glimpse of a woman in grey who hadn't taken off her
hat.  A sort of motor bonnet it seemed to be, with a long veil
attached.  I got no sight of her face, for the nurse hastily shut the
door, all but a crack which scarcely showed her rather piquant nose.

"That's enough, I guess, sir?" suggested the watchman.  "These ladies
mustn't be disturbed.  All the rooms along here are occupied by old
clients.  You go back to your suite and if there's any thief we'll find
him.  But maybe you was dreamin'?"

I heard the key turn again in the lock; but I realised that unless I
wanted to risk a row and perhaps arrest for "disorderly conduct," I
must bow to circumstances.  For a moment I was tempted to persist, but
I thought how much more important than anything it was to be free from
entanglements, and able to reach Jamaica before seven o'clock.  "Spilt
milk," I said to myself, and took the watchman's advice.  But outside
the forbidden door, I picked up a tiny rosetted slipper.

In my own rooms, I searched again for traces of a hostile presence.
The collapsible box was a strange thing to find under a bed, but I
couldn't prove that Little Red Riding Hood had been in it.  Neither
could I prove that a small pile of silver that I had poured out of my
pockets on to the dressing-table had diminished, or that two letters
which I had received--one from my brother Haslemere, one from Grace
Odell--had been stolen.  Nevertheless, while putting off my principal
researches, I did telephone down to inquire who occupied rooms 212,
214.  The man who answered from the office had "come on" since the
people arrived, but, the name in the hotel register was "Mrs. W. Smith,
nurse and child, Sayville, Long Island."  Nothing could sound less
offensive; but next morning when I descended at an unearthly hour it
seemed that "the party" had already gone, by motor; and the man at the
door "hadn't noticed no child."  All I could do then was to reserve
those rooms for myself, for two days, with orders that they should not
be touched until investigated by me.

It lacked twenty minutes of train time when my chauffeur got me to
Jamaica.  This made me feel almost cheerful, but my heart sank as I
reached the arrival platform.  There were not many passengers, and even
if there had been a crowd one figure would have stood out
conspicuously--that of a tall woman in a grey dress, a long grey cloak,
and a close-fitting grey bonnet with a thick grey veil falling over the
face and breast.  There was not a doubt in my mind but this was the
formidable directress of the Grey Sisterhood, come in person to meet--I
had almost said "her victim."  If the woman had known of my plan she
could hardly have found a better way of thwarting it.

As I glowered at the figure stalking up and down, I hated it.  And I
wondered if there were more than a coincidence in the fact that this
was the third grey-veiled woman I had seen since last night.  In the
car at the theatre there had been too brief a glimpse to be sure of a
resemblance, and the woman in 212 had left on my mind an impression of
comparative shortness.  But then, it is easy to stoop and disguise
one's height, I told myself viciously, eager to find a connection
between this woman and the others.

I could see nothing of her face, as we passed and repassed on the
platform; but she was hovering not far off when I learned that the
train from New York would be late.  It was "hung up," a few miles away,
owing to the breakdown of a "freighter."  Instead of regret at this
news, I felt joy.  It gave me--with luck--a way out of my difficulty.
Here was the Head Sister, waiting for Maida Odell; but if my car could
get me to the delayed train before it was restarted only Maida herself
could keep me from saying what I had come to say.

There wasn't a moment to waste, and I didn't waste one.  Thinking I had
won the first point in the game, I hurried to my car without glancing
back at the veiled woman.  I gave directions to West and was about to
get into the auto, when a look in the chauffeur's eye made me turn.
Close behind stood the grey lady.  There was no doubt that her purpose
was to speak to me.  I took off my hat and faced her; but it was like
trying to look at the moon through a thick London fog.

"You are Lord John Hasle, I believe?" she said, in a resonant contralto
voice, with a slight suggestion of foreign accent.  "I have heard of
you," she went on.  "You have been pointed out to me, and I know of
your acquaintance with the Odells.  You are going to motor back along
the line.  Your inquiries told me that.  I would thank you, and so
would Miss Odell, for taking me to her in your car."

Here was a situation!  Rudely to refuse a favour asked by a lady,
or--to lose, for ever, perhaps, my one hope?  I chose to be rude.  I
stammered that I meant to go at such a pace it would be risking her
life to grant the request.  Very sorry; more lifting of the hat; a
sheepish look of feigned regret; and then West, thoroughly ashamed of
me, started the car.  The next moment we had shot away, but not without
a startling impression.

"The worst turn you can possibly do Miss Odell will be to prevent her
coming into the Sisterhood House.  It is the one place where she can be
safe."  Those were the words I heard over the noise of the starting
motor; and as we left the tall statue of a woman, the high wind blew
her thick veil partly aside.  Instantly she pulled it into place; but I
had time to see that the face underneath was covered with a grey mask.
The effect on my mind of this revelation was of something so sinister
that I felt physically sick.  What could be the motive for such double
precautions of concealment?  Was it merely to hide a disfigurement, I
wondered, or was there a more powerful reason?  I determined to tell
Miss Odell what I had seen.

Fortunately there was little traffic on the country road at that hour,
and we did the eight miles in about eight minutes.  I thanked my lucky
stars that the hold-up train had not moved; and my heart bounded when I
saw Maida among a number of passengers who had descended to wander
about during the delay.  She in a grey travelling dress and small
winged toque, walked alone at a distance from the others.  Here back
was turned to me, but she was unmistakable, with the morning sun
ringing her hair with a saint's halo.  I tried not to frighten her by
appearing too abruptly, but she gave a start, and there was pain rather
than pleasure in her eyes.

"Do forgive me!" I pleaded.  "I _had_ to finish what I couldn't say
last night.  I wouldn't intrude by travelling in your train from New
York without permission, but I thought if I came to Jamaica, maybe
you'd grant me a few minutes.  Won't you let me atone--won't you let me
help?  I feel that I can.  Roger has hinted of trouble.  If you would
trust me, I'd put my whole soul into the fight to save you from it."

So I ran on, with a torrent of arguments and all the force of love
behind them.  Something of that force the girl must have felt, for
slowly she yielded and told me this strange story.

Roger Odell's father--Roger senior--had fallen in love with a girl who
afterwards became Maida's mother.  He was a widower, and young Roger
was a boy of eight or nine at the time.  Old Roger--he was not old
then--had acted as the girl's guardian, and she had promised to marry
him, when suddenly she disappeared, leaving behind a letter saying that
she was going with the only man she could ever love.

Five years passed, and then one day she came back bringing a little
daughter four years old.  Both the Rogers were away when she called at
the house in Fifth Avenue; one at his office, the other at school.  A
housekeeper received the pair, realising that the mother was
desperately ill.  She would say nothing of herself, except that they
had come from England; could not even tell her married name.  She had
lived through the voyage, she said, to put her daughter under the
protection of her only friend.  Some strange luggage she had brought,
on which were London labels.  She forbade the servant to telephone the
master of the house.  She would write a letter, and then she would go.
The letter was begun, but before it could be finished the writer fell
into unconsciousness.  For a few days she lingered, but never spoke
again, and died in the arms of the man she had jilted.

"If you ever loved me, keep my child as if she were your own," began
the written appeal.  "She is Madeleine, named after me.  Don't try to
find out her other name.  Give her yours, which might have been mine.
Make no inquiries.  If you do, the same fate may fall on her which has
fallen on her father and others of his family.  It is killing me now.
Save my little Maida.  The one legacy I can leave her is a jewel which
I want her to keep; a miniature of myself taken for someone I loved,
and an Egyptian relic which, for a reason I don't know, is immensely
important.  I promised her father that this child should never part
with it.  The one reward I can offer you is my grat----"

There the letter broke off.

Roger Odell, Senior, had obeyed every one of his dead love's requests.
The "Egyptian relic" was a mummy case, with the human contents
marvellously preserved; the jewel, an opal and crystal eye of Horus.
In taking out the miniature from its frame, to be copied in a large
portrait, Maida found the miniature of a man she supposed to be her
father, and had ordered that enlarged also, to hang in her shrine.  Her
memories of the past before coming to America were vague; but her
childhood, happy as it had been in other ways, was cursed by the dream
of a terrible, dark face--a face appearing as a mere brown spot in the
distance, then growing large as it drew nearer, coming close to her
eyes at last in giant size, shutting out all the rest of the world.
Whether she had ever seen this face in reality, before it obsessed her
dreams, she could not be sure; but the impression was that she had.  As
she grew older, the dream came less frequently; but once or twice she
had seen a face in a crowd which reminded her--perhaps morbidly--of the
dream.  Such a face had looked up from the audience last night.

This mystery was one of two which had clouded Maida's life.  From the
second had come her great trouble; and she did not see that between the
two could exist any connection.  When I heard the rest of the history,
however, I differed from her.  Some link there might be, I thought; and
if I were to help, it must be my business to find it.

One day, on leaving school for the holidays, when she was seventeen,
Maida, and a woman servant sent to fetch her from Milbrook to New York,
had met with a slight railway accident, much like that of to-day.  It
was this coincidence, maybe, which inclined her to confide in me, for
she had been thinking of it, she said, when I came.  A young man had
been "kind" to Miss Odell and her maid; had brought them water and
food.  Later he had introduced himself.  He was Lieutenant Granville,
of the Navy.  Also he was an inventor, who believed he could make a
fortune for himself and his mother, if he could patent and get taken up
by some great firm an idea of his, in which he had vainly tried to
interest the heads of the Navy.  This concerned a secret means of
throwing a powerful light under water, for the protection of warships
or others threatened by submerged submarines.  Granville believed that
experiments would demonstrate immense usefulness for his invention and
so interested was Maida that she tried to induce Roger to finance it.
He refused, and did not like Granville when the girl brought them
together.

This seeming injustice roused Maida's sympathy.  She met Granville
occasionally at his mother's house, without Roger's knowledge.  It was
the child's first adventure, and appealed to her love of romance.  The
natural consequences followed.  Granville proposed.  She asked to
remain his friend.  Then to give her "friend" a glorious surprise, she
worked to interest a great financier, a friend of the Odell family, in
Granville's undersea light.

Unfortunately for her unselfish plan, millionaire Orrin Adriance had a
son, Jim, who had been in love with Maida since she was in the
"flapper" stage.  This fact complicated matters.  When Granville's
chemical formula, in a sealed envelope, was stolen from a safe in the
Adriance house, before business was completed between financier and
inventor, George Granville--already jealous of Jim Adriance--was mad
enough to believe that Maida had joined in a plot to trick him.  He
accused the Adriances of wishing to get his secret without paying for
it, prophesying that a tool of theirs would presently "invent"
something of the kind, after they had refused to take up his
proposition.  Pretending illness, he had induced his mother to send for
Maida, and she, only too anxious to defend herself, had gone to the
Granville house.  After a cruel scene between her and the sailor, he
had locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and shot himself
through the heart.  Mrs. Granville, who had heard a scream from the
girl, before the shot, swore to the belief that Maida had killed the
young man to defend herself against his love-making.

Roger, learning of the tragedy, had stifled the lie as he would have
crushed a snake.  How he had done this, Maida was not sure.  He had
refused to tell.  But her name had not been connected with Granville's
at the inquest.  Mrs. Granville, who had been poor and lived poorly,
migrated to France and was reported to have "come into money through a
legacy."  In any case she seemed to have been silenced.  No word of
scandal could be traced to her, though detectives had been employed by
Roger.  Nevertheless, the story had risen from time to time like the
phoenix from its own ashes.  Maida's fellow school-mates had whispered;
her debut in society had been blighted by a paragraph in a notorious
paper, afterwards gagged by Roger.  Then, last and worse, had come the
cancelling of the girl's presentation to the King and Queen of England.

"You see now," she said, "why I shall be happier out of the world, in a
Sisterhood where I can try to help others even sadder than I have been."

"But," I threw out the bold suggestion, "what if there's a plot to get
you into the Sisterhood--into this old house!"

"Oh, but that's impossible!" she cried.  "You wouldn't dream of such a
thing if you could meet the Head Sister and see what a splendid woman
she is!"

There was my opportunity to tell about the mask, and I took it.  But it
availed me nothing.  The mask, Miss Odell said, was no secret.  She
understood that the Head Sister, in saving a child from fire, had so
injured her face that for the sake of others she kept it hidden.
Another version had it that the motive for wearing the mask was some
"sacred vow."  In any case, Maida assured me, it was an honour to the
good and charitable woman; and no arguments would break her resolution
to give the next year to work with the Sisterhood.  After that year--if
I could solve the mystery of the stolen formula, and put an end for
ever to scandal--she would come back and face the world again.  But how
could I, a stranger, do what Roger had failed to do?

That was the question.  Yet I made up my mind that it must be answered
in _one way_, or my life would be a failure.  Not only would I solve
that mystery, I told myself--though I dared not boast to the girl--but
I would link together the old one with the new.  The way to do this, I
told myself, was to learn whether an enemy of Maida Odell's father had
found her under her borrowed name, and had made the Granvilles and
Adriances his conscious or unconscious tools.

This talk we had while the train stood still.  We were sitting on a log
together, out of earshot from the other passengers, when--with the name
of the Grey Sisterhood on our lips--we looked up to see its veiled
directress.  She had, she said, been put to much trouble in securing an
automobile to come for Madeleine, and see that she was not persuaded to
break a promise.  Maida, embarrassed and protesting, assured her friend
that there was no thought of such disloyalty.  Lord John--timidly the
girl introduced us--had come only to try and help her throw off an old
sorrow, as I had helped Roger and Grace.  So she tried to "explain" me;
and the Head Sister, having triumphed, could afford to heap coals of
fire on my head by being coldly civil.  Her one open revenge she took
by requesting me not to follow them to their automobile.  The chauffeur
would fetch Miss Odell's hand luggage out of the train, and my
"kindness would no longer be needed."  I was dismissed by the
conqueror; and left by the wayside with but one consolation: Maida had
said "au revoir," not good-bye.

For a moment I stood crushed.  Then a thought jumped into my mind:
"What if this woman is the one I saw in the auto outside the theatre?"

I felt that I had been a fool to obey Maida, and took steps to retrieve
my mistake.  But the veiled lady had been too clever for me.  The car
was gone past recall.  If it hadn't been for that viper-thought--and
the thought of what had happened in my rooms last night--I might not
have had the "cheek" to make my next move in the game.  But things
being as they were I couldn't stand still and take a rebuff.

Instead of motoring back to New York, I went to Salthaven, and
breakfasted at a small inn there.  Of the Sisterhood I could learn
nothing, for it had but lately taken up its quarters near by.  Of those
quarters, however, I was able to pick up some queer stories.  The place
had been bought, it seemed, for a song, because of its ghostly
reputation, which had frightened tenant after tenant away.

"What a good pitch to choose if any 'accident' were planned, and lay it
to the ghosts!" I thought.  And I knew that I couldn't go without
learning more about the Sisterhood House than the landlord at Salthaven
could tell me.  I must see for myself if it were the sort of place
where "anything could happen."

I meant to wait until late, when all the Grey Sisters and their
protegees were safely asleep.  Then, with a present of meat for a
possible watch dog, I would try a prowl of inspection.  I made a vague
excuse of fancying the inn, and of wanting to rest till time to meet a
friend who would motor back with me to New York.  I engaged a room in
order to take the alleged rest; but spent long hours in striving to
piece together bits of the most intricate puzzle my wits had ever
worked upon.

"In an hour more now I can start," I said at ten, and composed myself
to forget the slow ticking of my watch.  But suddenly it was as if
Maida called.  Actually I seemed to hear her voice.  I sprang up, and
in five minutes had paid the bill and was off in my car for Pine Cliff.

I left West sitting in the auto at a little distance from the high
wall, which shut the old garden in from the rocks above the Sound.
Then I struck my crutch into a patch of rain-sodden earth, and used it
to help me vault over the wall.  Just as I bestrode the top, a dog gave
out a bell-toned note.  I saw his dark shape, and threw the meat I had
brought from the inn.  He was greedily silent, and I descended, to pat
his head as he ate.  Luckily he was an English bull, and perhaps
recognised me as a fellow-countryman.  At all events, he gave his
sanction to my presence.

The neglected garden, which I could dimly see, was mysterious in the
night hush.  There was no sound except the whisper of water on the
shore outside.  The substantial building with its rows of closed blinds
looked common place and comfortable enough.  Lights showed faintly in
two or three windows.  Not all the household had gone to bed.  As I
stood staring at a low balcony not far above the ground, which somehow
attracted and called my eyes, the blinds of a long French window
looking out upon it were opened.  I saw Maida herself, and a tall woman
in grey, wearing a short veil.  They stood together, talking.  Then
with an affectionate touch on the girl's shoulder, the Head Sister--I
knew it must be she--bade her newest recruit good night.

The window was left open, but dark curtains were drawn across, no doubt
by Maida.  Presently the long strip of golden light between these
draperies vanished.  No scene could be more peaceful than the quiet
garden and the sleeping house.  Still, something held me bound.  How
long I stood there, I don't know: an hour, maybe; perhaps less, perhaps
more.  But suddenly a white figure flashed out upon the balcony.  So
dim was it in the darkness, I might have taken it for one of the famous
ghosts, but Maida's voice cried out: "_The face--the face_!  God send
me help!"

"He has sent help.  I've come, to take you away," I called, and held up
my arms.

Five minutes later she was with me in my car, rushing towards New York
and her brother's house.

      *      *      *      *      *

"A gilded amateur detective," Roger Odell once called me in a joke.
But I knew he would listen to theories I'd formed concerning this
mystery which, like an evil spirit, had haunted his sister since
childhood.  All night I spent in elaborating these theories and
dove-tailing them together.  The girl had had a fright in the theatre.
I had seen a man with strange eyes and a scar, looking at her; and
through certain happenings at my hotel, I believed that a link between
him and Maida's "Head Sister" might be found.  That, of course, would
free the girl from the promise she thought sacred.

By eight-thirty in the morning I was in touch with Pemberton's Private
Detective Agency, and I had just been assured that a good man, Paul
Teano, would be with me in ten minutes, when my telephone bell rang
shrilly.  It was the voice of Grace Odell which answered my "Hello!"

"Oh, Lord John," she called distressfully, "isn't it dreadful?  Maida's
going back to the Sisterhood House!  The Head Sister has written her a
letter.  Maida's answering it.  She doesn't blame the woman for
_anything_.  She thinks she herself was a coward to take fright at a
bad dream.  Do come and argue with her.  The child wants to start this
morning.  That woman seems to have her hypnotised."

My answer goes without saying.  I determined to put off the detective,
but he arrived as I finished talking to Grace, and as his looks
appealed to me I spared him a quarter of an hour.  His eyes were as
Italian as his name--with the shadow of tragedy in them.
"Temperamental looking fellow," I said to myself.

My business with Teano had nothing to do directly with Maida.  What I
had to tell him was the invasion of my rooms two nights before, but out
it came that I had been helping a woman, and that success in this case
might mean her safety.

"I, too, work for a woman, my lord," the detective said.  Though he had
spent years in America, I noticed how little slang of the country he'd
chosen to pick up.  He spoke, perhaps in the wish to impress me, with
singular correctness.  "Now you have told me this, I shall be the more
anxious to serve you.  I turned detective to find her.  I've been five
years trying.  But every morning I think, 'Perhaps it will be to-day.'"

There was no time then to draw him out as he would have liked to be
drawn out.  I showed him what there was to work upon, in my rooms as
well as the two others, and then dashed off to Maida.

As my car stopped in front of Roger Odell's home, out of the house
bounced a small boy--a very small boy indeed, with the eyes of an imp,
and the clothes of a Sunday-school scholar.  He looked at me as he
flashed past, and it was as if he said, "So it's _you_, is it?"

I had never seen the boy before, but I thought of the collapsible box;
and leaving a flabbergasted footman at the door, my crutch and I went
after the small legs that twinkled around the corner.  The elf was too
quick, however.  By the time I had got where he ought to have been, he
had made himself invisible.  Whether a taxi had swallowed him, or a
door had opened to receive him, it was useless to wonder.  All I could
do was to question the footman.  The child had brought a letter to Miss
Odell, and had taken one away.  "Meanwhile," the servant added, seeing
my interest, "he has entertained below stairs, making faces and turning
handsprings.  Quite a acrobat, your lordship," remarked the man, who
hailed from my country; "and that _sharp_, though dumb as a fish!  We
gave 'im cake and jam, but money seemed to please 'im most, an' his
pockets was full of it already.  'E's got enough to go on a most
glorious bust, beggin' your lordship's pardon."

I gave it--and something else as well.  Then I asked him for the plate
from which the child had eaten.  It was to be wrapped in paper, and put
into my car--for Teano.  (It has never mattered that a footman should
think his master, or his master's friends, insane!)

If the child messenger from the Sisterhood, and the child-thief in the
collapsible box were one, the dumbness was an obstacle.  Nevertheless
Teano might catch him, I thought, little dreaming how my desire and
his, working into one, were to be brought about.

I was shown into Roger's den, and confessed the theft of the document
he had given me--luckily useless, without the plan.  I told him also
the history of the night.  "Two and two generally make four," I said,
"and though this affair is irritating, it may help eventually.  The man
who frightened Miss Odell had the look of an Egyptian.  Now, isn't it
more likely that a mummy should be wanted by an Egyptian than another?
Miss Odell's treasure is a mummy, in a painted mummy-case.  You know
that several attempts have been made to break into the 'shrine,' as
Miss Odell calls it.  With what other object than to get the mummy?
You've had its case protected with an ingenious system of electric
wiring.  Now, you are going away with your wife.  You give me the
secret of the mechanism.  The same night somebody tries to steal it;
also he rubs off my shirt-cuff the number of the Egyptian-looking
fellow's car.  Then, there's the directress of the Sisterhood.  She
fascinates Miss Odell.  She revives the glory of a dying order.  She
takes an old ghost-ridden house by the seashore--where anything might
happen.  And something _does_ happen.  A dream--so vivid, that I
venture to believe it wasn't a dream but a trick.  The woman tries to
induce a girl to bring all her possessions with her into seclusion.
'_All_ her possessions,' mind!  That would have included the
mummy-case, if you hadn't put your foot down.  Have I your leave to
repeat these ramblings to her?"

"She has heard them, Lord John!"  I turned, and sprang to my feet.
Maida was at the door, with Grace.

"You were talking so fast, we didn't interrupt.  And I _wanted_ to
hear.  I thought you'd wish me to.  You have a wonderful theory, but
it's _all_ a mistake so far as the Sisterhood is concerned.  The Head
Sister is the _best_ woman I ever knew.  I'm breaking my heart with
shame because I deserted my post.  Oh, don't think I blame _you_ for
bringing me away, Lord John.  I blame only myself.  You were splendid.
And I'm grateful for everything.  To convince you of that, I promise if
you can prove anything against the Sisterhood, I'll consider myself
free from my bond--even before the twelve months are up.  That's a
_safe_ promise.  You can't think what a beautiful letter the Head
Sister has sent me this morning.  I'm eager to go back and earn her
forgiveness by helping in the work she'll give me to do.  In justice to
her I _must_ tell you a secret.  That mask you saw--which prejudiced
you--is to hide burns she got in saving a slum-child from death in a
great fife.  The Sister wears it to spare others pain.  As for the
_dream_--I have it everywhere, and often.  Don't be anxious.  I'll
write, and--_you_ can write if you will.  Dear Roger, is the car ready?"

"No," said Roger bluntly.  "I hoped John would make you see reason."

"I do see it," the girl answered.  "I didn't last night."

"How I wish you weren't over twenty-one!" her adopted brother growled.

Maida laughed, almost gaily.  "As it is, I'm an old maid, and must be
allowed to go my own way."

"May I motor you and Roger to Pine Cliff, if you must go?" I begged.

She gave me a long look before answering.  Then she said, "Yes."

I shall never forget that run from New York to Long Island.  I made the
most of every moment; but my heart turned to ice whenever a voice
seemed to mutter in my ear, "You're going to lose her.  You've failed,
John Hasle, in the big crisis of her life and yours."

But I wouldn't believe the voice.  So far as my own story was
concerned, I thought this chapter of it had come to a close with the
closing of the gate at the Sisterhood House between me and Maida Odell.
Yet after all it hadn't, quite.  There was more to come.

A little veiled woman had opened the gate at the sound of the
motor-horn, evidently expecting Miss Odell.  And the same little woman
shut us out when the new sister had gone in.  I noticed her
particularly, because she shrank from our eyes, though her face was
covered with the conventional mist of gauze.  And it seemed that she
was glad to get rid of us.  Not rudely, but with eagerness, she pushed
the gate to; and as she did so I noticed her hand.  The left hand it
was--small, daintily shaped, with delicate, tapering fingers; but the
third finger was missing.


Teano was not in my rooms when I arrived once more at my hotel; but
opening the door of 212 I found him at the telephone.  So absorbed was
he that he did not hear me enter, and I stood still in order not to
disturb him.  I supposed that he had called up the Agency, and was
talking of my business.

"If I could get out of the job, I would," he almost groaned.  "But
they'd put another man on, and that would be worse for Jenny.  Everyone
heard of 'Three-Fingered Jenny' at the time of the gang's getaway.  The
only thing I can do is to keep her out of the business at any cost, and
go along on other lines.  I'll call you up again, Nella, if I get
anything on my _own_, about Jenny."

"Who, pray, are Nella and Jenny, Mr. Teano?" I asked, realising that he
meant to play me false.

He jumped as if I had shot him, and dropped the receiver.  "I--thought
I'd locked the door," he stammered.

"It's a good thing you didn't," I said.  "I've heard enough to guess
you came on some clue you didn't expect.  That's why you forgot to lock
the door, before you called up 'Nella.'"

"Nella's my sister," Teano blurted out.  "She's employed in the
Priscilla Alden, the hotel where only ladies stay.  She's the telephone
girl on the thirteenth floor."

"Thanks for the explanation," I replied with more coolness than I felt.
"As for 'Jenny'--well, before I ask more questions I'll tell you what I
think.  'Jenny' is the woman for whose sake you took up your
profession.  You'd lost, and wanted to find her.  Now, you have found
her--or rather, her fingerprints--unmistakable, because they happen to
be those of her left hand.  Rather than get her into trouble, you'd
sacrifice my interests."

Teano remained dumb as the impish child, when I finished and waited for
him to speak; so I went on.  "I don't want to hurt a woman; yet you see
I know so much I can carry on this case without you.  Suppose we work
together?  I'll begin by laying my cards on the table.  I can save you
the trouble of a search if I choose.  I know where 'Jenny' is, and can
take you to her."

"You--you're bluffing!" Teano stammered.

"I swear I'm not.  Luckily you're a _private_ detective.  The police
needn't get an inkling of this case, unless you fail me, and I turn to
them.  All I want is to find out who instigated the affair of night
before last.  Who carried it out isn't so important to me, though it
may be to you.  And by the by, has 'Jenny' any personal interest in a
little boy of four or five who is dumb?"

"My God!" broke out the detective.

"Don't you think I can be as useful to you as you can to me?" I
insinuated.  "Why not be frank about 'Jenny'?  I promise to hold every
word in confidence.  Hang up that receiver.  You'd better sit down or
you'll fall!  Now, let's have this out."

The man was at my mercy; yet I knew he was no traitor.  "Probably," I
reflected, "I'd have done the same in his place."

We sat facing each other, across the bare little table; and Teano began
the story of Jenny.  There was drama in it, and tragedy, though as yet
the story had no end.  The sad music was broken; but I began to see, as
he went on, that he and I might find a way of ending it, on a different
key.

Paul Teano and his sister had come to relatives in New York when he was
nineteen and she twelve.  That was ten years ago.  Paul was now a
naturalised American citizen, but at the time of the Italian war in
Tripoli he hadn't taken out his papers.  There had been other things to
think of--such as falling in love.  In those days Paul was a budding
newspaper reporter.  He had gone to "get" a fire, and incidentally had
saved a girl's life.  Her name was Jenny Trent.  It was a case of love
at first sight with both.  The mother took lodgers, and Teano became
one.  In a fortnight, Jenny and he were engaged in spite of a rival
with money and "position"--that of a bank clerk.

Mrs. Trent wanted Jenny to marry Richard Mayne, and Jenny had vaguely
entertained the idea before she met Teano.  There was something
mysterious and different from the men she had known, about Mayne, which
piqued her interest.  But the mystery ceased to attract her after the
Italian's appearance.  Teano, afraid of Mrs. Trent's weakness for
Mayne--or his presents, would have married Jenny at once, and trusted
to luck for a living; but the girl's mother fell ill, and while Jenny
was nursing her, Italy's war broke out.  Paul was called to the
colours, and sailed for "home" with thousands of other reservists.  It
was hard luck, and harder still to be wounded and taken prisoner in his
first battle.  Teano's adventures with his Arab captors would make a
separate story, as exciting as Slatin's though not so long, for he
suffered only a year and six months' imprisonment.  At the end of that
time he escaped, made his way to Sicily, and thence back to America as
stoker in an Italian ship.  His first thought was to see Jenny; but at
Mrs. Trent's he found himself taken for a ghost.  The report had come
that he was dead; and Mrs. Trent had "thought it best" for Jenny to
accept Dick Mayne.  "For Heaven's sake, keep away," pleaded her mother.
"She's not happy with Dick.  There was trouble at the bank, and he lost
his job.  Jenny's wretched.  But she's got a baby boy to live for--a
poor little thing, born dumb.  The sight of you will make things
harder."

Perhaps Teano might have had strength to remain in the background if an
old fellow-lodger had not whispered what "people were saying about Dick
Mayne."  It was asserted that for years he had led a "double life."
Nothing had been actually proved against him, except, that he was a
dope fiend.  But gossip had it that he was a dope-seller as well, a
receiver of stolen goods, and a friend of thieves and gunmen.  There
was likely to be an awful "bust-up" and then--Heaven help Jenny!

Naturally Teano went to the address given him--that of a tenement house
a long way east of Fifth Avenue.  There, Fate stage-managed him into
the midst of a scene destined to change the course of two lives and put
an end to one.  His knock was unanswered; but something was happening
in the kitchen of the wretched flat.  The door was not locked; it had
been forgotten.  Teano burst in, to find Jenny fighting for her life
with a madman.  Mayne had snatched a bread-knife from the table, and
Jenny's hand dripped blood.  Without a word Teano sprang to her
defence; but Mayne slipped out of his grasp.  Darting to an adjoining
room, he rushed back with a Colt revolver.  To save Teano, Jenny flung
herself between the two men; but Paul caught and put her behind him,
leaping on Mayne with a spring of a tiger.  Then came a life and death
tussle.  The revolver went off as both fought to get it, and Mayne
fell, shot through the heart.

"You'd have thought things couldn't have been worse with us than they
were," the detective groaned.  "But you'd have thought wrong.  We were
up against it, Jenny and me.  If I stayed and gave evidence, she was
afraid of a scandal.  If I made a getaway, she argued, she would be all
right, on a plea of self-defence; because it was known by the
neighbours what her husband was.  I thought the same myself; and she
persuaded me for her sake to disappear.  That was the mistake of my
life.  What happened after I went, I don't know.  I can only guess.
But something caused Jenny to change her mind.  I got off without being
seen, and lay low to watch the papers.  But if you believe me, for
three days there was nothing!  Then came out a paragraph about Mayne's
body being discovered by some friend, who pounded in vain on the door,
and at last broke it in, to find the man dead.  Doctors testified that
he'd been a corpse for forty-eight hours.  The revolver lay beside him.
The verdict was suicide.  He was known for his habits, you see; and
just by pulling the catch down, Jenny could get out, leaving the door
locked on the _inside_.  Folks thought she'd deserted him--and that and
other troubles, brought on by himself, had preyed upon his mind.  She
and I hadn't been cool enough to plan a stunt like that, in the minutes
before she forced me out of the place.  But _somebody'd_ helped her;
and things that happened later put me on to guessing who.

"Never a word or a line has Jenny sent me from that day to this.  Do
you know why?  Because a pack of thieves got hold of her and the child.
One of Mayne's secret pals must have come along and offered to save her
and the boy.  I don't believe she knew what she was letting herself in
for, till she was in.  But--well, a girl called 'Three-Fingered Jenny'
travelled with a gang of international thieves last year in France, and
I bounced over there like a bomb when I heard.  You see, when I found
her struggling with Mayne, he'd been trying to cut off her finger,
because she _would_ stick to an old ring of mine; refused to give it
up.  She'd just time to tell me that and show me what he'd done.  I saw
the poor finger would have to come off.  My poor little Jenny!  She'd
loved her pretty hands!  The European war broke out just as I was
getting on her track--or thought I was--and I lost her again.  I'd
stake my life she never stole a red cent's worth.  But they may have
forced her to act as a decoy--using the child to bring her up to time.
I've always felt the gang's game would be to train the boy for a dip.
It was a frame-up on Jenny from the first.  Why, the little chap would
do star turns, and never spill.  He's dumb.  Made for the job.  I've
seen babies in the business, sharp as traps!  Now you see, my lord,
what a knockout I had, finding those finger-marks on the
window-sill:--three, of a small left hand, the third finger missing;
and traces that a child had been let out of the window by a rope.  The
footprints are below in the court.  'Jenny and her boy,' I said to
myself.  I've prayed God I might find them; but it's the devil has sent
them to me at last."

"I'm not so sure of that," I said, and told Teano where and how I had
seen a slender little woman with big, scared eyes and a left hand with
its third finger missing.

When I had explained my rapidly developed theory, we discussed the
means of proving it.  We might as well batter at the gates of Paradise
as those of the Grey Sisterhood.  We would be turned away, as with a
flaming sword.  Trust the Head Sister for that!  But we were not at the
end of our resources.


That evening towards dusk, two ruddy-faced coastguards left a somewhat
dilapidated car in charge of a local youth.  They walked for a short
distance, where a group of pines on a promontory had suggested the name
"Pine Cliff."  They rang a gate bell, although aware that tradesmen
were the only males of the human species allowed to cross the
threshold.  When their summons remained unanswered, they tugged again
with violence, until a _grille_ opened like a shutter.  "Who is there?"
questioned a timid voice.

The elder of the coastguards, seeing his companion start at the sound
of her voice, answered, to give his comrade breathing space.  They had
come, he announced, by order, to search the garden for a suspected
hiding hole of smuggled opium.  Not that the Sisterhood was implicated!
This was an old place, and had been used by dope smugglers.  The coast
police had received the "tip" that this had happened again.

The veiled eyes behind the _grille_ vanished; and a moment later
another voice took up the argument.  As Teano had recognised Jenny's
voice, I knew the Head Sister's.  The idea was _absurd_, said the
latter.  We could not be admitted.  I stepped aside, not trusting my
disguise, and Teano held out a folded document to which we had given an
official semblance.

"I don't want to make trouble for you, ladies, but----" he hinted.  The
paper and a glimpse of a red seal said the rest.  Bolts slid back
indignantly, and the gate was flung open.  I beheld the Head Sister,
tall and formidable.  Behind her I glimpsed a group of other forms less
imposing, among them Maida, flowers in her hands, and surrounded with
children.  As for Teano, no doubt he saw only the shy figure retiring
from the gate.

"This is preposterous!" exclaimed the Head Sister.  "But search the
garden if you must.  You will find _nothing_."  She moved away to join
her satellites, motioning to the door-keeper that the gate might be
closed.  Before the gesture could be obeyed, however, Teano put himself
between the tall woman and the little one.

"Beg pardon, madam.  I admit we've got in on false pretences," he said
sharply; "but we're detectives sent to arrest Three-Fingered Jenny, and
here's our warrant."

He flourished the faked document.  Before the mistress of infinite
resource had time to collect her forces--we had swept Jenny outside the
gate, and slammed it.  We raced with her to Teano's waiting car,
and--cruel to be kind--stopped to explain nothing till Pine Cliff was
more than a mile away.

I took the wheel and gave Paul a place by Jenny.  I heard him plead,
"Don't you _know_ me, Jen?"  But not once did I turn my head until
Teano spoke my name.

"She's my Jenny," he said, "and she _cares_, but she doesn't _want_ to
be rescued!  It's a question of her boy.  She won't give him up."

"Quite right," I agreed.  "Why should she give him up?  Has she left
him in the Sisterhood House?"

"No, he's lost," Jenny answered.  "I don't know where he is--since this
morning.  But the House has been our home for weeks.  The Head Sister
took us in, and promised to save Nicky from bad people and bad ways.
He'll go back there, and----"

"But where is he now?" I cut in, having slowed down the car.  "Can't we
head him off?  The child has money, I know.  Where would he go and
spend his earnings?"

"I--can't tell," she stammered.  "He's always wanted me to take him to
Coney Island--to some amusement park.  But----"

"To Coney Island we'll go," I exclaimed.

      *      *      *      *      *

What followed was a wild adventure.  I had never been to Coney Island.
But I seemed to have been born knowing that it was a place dedicated to
the people's pleasure.  No doubt it was a toss-up which amusement
ground to choose.  By hazard, we began with Constellation Park; and
almost at once came upon traces of Nicky.  "A little dumb boy with
black eyes, all alone, with plenty of money, and a grin when asked if
he were lost?"  Oh, yes, he was doing every stunt.  We tracked him
through peanuts and ice cream, lions' dens and upside-down houses, to
the Maze of Mystery.

The name was no misnomer.  Hampton Court, and the Labyrinth of Crete
itself could have "nothing on it."  In a bewildered procession Teano,
Jenny and I wandered through streets of mirrors, complicated groves,
walled concentric alley ways, with unexpected and disappointing outlets
until at last a pair of elf-eyes stared at me from a distant and
unreachable surface of glass.  I cried out; so did Jenny and Teano, for
all of us had had the same glimpse and quickly lost it.

"_Nicky_," gasped Jenny, just behind my back.  "And, oh, _Red Joe's got
hold of him_!  It's all up--if we can't get between them.  It's Red Joe
I stole him back from when we went into the Sisterhood."

I looked back to console her--and she was gone.  Teano, too, had
suddenly separated from us, whether accidentally or for a purpose, I
could not tell.  But the maze would have put any rabbit warren to
shame.  When you thought you were in one place, you found to your
astonishment that you were in another, with no visible way of getting
out.

Then again, eyes looked at me from a mirror which might be far off or
within ten yards.  There were mirrors within mirrors, dazzling and
endless vistas of mirrors.  Child's eyes, mischievous as a squirrel's,
met mine, peering from between crowding forms of grown-ups.  The man
Jenny had spoken of as "Red Joe" (I picked him out by a ferret face and
rust-red hair) was trying to push past a fat father of a family, to
reach the child in grey.  Whether Nicky knew that he was a pawn in a
game of chess, who could tell?  There was but one thing certain.  He
was having "the time of his life."

"If I could get him for Jenny, what would Jenny do for me in return?" I
asked myself.  It might turn out that she could unlock the door that
had shut between me and Maida Odell.

A desperate, a selfish desire to beat Red Joe, seized me; but now the
mirrors told, if they did not deceive, that glassy depths of distance
between us were increasing in space and mystery.  Suddenly I reached a
turning-point.  Nicky was straight ahead.  He paused, looked, made
ready to dart away like a trout from the hook.  But--inspiration ran
with my blood.

I pulled a wad of greenbacks from my pocket and smiled.  Red Joe had
flattened pater familias unmercifully, and was squeezing past.  A hand,
a thief's hand if I ever saw one, caught at Nicky's collar.  But he
dipped from under, slipped between a surprised German's legs, and--I
grabbed him in my arms.




EPISODE III

THE GIRL ON THE THIRTEENTH FLOOR

When Teano first spoke to me of his sister, nothing was further from my
thoughts than a meeting with the telephone girl at the Priscilla Alden,
a hotel sacred to ladies.  But unexpected things happen in the best
regulated lives, especially in New York, as anyone may learn by the
Sunday papers.  Not many days after the gate of the Sisterhood House
shut for the second time between Maida and me, I changed my residence
from New York to a hotel about five miles from Pine Cliff.  Roger Odell
and Roger's bride had gone to South America on one of those business
trips which financiers seem to take as nonchalantly as we cross a
street.  His last words to me were: "You know, I rely on you to look
after Maida, as well as she can be looked after, under that brute of a
woman's thumb."

I did the best I could; but whether my wounds or my love sickness were
to blame, the fact was that something had made me a bundle of raw
nerves.

I slept badly, and my dreams were of some hideous thing happening to
Maida; or else of the mummy-case being stolen.  In my waking hours I
chased back and forth between town and country, trying to find in New
York the "Egyptian-looking man" who had disturbed Maida's peace of
mind, and who had reasons for wishing me to forget the number of his
automobile: trying to make sure on Long Island if a connection existed
between this man and the head of the Sisterhood.

At last I realised that I was in no fit state of nerves for a guardian.
The hotel people recommended me to a celebrated doctor practising on
Long Island; and one morning, ashamed of myself as a "molly-coddle," I
went to keep an appointment with him.  Thorne was his name and he lived
in a grey-shingled house set back from the road behind a small lawn.
The place was outside the village; but since abandoning my crutch, I
had begun to take as much exercise as possible.  I walked, therefore,
to the doctor's, rather than use the car presented to me by Roger.
This seems a small detail to note, but deductions following certain
events proved it to have been important.

I was received by the keen-eyed Thorne, in his private office, and
during the catechism to which he subjected me, I thought nothing of
what went on in the outer room through which I had passed.  I should
ill have earned Roger Odell's nickname ("the gilded amateur
detective"), however, if I hadn't ferreted it out afterwards and "put
two and two together."

It was an ordinary room, with a desk at which sat a young woman who
answered the door and kept the doctor's appointments classified.  I was
vaguely aware that I had interrupted her business of stamping letters,
which a boy would post.  She had not finished when a few minutes later
the next patient arrived.  This person gave his name as Mr. Genardius,
and confessed that he had no appointment; but his face--covered with
bandages--presented such a pitiful appearance that the girl agreed to
let him wait.  "When the gentleman who's in the office now goes away,"
she explained, "the doctor's hour for receiving is over.  But he may
give you a few minutes."

"Isn't the gentleman an English officer, Lord John Hasle?" inquired the
would-be patient, whose face as seen under a wide-brimmed,
old-fashioned felt hat, and between linen wrappings, consisted of
deep-set black eyes, wide nostrils, and a long-lipped mouth.

"Why, yes, he is," admitted the young woman, to whom I had given my
name.  "Do you know him?"

"Not at all," replied Mr. Genardius, who appeared to her a rather
unusual figure in his quaint hat and an equally quaint overcoat.  "But
as I got out of my automobile I saw him at the gate.  I recognised him
from portraits in newspapers.  He was an army aviator, I believe, who
got leave on account of wounds, and came over to see a play produced."

"Oh, yes, _The Key_--a _lovely_ detective play," was the flattering
reply, as reported to me later.

As she spoke, the young woman (Miss Murphy) gave the letters to the
boy, who went out, needing no directions.  Hardly had the door shut,
when Mr. Genardius rose.  "Oh, that reminds me!" he exclaimed, "I
should have wired to a friend!  The doctor is sure to be engaged for
some moments.  I'll step out and send my chauffeur with the telegram."
For an invalid, he walked briskly.  The boy hadn't disposed of his
letters and parcels, or mounted the bicycle which leaned against the
fence, when Mr. Genardius reached the gate.  Miss Murphy glanced from
the window, interested in the queer personage.  She was unable to see
the motor from where she sat; but it must have been near, for the black
felt hat and the black caped coat came flapping up the garden path
again in less than five minutes.  The thought flitted through Miss
Murphy's head that the bandages worn by the invalid wouldn't make a bad
disguise.  Mr. Genardius returned to his chair, and selected a
newspaper.

About this time came a telephone call, which Miss Murphy answered.  And
though two days had passed before I realised the need of questioning
the young woman, she was able to recall a rustle as of tearing paper at
this moment.  Her attention was occupied at the 'phone; but when
Genardius had departed, and she wished to glance at the theatrical
advertisements, she noticed that a page was gone from _The World_.  Had
she not remembered the name of the paper, a link would have been
missing from the chain of evidence.  As it was, I was able to deduce
that the torn page contained a news item "exclusive to _The World_."
Mr. Genardius had doubtless read some other newspaper at home, and it
had interested him that "Millionaire Roger Odell's Egyptian Present for
His Bride" was likely to reach New York that night on an Italian liner.

How _The World_ had got hold of this story remains a mystery.  It had
leaked out that Roger had bought for a great sum an opal "Eye of
Horus," supposed to be the mate of a curious ornament possessed by his
adopted sister, and the only other jewel resembling it, in existence.
Grace Odell (nee Grace Callender) had admired Maida's fetish.  That was
enough for Roger.  He made inquiries, and learned from a firm of
jewellers that a duplicate of Miss Odell's opal had been sold years ago
by a certain Sir Anthony Annesley to the Museum of Cairo.

How it had come into Annesley's hands was not known; and he had long
ago died.  Maida had been satisfied with her fetish, and did not covet
its fellow, but Grace's chance word caused Roger to cable an agent in
Egypt, and, after bargaining, the Museum authorities had consented to
part with the treasure.  This information the newspapers had obtained,
but the time and the way of the opal's arrival in America had, Roger
thought, been kept a dead secret.

In order that jewel-thieves, ever on the alert for a prize, should not
stalk the messenger, Roger's agent had engaged the services of a
private person.  A relative of his, an American girl who had acted as
stenographer in Naples, was giving up her position to return to New
York.  Taking advantage of this fact, and his confidence in her, the
agent had given Miss Mary Gibson charge of the Eye of Horus.  Having no
connection with any jewel firm it was believed that she might pass
unsuspected.  The curio being thousands of years old, was not subject
to duty, and could, it was hoped, be placed by Miss Gibson directly in
the hands of its owner, before anyone discovered that it had been in
hers.  Roger Odell had intended to meet the young woman; but his
suddenly arranged journey upset that plan, and the day before my visit
to Dr. Thorne I had received the following cable:

"Stenographer will go straight from ship to Priscilla Alden.  If ship
late, meet her there early morning after.  Will be expecting you."

Had I not come to an understanding with Roger before he sailed for Rio
Janeiro, this message would have been gibberish.  But he had asked me
to take over the jewel because he hoped thus to bring me into touch
with Maida.  If I could bestow the opal in Roger's bank, Miss Odell
(whose vows did not bind her to absolute seclusion) might run up to New
York and compare it with her own curio.  I had caught eagerly at the
plan.  Gladly would I have waited hours on the dock for Miss Gibson,
but fearing I might be suspected as his agent, if thieves were on the
watch, Roger had thought it best for the young woman not to be met.  In
order to avoid attention, she was to proceed as if she had been the
insignificant stranger she was supposed to be.  She was to inquire on
shipboard for an hotel in New York, taking lady guests only.  The
Priscilla Alden would be mentioned, and she would send a wireless,
engaging a room.  As clients of the Priscilla Alden were allowed no
male visitors after ten p.m., my call would have to depend upon the
time the ship docked.  Even before Roger's cable, I had ascertained
that the _Reina Elenora_ was likely to get in late, and I made up my
mind to spend the night at my own old hotel in New York.  That would
enable me to present myself early next day at the Priscilla Alden.

While I described my nightmare dreams to the doctor (keeping Maida's
name to myself), Miss Murphy left Mr. Genardius for a few moments.  A
rich old lady patient drew up at the gate in an automobile and sent her
chauffeur to fetch the young woman.  There was a verbal message to be
delivered, and while Miss Murphy committed it to heart, doubtless the
bandaged man listened at the keyhole.  He heard enough to realise that
John Hasle was close upon the trail of Miss Odell's enemies.

Thorne was sympathetic.  He talked of nerve-shock in various forms,
from which most returning soldiers suffered.

As he fumbled among medicine bottles he went on: "I'll prescribe you a
tonic; I keep a few things at hand here, and I can fix you up from my
stock.  Some of the ingredients are rare.  You couldn't get a
prescription made up nearer than New York.  No, by George! there's one
thing missing from my lot!  Luckily it's not one of the rare ones.  Did
you come in a car?  What, you walked?  Well, I'll get the boy to sprint
into the village on his bike, to the pharmacy.  He can be back inside
fifteen minutes.  I'll write to the druggist."

Thorne touched an electric button.  No one came in response.
Impatiently the doctor flung the door open to glare at Miss Murphy.
Miss Murphy was not visible, however, and away dashed the master of the
house, leaving me in his private office to wonder at his absence.  This
office being behind the outer room gave no view of the front gate,
therefore I could not see what Thorne saw.  It wasn't until he appeared
that I learned why he had bolted.  The boy whom he had intended to send
for the missing ingredients had been run down by a motor-car, while
bicycling to the post-office.  The chauffeur had, through coincidence,
been despatched by a patient waiting for Thorne.  He had taken a corner
too sharply, and knocked the boy off his bicycle, but Joey was more
frightened than hurt.  He had been picked up by the chauffeur, a
foreigner, and when Thorne had looked from the window, it had been to
see the lad lifted half conscious from the returning car.  At the gate
stood not only Miss Murphy, but the owner of the automobile, who had
hurried out on hearing the young woman's cry.  So it was that the
waiting-room had been left empty.

"Joey's as right as rain now, or will be when he's pulled himself
together," Thorne explained.  "My new patient, whoever he is--a
stranger to me--seemed to feel worse than Joey.  He gave the kid ten
dollars!  It may have been as much the boy's fault as the chauffeur's.
Anyhow, I bet Joey won't complain.  Your medicine will be ready as soon
as if nothing had happened, for the owner of the auto (Genardius, his
name is) offered to drive to the druggist's and back."

It was Miss Murphy who presently handed the doctor a small, neatly
wrapped bottle.  "That chauffeur brought me this," she announced.  "It
seems that Joey's accident upset the invalid gentleman more than he
realised at first.  He was taken faint at the pharmacy, and decided not
to consult you this morning.  He'll 'phone, and ask for an appointment."

Dr. Thorne tore the wrapper off the phial, and began pouring its
colourless contents into a bottle already two-thirds full, which he had
prepared.  Suddenly he stopped.  "I guess I'll let that do for this
time!  Take a tablespoonful when you get home, and twice more during
the day; once just before bed."

Dr. Thorne inspired me with confidence; and, as I was anxious to keep
my wits for Maida's sake, I intended to follow directions.  Arriving at
my hotel, however, I found a cablegram in answer to one I'd sent
Haslemere, in London.  I had demanded whence came the scandal which
darkened the life of Maida Odell.  Replying, he refused details, but
deigned to admit that his informant was an American, the widow of a
naval officer, of "unimpeachable respectability."  That word
"unimpeachable" was so characteristic of Haslemere that I laughed, but
the description answered closely enough to Mrs. Granville to excite me,
and I forgot the medicine.

Later, I had remembered it once more when Teano called, bringing the
dumb child Nicky, now his adopted son.  I set down the bottle and
thought no more about it, for I hoped to learn something of the man who
had frightened Maida.  My hope that Nicky might turn informant seemed,
however, doomed to disappointment.  It was difficult to elicit facts,
because of his dumbness; but Teano and I agreed that the imp took
advantage of his infirmity to bottle up secrets.  "He's in fear of some
threat," pronounced the detective.  "It's the same with his mother.
Jenny and I were married the day after you found her.  She says she's
happy, and she ought to know I'm able to protect her.  But she's afraid
to speak against the Sisterhood.  I shouldn't wonder if they've made
her swear some oath."

We talked long on the subject, and Teano produced a list of Egyptians
living in New York, obtained at my request.  Some were rich.  The
greater number appeared to be engaged in the import of tobacco and
curios, or Eastern carpets.  A few were doctors; more were
fortune-tellers; while one extraordinary creature whose description
caught my fancy was a mixture of both: an exponent of ancient cults and
religions, and a qualified physician who treated nervous ailments with
hypnotism.  This man gave weekly lectures on "Egyptian Wisdom applied
to Modern Civilisation," and was known as "Doctor" or "Professor"
Rameses.  The name was, of course, assumed; but Teano had learned that
Dr. Rameses was more than respectable; he was estimable.  Following his
religion, which claimed that each soul was a spark from the one Living
Fire, he aimed to help all mankind, and was apparently a true
philanthropist.

When Teano spoke of returning to New York it was time for me to start.
I invited him into my car, and preparing to depart, I came upon the
forgotten medicine.  Thorne had prophesied that I would prove a bad
patient; but I tried to atone by swallowing an extra large dose.  The
bottle I slipped into my overcoat pocket, intending to take the stuff
again at bedtime.

"Stop at the Priscilla Alden Hotel," I directed my chauffeur; and it
was only when Teano spoke of "Nella" that I recalled the sister
employed there.  I had seen Nella's photograph at Paul's rooms, taken
with her fiance, Maurice Morosini, and had pleased Teano with praise of
the girl's beauty.  Morosini, too, was of an interesting type.  I was
sorry to hear from the detective that he had been ordered to join the
colours, and would sail at dawn for Naples.

"The worst thing is," Teano went on, as we sped toward New York, "that
those two can't even bid each other good-bye.  Anywhere but at the
Priscilla Alden, Morosini might walk into the hotel, take the elevator
and go to her floor for a word."

As Teano talked a pain behind my eyes began to run through my temples,
and into the back of my neck to the spine.

Something queer was the matter.  I was conscious that Teano was asking
alarmed questions, and that Nickey was staring.  I was thankful that we
had got to New York before the attack overwhelmed me, for I must leave
the letter at the Priscilla Alden.  As the motor slowed down in front
of the hotel I remember pushing Teano aside and stumbling out of the
car, the letter in my hand.  I wasn't even aware of dropping the
envelope addressed to Miss Gibson.  Only Nickey, peering from the
depths of the car, saw the fall, and would have darted to retrieve it,
had not a man grabbed the letter as it touched the pavement.  Teano was
occupied with me, and so it seems was Maurice Morosini, who had been
wandering up and down before the hotel, in the hope that Nella might
come out.  He sprang to help Paul, and there was no one for Nickey to
tell, in his queer way, by gestures and rough sketches on a slate, what
had happened.  Afterward the detective did learn in this fashion that
the man who picked up the letter was a chauffeur from a car following
us, which had stopped when we stopped.  But then it was too late for
the knowledge to be useful.

Despite protests from the doorman, Teano and Morosini half carried,
half dragged me into the hotel.  Once inside, they suggested that it
would be inhuman not to give me shelter; they made great play with my
name and title, and threatened reprisals if I should be turned out.

"I suppose under the circumstances we'll have to give his lordship a
room and get a doctor in," groaned the manager.  "But it's against
rules.  However, we'll smuggle Lord John up to the thirteenth floor,
where there's a small room vacant."

It's an ill wind that blows nobody good, and Morosini must have praised
the saints for my illness when he found it giving him the chance he
would have bought with half a year of life.  He was going to the
thirteenth floor of the sacred Priscilla Alden; and on that floor was
Nella Teano!

One glance he threw at Paul across my head, as the two helped me out of
the lift, and then his heart bounded with great joy, for close by was
the telephone window.

"The only room disengaged to-night is farther down the corridor," the
manager explained.  "I wish we could spare this one just opposite, but
there's a lady coming into it later," and he threw a regretful glance
at a door barred by a chambermaid, her arms full of linen and towels.
She had been getting ready Number 1313 for its next occupant, but in
her surprise dropped a wad of sheets and pillow-cases.  Stooping to
pick them up, a sharp word from the manager sent her flying; and
Morosini noticed that she had forgotten to take her pass-key from the
lock.

I had revived enough to walk mechanically, like a man in a dream,
without support, so Morosini left me to the guidance of Teano and the
manager, and ran back to the lighted window which framed his adored
one.  She sprang to her feet as Morosini held out his arms.

"Oh, Maurice!" she gasped.

"Give me a kiss to take with me--perhaps to my death," he implored.
The girl gave it, leaning over the narrow edge of her window.  Nella
Teano would have dared anything rather than refuse what might be a last
request; yet the danger was great, and she started at sound of the
lift.  "What _shall_ we do?" she gasped.  "You mustn't be seen----"

But Morosini did not await the end of her sentence.  For the girl's
sake he must hide.  Besides, he hoped to snatch another moment when the
coast should be clear.  With a bound he crossed the corridor, opened
the door of 1313, and shut himself in.  Meanwhile the manager,
telephoning to the office from my room, had learned that the doctor he
wished to get was in the hotel, just leaving a patient.  Out hurried
the manager to meet the doctor at the lift and discuss the case before
returning to my room.  That room, as fate would have it, happened to be
on the other side of a narrow court, opposite 1313, the windows facing
each other.

Poor Morosini had thought himself blessed by Heaven in his unhoped-for
chance to see Nella.  He still thought the same, as he stood inside the
room across from the telephone bureau; but luck had turned.  Hardly had
the door closed upon Morosini, when the chambermaid crept back to lock
number 1313, and regained the forgotten pass-key.  Nella would
desperately have called the girl, making some excuse, or, if worst came
to worst, even telling her the truth.  At that instant, however, the
doctor came from the lift, to station himself in front of the telephone
window.  He could see the manager advancing, and so also could the
maid.  In fear of meeting this awe-inspiring personage again, she
snatched the key with frenzy and fled, while Nella sat doomed to
silence.

Morosini's first hint of trouble came with the grating of the key in
the lock.  He dared not try the door at the moment, for he could hear
the voice of the manager.  What could he do if Nella were unable to
open the door?  If there were a ledge or cornice running under the
window, he might attempt to creep along it and find a way of descent by
a fire escape.  He had switched on a light, and had seen the window,
covered with a dark blind, when a faint rattle of paper attracted his
eyes to the door.  A white envelope was being slipped underneath.
Morosini seized it, and read in Nella's handwriting, "I'll try to get a
pass-key and let you out, but can't tell how or when.  Turn off the
electricity.  It can be seen through the transom."

Meanwhile, in my room, while I lay in a half-doze on the bed, the
doctor listened to Teano's story of my sudden seizure.  The medicine
bottle was found and produced, and as I had mentioned my visit to
Thorne, the detective could supply some information.  The New York
doctor got into communication with the Long Island man over the 'phone,
and thus started the train which enabled us later to make valuable
deductions.  The bandaged patient had doubtless tampered with the
bottle in the shelter of his automobile, and remained at the pharmacy
until the return of his chauffeur.  The nature of the added ingredient
was discovered eventually by analysis; and had I taken one more of the
doses directed by Dr. Thorne, nothing could have saved my life.  As it
was, the effects were temporary; and when some nauseous stuff had been
poured down my throat, increasing the heart action, consciousness of
surroundings came like the waking from a dream.  Teano it was who had
run out with the hotel doctor's prescription and returned with it made
up.  So great had been his haste that Nella's appeal detained him at
her window only for an instant.  He had no time to give help, for my
life might depend on promptness, but he promised aid later.

As it was, the effect of his treatment satisfied the doctor.  He
stopped by my bedside till I crudely invited him to go, and let me
sleep.  All I needed to restore me was a night's rest.  My presence in
the hotel was not to be talked about, but the manager would look in
from time to time, and call the doctor if needed.  I slept fitfully,
glad of the cool air blowing through the open window.  Suddenly light
struck my eyelids.  I was roused with a start, and sat up in bed.  My
impression was that someone had come in and switched on the
electricity.  But the room was dark, save for a radiant circle on the
wall at the foot of my bed.  From a bright surface of crystal framed in
gold, a woman's face looked out.

For a dazed second, I thought I had to do with a ghost.  I realised
that what I saw was the reflection of a reflection.  My narrow bed
stood with its back to the wall beside the window.  Opposite the
window, and therefore facing the foot of the bed, was a round mirror in
a gilt frame.  A dark blind had suddenly been thrown up, across the
narrow court, and a woman, pausing before the glass in her room, sent
into the dusk of mine her image.  She was taking off her hat, looking
at herself; and there she was fantastically, at the foot of my bed, for
me to look at too.  The effect was so extraordinary that it held me
fascinated, until another woman came into the room.

When Maurice Morosini heard the sound of a key in the lock, it was
music to his ears.  He believed that at last (hours had gone) Nella
found herself able to open his prison.  But another second undeceived
him.  A voice was saying, "One moment, madam.  Let me find the electric
switch before you go in."

All the young man's blood seemed to flow back upon his heart.  The
thought in his mind was, that Nella would suffer disgrace.  While a
hand groped for the switch he flung himself on the floor, and crept
under the bed.

"My moment will come," he reflected, "when the woman falls asleep.
Then I can let myself out."

But the occupant for whom 1313 had been reserved was in no hurry for
sleep.  Morosini heard her moving about, and ventured to peep.  He saw
a small woman, young and rather pretty, of what might be classified as
the "governess type."  She did not undress, but seemed restless.
Fussing round the room, she shot up the green blind and opened the
window.  Then she flew to the door.  There had been a faint knock.
Maurice peered from his hiding-place, and saw another woman come in.
She, too, was plainly dressed, but older and with a harder, more
experienced face.

"What _can_ Nella be doing?" the trapped prisoner wondered.  If she
were still at the telephone bureau she must know that 1313 now had an
occupant.  Poor girl!  Her misery must be equal to his.

Nella did know.  She had seen the young woman go in.  When no alarm
followed, however, the girl's stopped heart beat again.  But the
situation had become impossible.  She seized the first chance to call
Teano.  "It's too late for you to help, even if you could get in
again," she whispered into the telephone, fearing to be overheard by
some one passing.  "A lady has gone into 1313 for the night.  And I'm
supposed to shut my window and go off duty in half an hour.  Here comes
Shannon, the night watchman, now."

As she spoke, a woman knocked at the door of 1313.  Nella listened;
soon she could hear voices speaking earnestly.  Then they grew loud and
shrill.  "The women are quarrelling!" she thought.  "Can it have
anything to do with Maurice?"  The transom snapped shut as she asked
herself the question.  The speakers were afraid of being overheard.
That, at least, proved they believed themselves alone together!

"Well, here I am.  I've given you time enough to make up your mind,
haven't I, Miss Gibson?" began the new-comer.

"Yes, and I have made it up," answered the younger.  "I don't say
you're not acting in good faith.  The note you brought to the dock
looks like Mr. Odell's handwriting.  And it's just as you said it would
be.  I found no letter of instructions waiting here.  All the same,
Miss Parsons, I won't give up the jewel till morning, when I've made
sure the person I expected is not going to call."

"You _are_ silly!" cried the other.  "Now, how _could_ I have known
there _was_ a jewel coming with a Miss Gibson on this ship, if I wasn't
all right?"

"That's true," the younger woman admitted.  "I don't see how you could
have known except from Mr. Odell.  But I'm not taking chances!  If
nobody else shows up before nine to-morrow morning, why then----"

"I have to go west to-morrow morning," explained Miss Parsons, her
voice quivering with impatience.  "I can't wait.  I told you so on the
dock.  You _must_ give me the thing now."

"I won't--so there!" shrilled Miss Gibson.

The older woman stared at the obstinate young face in desperate
silence.  Then she broke out fiercely, all effort at suppression over.
"I believe you want me to _bribe_ you!"  And she pulled from a velvet
handbag a roll of bank-notes.

Mary Gibson drew in her breath with a gasp.  "_Why_--you've got
hundreds and hundreds of dollars!  I believe you're a _fraud_!  You're
after me to steal the jewel.  Get out of this room, you thief, or I'll
call----"

The sentence broke off with a queer gurgle.  The woman who called
herself Miss Parsons had snatched a long hatpin from the other girl's
hat on the table, and stabbed Mary Gibson through the heart.  She fell
without a cry.

This was the tragedy mirrored on my wall at the foot of my bed.  I saw
the fall.  I saw the murderess stoop; I saw her rise with something in
her hand--something that gleamed green and blue, like a wonderful
butterfly's wing.  As I stumbled out of bed and groped for the
dressing-gown which Teano had unpacked, I saw the woman tiptoe towards
the door.  Then a man's face came into the picture.

The murderess turned and saw the face also.  But instead of trying to
escape, 

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