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The Curved Blades

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Title: The Curved Blades

Author: Carolyn Wells

Illustrator: Gayle Porter Hoskins


        
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                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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[Illustration front: "I THINK YOU MUST ANSWER, MISS STUART," SAID STONE,
                                 GENTLY
_Page 208_]


THE CURVED BLADES

by

CAROLYN WELLS

Author of "A Chain of Evidence," "The Gold Bag," "The Clue," "The
White Alley," Etc.

With a Frontispiece in Color by Gayle Hoskins







Philadelphia and London
J. B. Lippincott Company
1916

Copyright, 1916, by Frank A. Munsey Company
Copyright, 1916, by J. B. Lippincott Company
Published February, 1916

Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company
at the Washington Square Press
Philadelphia, U. S. A.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                      PAGE
      I. Miss Lucy Carrington                                     7
     II. A Clash of Tongues                                      21
    III. The Tragedy                                             36
     IV. A Paper Snake                                           49
      V. A Man's Glove                                           61
     VI. A Neighbor's Call                                       75
    VII. The Inquest                                             90
   VIII. Anita's Story                                          104
     IX. Further Testimony                                      117
      X. Bizarre Clues                                          130
     XI. Fleming Stone                                          144
    XII. Estelle's Story                                        156
   XIII. Bates, the Burglar                                     169
    XIV. Who Gave the Poison                                    182
     XV. Pauline's Purchase                                     195
    XVI. The Two Girls                                          210
   XVII. The Overheard Conversation                             222
  XVIII. Fled!                                                  235
    XIX. Letters from the Fugitive                              251
     XX. In the Boudoir                                         261
    XXI. Fleming Stone's Theory                                 274
   XXII. Pauline in Cairo                                       289
  XXIII. Two Wills                                              302
   XXIV. Confession                                             314




                           THE CURVED BLADES




                                   I
                          MISS LUCY CARRINGTON


"Garden Steps" was one of the show-places of Merivale Park, Long Island.
In summer it was an enchanting spot, and the dazzling white marble steps
which led to the sunken gardens justified their right to give the place
its name. Other stone steps gave on terraces and flower banks, others
still led to the Italian landscape gardens, and a few rustic steps of a
wooden stile transported one to an old-fashioned garden, whose larkspur
and Canterbury bells were the finest of their sort.

The house seemed an integral part of this setting. Its wide verandahs, or
more often loggias, were so lavishly furnished with flowering plants, its
windows so boxed with them, that the whole effect was that of a
marvellously well-planned horticultural exhibition.

But all this was of the summer. In winter--for it was an
all-round-the-year home--only the varied and extraordinary collection of
evergreens shared with the steps the honor of making picturesque and
beautiful the view from the house windows.

And now, in January, one of the all too seldom enjoyed white snow storms
had glorified the whole estate. Wind-swept drifts half hid, half
disclosed the curving marble balustrades, and turned the steps to snowy
fairyland flights.

And, for it was night, a cold, dear, perfect winter night, a supercilious
moon looked down, a little haughtily and condescended to illumine the
scene in stunning, if a bit theatric, fashion.

"Ripping picture, eh?" said Gray Haviland, as he held back the heavy
curtain for the golden-haired young woman at his side to look out.

"Oh, isn't it a wonderful sight!" And as Anita Frayne took a step
forward, toward the casement, Haviland let the curtain fall behind him
and the two were alone in the deep embrasure of the wide bay-window.

"Not nearly such a wonderful sight as you are!" Haviland swung her round
to face him, and stood gazing at the pretty, doll-like face that half
laughed, half frowned into his own.

"Me! I'm not like a moonlit landscape!"

"No, you're just a golden morsel of summer sunshine----" Haviland's
eulogy was interrupted by a petulant voice calling shrilly:

"Where are you two? I hear you talking; come on. I'm waiting."

"Oh, Lord! come on," and, holding the curtain aside, he let Anita pass
and then followed her.

"Here we are, Cousin Lucy, all ready for the fray. Good evening, Count."

Count Charlier bowed Frenchily, and Anita gave him the bright, flashing
smile that she kept on hand for mankind in general, and which was quite
different from that she used on special occasions or for special friends.

Annoyed at the duration of this delaying smile, Miss Lucy Carrington
tapped impatiently on the bridge table, and looked her impatience most
unmistakably.

Mistress of Garden Steps, wealthy, well-born, of assured social position,
capable and efficient, Miss Carrington lacked the one gift of Fate for
which she would have bartered all else. She was not beautiful, and had
not even enough pretension to good looks to think herself beautiful.
Plain features, graying hair--dyed red--big, prominent light-blue eyes,
and a pasty, pudgy complexion left no hope for the miracles worked by
beauty doctors to avail in her case. Her figure was short and dumpy, the
despair of her staymakers, and her taste in dress ran to the extremes in
coloring and fashion.

Passionately fond of all beauty, Miss Carrington felt keenly her own lack
of it, and to this lack she attributed the fact that she was a spinster.
Those who knew her felt there might be other reasons why her suitors had
been few, but, as a matter of fact, the acidity of her disposition was a
direct result of her disappointed, loveless life, and even yet, though
nearing fifty, Miss Lucy Carrington had by no means laid aside all
thoughts of matrimonial adventure.

Heiress to immense wealth, there had been fortune-seekers who asked her
hand, but Lucy Carrington would none of these. Aristocratic and
high-minded, she had unerring perception of motives, and the men who had
been willing to marry her face as well as her fortune had been of such
unworth that the lady scorned them.

But now, looming on her hopes' horizon was a welcome possibility. Count
Henri Charlier, a visitor of a neighbor, seemingly admired the mistress
of Garden Steps and had fallen into the habit of frequent calling.
Courteous and polished of manner, he flattered Miss Carrington in such
wise that his attitude was acceptable if not indubitably sincere. Her
closest scrutiny and most challenging provocation failed to surprise any
admission of her lack of perfection in his eyes, and his splendid
physique and brilliant mind commanded her complete approval and
admiration. There had been hints that his title could not be read
entirely clear, but this was not sufficient to condemn him in Miss
Carrington's eyes.

To be sure, the Count had as yet said no word that could be construed as
of definite intention, but there had been certain signs, deemed
portentous by the willing mind of the lady in question.

Bridge was Miss Carrington's favorite diversion, and, as the Count also
enjoyed it, frequent evenings were devoted to the game.

It was, perhaps, a mistake that Miss Carrington should have allowed this,
for her temper, always uncertain, lost all restraint when she suffered
ill-luck at cards. A poor hand always brought down violent objurgation on
the head of her partner and sarcastic comment or criticism on her
adversaries. These exhibitions of wrath were not good policy if she
wished to charm the French visitor, but, as he invariably kept his own
temper, his irate hostess made little effort to curb hers.

"What are you doing, Anita?" cried Miss Carrington, petulantly, as they
settled themselves at the table. "You know I always play with the blue
cards, and you are dealing them!"

"Sure enough! Pardon me, Lady Lucy, I will take the red ones."

"Then, pray, wait till I make them up. There. No, let the Count cut them!
Have you no notion of bridge rules? You are quite the most inattentive
player! Will you kindly concentrate on the game?"

"Yes, indeed," and Anita Frayne smiled as she deftly dealt the red cards.
"I hope you have a good hand."

"You hope I have a good hand! A strange idea for an adversary!"

"But I know you like to win," and Miss Frayne hastily gathered up her own
cards.

"I do not like to have you want me to win! That's babyish. I like to win
by superior skill, not merely by lucky cards!"

This was an awful whopper, and all at the table knew it, but it was
ignored and the game began.

Miss Carrington--Lady Lucy, as she liked to be called--did not hold good
hands. On the contrary, she had a run of bad luck that made her more and
more irate with each hand dealt. Miss Frayne, who was her _protégée_ and
social secretary, watched with growing apprehension the red spots that
appeared in Miss Carrington's cheeks, infallible danger signals of an
impending outbreak.

It came.

"Another handful of blanks!" Miss Carrington exclaimed, angrily, and
flung the offending thirteen cards across the wide room.

"There now, Cousin Lucy," said Gray Haviland, determined to keep the
peace if possible, "that was a clever idea! It will certainly change your
luck! I'll collect the pasteboards, and we'll start fresh."

Easily, the big, good-looking young chap sauntered across the room and
gathered up the cards, chatting meanwhile. "You don't lose your deal, you
know; so try again, Cousin Lucy, and good luck to you!"

In angry silence Miss Carrington dealt again, and examined her hand.
"Nothing above a nine spot!" she declared, throwing them, backs up, on
the table.

"Too bad!" murmured Miss Frayne, carelessly picking up the hand. "Why,
you didn't look closely! Here's an ace and two queens and----"

"They're nothing! How dare you dispute my word? I say the hand is
worthless!" She fairly snatched the cards from the girl and turned them
face down again.

"But mad'moiselle," began the Count, "if you have an ace and two queens,
I could have played a no-trump hand grand,--ah, splendid!"

"Yes, _you_ could have played it! You want to play all the open hands!
You want me to sit here a dummy, a figure-head, every time!"

"Now, now, Lady Lucy----" and Anita Frayne laughed pleasantly.

"Be quiet! You're worse yet! You want to deal me good hands to humor me!
I believe you would cheat to do it! I don't want good cards that way!"

"Ah," begged the Count, seeing Anita flush, "do not tell the young lady
she cheats! Do not do that!"

"I'll tell her what I choose! Gray, say something! You sit there like a
mummy, while these people are insulting me right and left! Tell Anita
that I am right in not wishing her to deal me good cards purposely."

"But she didn't," declared Haviland; "you know she didn't. Why, she
couldn't, even if she wanted to!"

"Oh, yes, she could!" and Miss Carrington gave a disagreeable sneer.
"She's quite clever enough for any deceit or treachery."

"Stop, Cousin Lucy! I can't let you talk so about Miss Frayne in my
presence!"

"Oh, you can't, can't you? And, pray, what right have you to defend her?
Go away, both of you! I'll play with you no longer. Go away and send
Pauline and Mr. Illsley in here. They, at least, will play fair."

Anita Frayne rose without a word. Haviland rose too, but talking volubly.
"Let up, Cousin Lucy," he said sternly. "You've no right to treat Miss
Frayne so. You ought to apologize to her for such rudeness."

"Apologize!" Miss Carrington fairly shrieked; "she'll do the apologizing,
and you, too, my foolish young cousin. You little know what's going to
happen to me! To-morrow you may sing another song!"

Haviland looked at her in astonishment; the Count, thoughtfully. The same
idea was in both their minds. Could she mean that she was expecting the
Count to propose to her that evening?

"Nothing nice can happen to you unless you learn to control that temper
of yours," and Haviland swung away after Anita.

He found her in the next room, nestled in the corner of a big davenport,
weeping into a sympathetic sofa-cushion.

"Go and find the others," she whispered, as he came near her. "Make them
go and play with her!"

Obediently, Haviland went. In the glassed sun-parlor he found Pauline
Stuart, Miss Carrington's niece, and Stephen Illsley, one of the most
favored of Pauline's many suitors.

"For goodness' sake, people," he began, "do go and play bridge with the
Lady of the Manor! She's in a peach of a fury, and you'll have to take
your life in your hands, but _go_!"

"I won't," said Pauline, bluntly; "It's Anita's turn to-night. She said
she'd do it."

"She did! But she came off second best, and she's weeping buckets on the
best Empire embroidery sofa-cushions! I'm going to comfort her, but you
must go and keep the gentle Lucy from pulling the house down about our
ears! She's sure queering herself with his nibs! He can't admire her
sweet, flower-like soul after this night's exhibition."

"I don't want to go a bit, but I suppose we'll have to," and Pauline
smiled at her guest.

"Oh, go on," said Haviland, as he turned to leave them; "and, for
Heaven's sake, give her all the good cards. Can you manage that,
Illsley?"

"I am afraid not. Her eyes are too sharp."

"Well, if her luck stays bad, get her to play mumble-peg or something,
instead of bridge."

Haviland disappeared and Pauline rose unwillingly. "I do so hate to play
with Aunt Lucy," she said, "but it must be done. Are you willing to
sacrifice yourself?"

"For you? Always!" And the two went to the cardroom.

Pauline Stuart, tall, dark, graceful, was a striking-looking girl. Only
twenty-four, she carried herself with the dignity and poise of a duchess,
and her heavy, dark brows gave her face an expression of strength and
will-power that contrasted forcibly with the delicate Dresden china
beauty of Anita Frayne. The two girls were not especially friendly,
though never definitely at odds. Anita was envious of the more fortunate
Pauline. The latter, Miss Carrington's niece, would inherit a goodly part
of her aunt's large fortune, while the humble position of the secretary
commanded only a liberal, not munificent, salary.

The girls, however, were at one in their dread of Miss Lucy's ebullitions
of temper and their resentment of the biting sarcasms and angry diatribes
she flung at them in her frequent spasms of fury.

Illsley, a well-set-up chap of good address, followed Pauline into her
aunt's presence.

"You waited long enough," grumbled Miss Carrington. "Sit down. It's your
deal now, Pauline."

Matters went well for a time. Miss Lucy held good cards, and once or
twice she triumphed through a mistake of her adversaries, which she
fortunately did not discover was made on purpose.

Count Charlier's little bright black eyes darted inquiringly from aunt to
niece, but he made no comment. All four played well, and when at last
Miss Carrington made a grand slam her joy was effervescent.

"Good play," she flattered herself. "You must admit, Count, that it was
clever of me to take that difficult _finesse_ just at that critical
point."

"Clever indeed, mademoiselle. You have the analytical mind; you should
have been a diplomat. Also, Fortune favors you. You are beloved of the
fickle goddess."

"Let us hope so," and for a moment Miss Carrington looked grave.

And then, with the perversity of that same goddess, the card luck
changed. Pauline and Illsley held all the high cards, Miss Lucy and the
Count only the low ones.

Storm signals showed. Whiter grew the stern, set face; tighter drew the
thin, wide lips; and rigid muscles set themselves in the angry, swelling
throat. Then, as she scanned a hand of cards, all below the ten, again
they went in a shower across the room, and she cried, angrily: "A
Yarborough!" reverting to the old-fashioned term.

"Never mind, Aunt Lucy," and Pauline tried to laugh it off; "this is not
your lucky night. Let's give up bridge for to-night. Let's have some
music."

"Yes! because you love music and hate bridge! It makes no difference what
_I_ want. My wishes are never considered. You and Anita are just alike!
Selfish, ungrateful, caring for nothing but your own pleasure. Mr.
Illsley, don't you think young girls should pay some slight attention to
the wishes of one who does everything for them? Where would either of
them be but for me? Are you not sorry for me?"

"Why,--I--you must excuse me, I am not sure I understand----"

"Yes, you understand, perfectly well. You know the girls slight me and
snub me every chance they get. But it will not always be thus.
To-morrow----"

"Come, Aunt Lucy," pleaded Pauline, "let us have some music. You know
there are some new records, just arrived to-day. Let us hear them."

"Are there new records? Did you get the ones I wanted?"

"Some of them. We couldn't get them all."

"Oh, no, of course not! But if _you_ had wanted certain records they
would have been found!"

"But, Auntie Lucy, we couldn't get them if they aren't made, could we?
Gray tried his best."

"Oh, tried his best! He forgot to ask for them, so he says he 'tried his
best,' to excuse his carelessness. If Anita had wanted them----"

The starting of the music drowned further flow of the lady's grievances.




                                   II
                           A CLASH OF TONGUES


True to its reputation for calming the impulses of the turbulent spirit,
the music soothed Miss Carrington's ruffled temper, and she waxed amiable
and even gay. Enthroned on her favorite red velvet chair, resplendent in
an elaborately decorated gown of sapphire blue satin, with her bright
auburn locks piled high and topped by an enormous comb of carved
tortoise-shell, she dominated the little group and gave orders that must
be obeyed.

She wore, among other jewels, a magnificent rope of pearls. So remarkable
were these, that the Count, who had never seen them before, ventured to
refer to them.

"Yes," agreed Miss Carrington, "they are wonderful. Practically
priceless, I assure you. It took my agent years to collect them."

"And you grace an informal home evening with these regal gems?"

"Not usually, no. But you know, Count Charlier, pearls must be worn
frequently to preserve their lustre. Laid away a long time, they grow
dead and dull-looking."

"You keep them here? Is it safe, think you?"

"I don't keep them here all the time. Indeed, I got these from the Safe
Deposit only this morning. I shall return them there in a few days. While
here, I shall wear them all I can to liven them up."

"You brought a lot of your other jewels, didn't you, Aunt Lucy?" said
Pauline, casually; "why did you? Are you going to a ball?"

"No: I wish to--to look them over and plan to have some reset."

"But are they safe?" inquired the Count again; "do you not fear thieves?"

"No, we never have such things as robbery in Merivale Park. It is a
quiet, well-behaved neighborhood."

"But you have a safe?" went on the Count; "you take at least that
precaution?"

"Oh, yes, I have a safe in my boudoir. There is really no danger. Count
Charlier, would you like to hear me sing? Find one of my records, Gray."

Miss Carrington's singing voice had been a fine one and was still fair.
She sometimes amused herself by making records for her phonograph, and
Gray Haviland managed the mechanical part of it.

"Which one, Lady Lucy?" he asked, as he rummaged in the record cabinet.

"Any of those pretty love songs," and Miss Carrington glanced coyly at
the Count.

"Here's a fine one," and Haviland placed a disk in the machine.

"Listen," he said, smiling; "don't miss the introduction."

The needle touched the record, and Miss Lucy's laugh rang out, so clear
and true, it was difficult to believe it was a recorded laugh and not a
sound from the lady herself. Then the recorded voice said: "This song is
one of Carr's favorites, I'll sing it for him." And then, with only a few
seconds' interval, Miss Carrington's voice sang, "Believe me, if all
those endearing young charms."

It was well sung, and a perfect record, so that the incident of the
singer listening to her own voice was interesting in itself.

"Capital!" applauded the Count, as it was finished. "It is indeed
pleasant to preserve one's songs thus. May I not some time record my own
amateur attempt?"

"Delighted to have you, Count," said Haviland, cordially. "Come over some
morning, and we'll do up a lot of records."

"Since when have you been master here, Gray?" said Miss Lucy, with fine
scorn. "I will give the invitations to my own house, if you please! Count
Charlier, if you will come to-morrow afternoon I will instruct Mr.
Haviland to make the records."

It was not so much the words as the manner of their utterance that was
offensive, and Haviland set his lips in stifled anger. It was not at all
unusual, this sort of rebuff, but he could not endure it as patiently as
the two girls did. Haviland was a second cousin of Miss Carrington, and,
while he lived with her in the capacity of a business secretary and
general man of affairs, the post was a sinecure, for the services of her
lawyer and of her social secretary left little for Haviland to do. His
salary was a generous one and he was substantially remembered in her
will, but he sometimes thought the annoying and irritating fleers he had
to accept smilingly, were worth more than he was receiving. He was
continually made to feel himself a dependent and an inferior.

These trials also fell to the lot of the two girls. Pauline, although her
aunt's heiress to the extent of half the fortune, the other half to go to
an absent cousin, was by no means treated as an equal of Miss Carrington
herself. It seemed to give the elder lady delight to domineer over her
niece and in every possible way make her life uneasy and uncomfortable.
As to the social secretary, Miss Frayne, she was scolded for everything
she did, right or wrong.

Often had the three young people declared intentions of leaving Garden
Steps, but so far none of them had made good the threat.

Vanity was the key-note of Lucy Carrington's nature, and, knowing this,
they could, if they chose, keep her fairly sweet-tempered by inordinate
flattery often administered. This proceeding hurt their self-respect,
jarred their tempers, and galled their very souls, but it was that or
dismissal, and thus far they had stayed. Matters were nearing a crisis,
however, and Haviland's patience was so sorely strained that he was
secretly looking for another position. Anita Frayne, whose pretty blonde
doll-face belied a very fiery disposition, was on the verge of a serious
break with her employer, and Pauline Stuart continually assured herself
that she could not go on this way.

Pauline was the orphaned daughter of Lucy's sister, and had lived with
her aunt for many years. Carrington Loria, the son of another sister, was
engaged in antiquarian research in Egypt, where he had been since his
graduation as an engineer. He, too, was an orphan and had lived with Lucy
in his younger days, and he and Pauline were equal heirs to their aunt's
wealth.

The father of the three Carrington sisters, having become angered at his
two daughters who married against his wishes, had left his entire fortune
to Lucy, his only remaining child. Thus her niece and nephew were her
only direct heirs, and, save for some comparatively small bequests, the
Carrington estate would eventually be theirs.

Pauline well knew that if she left her aunt's roof it meant complete
disinheritance, for Lucy Carrington was proud of her beautiful niece,
and, too, was fond of her in her own way. But the ungovernable temper of
the lady made her home an almost unbearable abiding-place.

Since childhood years Carrington Loria had lived there only during his
college vacations; but had been back occasionally for short visits from
his now permanent Egyptian occupation. He had always come laden with
gifts of Oriental products, and the rooms at Garden Steps showed many
rare specimens of cunning handiwork and rich fabrics and embroideries.

To break the awkward pause that followed Miss Carrington's rude speech to
Gray Haviland, Pauline picked up an antique scarab from a side table and
drew the Count's attention to its inscription.

He expressed a polite interest, but cast furtive glances at his hostess,
as if afraid of a further outbreak.

Nor were his fears unjustified. Miss Carrington administered a scathing
reproach to Pauline for intruding herself upon the Count's attention, and
bade her put aside the scarab and hold her tongue.

"Don't speak to me like that, Aunt Lucy; I am not a child!" And Pauline,
unable to control herself longer, faced her angry aunt with an air of
righteous wrath.

"I'll speak to you as I choose, miss! It is for you to mend your tone in
addressing me! If you don't, you may have cause to regret it. Count
Charlier came here to see me, and I refuse to countenance your clumsy
attempts to engage his interest in your silly babble!"

"But--I insist--" stammered the greatly embarrassed Count, "allow me,
madame, let me say, I call on you all--all----"

"Nothing of the sort!" declared Miss Lucy; "you came, Count, to play
bridge with us. Our opponents behaved so rudely and played so badly it
was impossible for us to continue the game. Nor can we enjoy music in
this inharmonious atmosphere. Let us stroll in the conservatory, you and
I."

She rose, trailing her heavy silks and flashing her sparkling jewels, and
the Count, a little hesitatingly, followed her. They crossed the great
hall, and, going through a reception room and the delightful sun-parlor,
came to the warm, heavily-scented conservatory.

"Poor old Charlier!" said Haviland, as the pair disappeared; "he's in for
it now! Do you suppose the palms and orchids will bring him up to the
scratch? 'Nita, I'll bet you a box of gloves against a box of simple
little cigarettes that he doesn't propose to the lady to-night?"

"Done!" cried Miss Frayne, who was sparkling again, now that the dread
presence was removed. "I doubt he can help himself. She has him at her
mercy. And he's too good-mannered to disappoint her wish."

"He'll propose," said Pauline, with an air of conviction. "He's a typical
fortune-hunter, that man. Indeed, I am not sure he's a Count at all. Do
you know, Mr. Illsley?"

"I know almost nothing of the man, save that he's a guest of the
Frothinghams. That's not entirely in his favor, I think."

"Right you are!" agreed Haviland. "Those people are,--well, they're to be
queried. But I say, Polly, if the two do hit it off, it's grinding
poverty for us, eh?"

"It may be a blessed relief, Gray. She'll give us something, of course,
and send us away from here. I, for one, shouldn't be sorry to go. She is
getting too impossible!"

"She is!" put in Anita; "every day she pounds us worse! I'd like to kill
her!"

The fierce words and would-be menacing glance of the little blonde beauty
were about as convincing as a kitten declaring himself a war lord, and
even the stately Pauline smiled at the picture.

"She ought to be killed," declared Haviland, "and I say this
dispassionately. I wouldn't do it, because killing is not in my line, but
the eternal fitness of things requires her removal to another sphere of
usefulness. She makes life a burden to three perfectly good people, and
some several servants. Not one would mourn her, and----"

"Oh, stop, Gray!" cried Pauline; "don't talk in that strain! Don't listen
to him, Mr. Illsley. He often says such things, but he doesn't mean them.
Mr. Haviland loves to talk at random, to make a sensational hearing."

"Nothing of the sort, Polly. I do mean it. Lucy Carrington is a misery
dispenser, and such are not wanted in this nice little old world."

"But perhaps," Pauline looked thoughtful, "the fault is in us. We don't
like her, and so we see nothing good in what she does. Now, Carrington
Loria adores her. She had a letter from him to-day----"

"Yes, Loria adores her!" interrupted Haviland, "because he doesn't live
with her! She sends him love-letters and money, and he doesn't know the
everlasting torture of living under her roof, year in and year out! But
he caught on a little the last time he was here. He said,--well, in his
quaint Oriental fashion, he said, 'Gee! she's the limit!' that's what he
said."

"Well, she is," pouted Anita. "I can't do a thing to suit her. To-day I
wrote a letter over six times before she was satisfied. And every change
she wanted made was so foolish she wanted it changed back again. She
nearly drove me crazy!"

"But I have to put up with her morning, noon, and night," sighed Pauline.
"You have your hours off, Anita, but I never do. She even wakens me in
the night to read to her, or to help her plan her new gowns."

"It is awfully hard for you," began Mr. Illsley, and then all stopped
short, for the object of their discussion returned to the room.

It was plain to be seen Miss Carrington was in a state of suppressed
excitement. She giggled almost hysterically, and tapped the Count
playfully on the arm with her fan, as she bade him say good-night and go.

The interested ones watching her could not learn whether the Count had
declared himself or not. The presumption was negative, for, had he done
so, surely Miss Carrington would have told the good news.

Charlier himself was distinctly non-committal. Debonair as always, he
made his adieux, no more demonstrative to his hostess than to the others,
and went away. Illsley followed, and the household dispersed. The clock
struck midnight as the ladies went upstairs.

Following custom, they all three went to Miss Lucy's boudoir. It was by
way of reporting for to-morrow's orders, and was a duty never neglected.

The exquisite apartment, from which opened the bedroom and bath, was
softly lighted and fragrant with flowers.

"How do you like Count Henri Charlier?" Miss Carrington quickly demanded
of her satellites.

"Charming," said the voluble Anita. "Just a typical French nobleman,
isn't he? And how he adores our Lady Lucy!"

The whole speech rang false, but the vanity of the lady addressed
swallowed it as truest sincerity. "Yes," she returned, "he is infatuated,
I have reason to think. But--we shall see what we shall see! Curb your
impatience, girls! You shall know all in due time."

"Can I do anything for you, Auntie, to-night or to-morrow?" asked
Pauline, and, though she tried to speak with enthusiasm, her tone did
sound perfunctory.

"Not if you offer in that manner," and Miss Carrington looked at her
niece coldly. "One would think, Pauline, that it must be an irksome task
to do the smallest favor for your aunt and benefactor! Do you feel no
pleasure in doing what trifles you can for one who does everything for
you?"

"I would feel a pleasure, Aunt Lucy, if you were kinder to me. But----"

"Kinder!" shrieked her aunt; "kinder! Girl, have you taken leave of your
senses? I give you a home, fine dresses, money, everything you can want,
and you ask me to be kinder to you! Go! never let me see you again, after
that speech!"

"Oh, auntie, don't! I didn't mean----"

"You didn't mean to exasperate me beyond endurance? No, of course you
meant to stop short of that! But you have done it. I mean this, Pauline:
to-morrow you go elsewhere to live. No longer will I give a home to such
a monster of ingratitude!"

"But, Miss Carrington"--and Anita Frayne's soft voice implored
gently----"don't be hasty. Pauline didn't mean----"

"What!" and Lucy Carrington turned on her, "you take her part? Then you
go, too! I want no ingrates here. Leave me, both of you. This night is
your last beneath this roof! You are two unworthy girls, to scorn and
slight the hand that has fed and clothed you and given you luxury and
comfort such as you will never see again! Go, I've done with you! Send me
Estelle. She, at least, has some small affection for me."

The two girls left the room. The scene was not without precedent. Before
this they had been ordered to leave the house forever, but always
forgiveness and reinstatement had followed. This time, however, the Lady
Lucy had been rather more in earnest, and the girls looked at each other
uncertainly as they turned toward their rooms.

Anita summoned Estelle, the French maid, and then told her to hasten
immediately to Miss Carrington.

"Don't undress me," said the mistress as the maid appeared; "I'm not
retiring at once. Get me out of this gown and give me a negligée and
slippers."

"Yes, mademoiselle," and Estelle deftly obeyed orders and brought a white
boudoir gown edged with swans-down.

"Not that!" cried Miss Carrington. "Bring the gold-embroidered one,--the
Oriental."

"Ah, the green one, from Monsieur Loria?"

"Yes, the one my nephew sent me at Christmas time. My, but it's handsome,
isn't it, Estelle?"

"Gorgeous!" declared the maid, and she spoke truly. Young Loria knew his
aunt's taste, and he had sent her a typical Egyptian robe, of pale green
silk, heavy with gold embroideries. In it Miss Carrington looked like one
attired for a masquerade.

"Shall I take down mademoiselle's hair?" asked Estelle, lingering.

"No. I want to be alone. I will read awhile. You need not return. I will
do for myself."

"There is your glass of milk, ma'mzelle, on the bed-table."

"Silly! I suppose I can see it for myself."

"Yes, ma'am. And you will have your tea at eight in the morning?"

"Of course, my tea at eight. As always. You might remember that much
yourself. But nobody remembers things for _my_ comfort."

"Pardon, but sometimes it is eight, and, again, it must be half-past."

"Eight! Now, will you go? You are most exasperating! Why do you stand
there like a gibbering idiot?"

"The jewels, mademoiselle; the pearls? Shall I not put them in safety?"

"No! I will put them in the safe myself. Where is the key?"

"There, mademoiselle, on your dresser. But if I might----"

"You mayn't do anything except to get out and stay out! Do you hear?
Shall I never be obeyed?"

"Yes, mademoiselle; good-night."

The soft tone was fully belied by the evil glare of the French girl's
eyes, but that was not seen by Miss Lucy Carrington.




                                  III
                              THE TRAGEDY


The house faced the east, and, built on an English model, was far wider
than deep. A broad hall ran through the centre from front to back, and on
either side there were successive rooms whose windows looked out on
equally beautiful scenes, both front and back. On the right of the hall,
as one entered, was the long living room, and beyond it, the library and
music room. The other side of the hall was a reception room, opening into
the sun parlor, and on to the conservatory, and back of these, the dining
room and smaller breakfast room.

Breakfast was served at nine, and the members of the family were usually
all present. Miss Carrington, herself, made a point of being on time
partly from habit, and also because it gave her opportunity to chide
those who were late.

When she was not in her place, on the morning after the stormy bridge
game, Pauline expressed surprise, and Haviland echoed her words.

But Anita said scornfully, "She went to bed in an awful tantrum and
probably didn't sleep well."

Miss Frayne was looking her prettiest, and her roseleaf face with its
fluffy golden halo, was like a Greuze picture. She wore a frivolous
little house gown of blue crêpe de chine that just matched her
forget-me-not eyes. Not especially appropriate garb for a secretary, but
Miss Carrington preferred her household to be well-dressed, and really
commanded pretty tints and fabrics for the two girls. Pauline was in
white serge, of rather severe cut, but which suited her as no frills and
flounces could. Her black hair was smoothly parted and coiled low over
her ears, and her clear ivory-tinted skin was flushed faintly pink from
the glow of the big, crackling wood fire.

"It's most unusual," went on Pauline, after a few moments more had
passed, and the Lady Lucy had not appeared. "I'm going up to see if she
is ill,--or----"

"Or merely in a tantrum extraordinary!" said Anita, her blue eyes full of
laughing disrespect for her employer.

"'Nita," said Haviland, as Pauline disappeared, "hold your breakfast
napkin up in front of your face, quick!"

"Why?" said the girl, wonderingly, as she did his bidding.

"Because, if you hadn't, I should have flown at you and kissed you! And I
mustn't now, for Haskins is approaching with muffins."

Down came the shielding napkin and only the arrival of the muffin-laden
Haskins saved the lovely laughing face from Haviland's impetuous caress.

The old butler fussed about, and several minutes passed, when Pauline
called from above stairs, "Gray! Come here, at once!"

"Desperate case!" and Haviland rose, and unhurriedly left the room,
pinching Anita's little ear as he passed her.

Another moment and Miss Frayne heard an exclamation from Haviland that
made her rise from the table and go flying upstairs herself.

The door of Miss Lucy's boudoir was open, and entering, she saw Pauline
and Haviland with horror-stricken faces, gazing at a terrible sight.

Miss Lucy Carrington, seated before her dressing-table, her face white
and ghastly, her large eyes staring wide--staring horribly,--but, without
doubt, unseeing. Nor was this all of the strangeness of the sight. She
was robed in an embroidered Oriental-looking gown, and wore many jewels.
Her red-dyed hair, dressed elaborately, as she had worn it the night
before, was still crowned with the enormous comb of carved
tortoise-shell, but the comb was broken to bits. One portion, still
standing upright, rose above the disordered coiffure, but the rest, in
broken scraps, lay scattered over the puffs of hair,--over the white
hands clasped in her lap,--and on the floor at her feet.

"What does it mean?" whispered Anita, shuddering, "is she--is she dead?"

"Yes," answered Haviland, briefly. He stood, hands in pockets, gazing at
the startling figure.

"Who?--What?----" Anita's eyes riveted themselves on something else.

Around the neck of Miss Lucy was,--yes, it _was_--a snake!

With a low scream, Anita flung herself into Haviland's arms, but he put
her gently away from him.

Aghast at this repulse, Anita put her hand across her eyes and turned to
leave the room.

"Mind where you go, 'Nita!" called out Haviland, and the girl stopped
just in time to save herself from stepping into a mass of _débris_.

"Why!" she cried, "why, it's Miss Lucy's tray!"

It was. The silver tray that had held the breakfast tea was on the floor,
and near it a jumbled heap of silver and broken china that had once been
a costly Sevres set. Dainty white serviettes were stained with the
spilled tea and a huge wet spot was near the overturned silver teapot.

Hastily Anita ran from the room, but she sank down on a couch in the hall
just outside the door, utterly unable to go further.

Fascinated by the beady eyes of the green snake, Pauline stared at it,
with clenched hands. Haviland stepped nearer and lightly touched it.

"Is it--is it alive?" gasped Pauline.

"It's paper," replied Haviland quietly. "A paper snake, a toy,--you
know."

"But who put it there? Aunt Lucy is deathly afraid of snakes! Did fright
kill her? Gray, is she--murdered?"

"Yes, Pauline, she has been killed. But could it be--fright? Impossible!"

"Not for her! You don't know her horror of snakes. Why, going through the
Japanese department of a shop, I've seen her turn white and fairly fly
from the counter where those paper things were displayed."

"But what else killed her? There is no wound, no shot, no blood."

"Get the doctor, Gray! Don't wait a minute. Telephone at once."

"He can do nothing, Pauline. She is dead." Haviland spoke like a man in a
daze.

"But no matter, we must call him. Shall I?"

"No, I will."

"Go into her bedroom,--use that telephone by her bedside."

Obediently, Haviland went on to the adjoining room, the soft rugs giving
forth no sound of his footfalls.

The door was ajar, and as he opened it, he called, "Come here, Pauline;
look, the night lights are burning, and the bed untouched. She hasn't
been to bed at all."

"Of course she hasn't. She has her hair as it was last evening. But her
comb is broken."

"Broken! It's smashed! It's in tiny bits! She has been hit on the
head,--don't touch her, Pauline! You mustn't! I'll call Dr. Stanton. You
go out of the room. Go and find Anita."

But Pauline staid. Turning her back to the still figure in the chair, she
gazed curiously at the upset tray on the floor. She stooped, when
Haviland's voice came sharply from the next room. "Don't touch a thing,
Pauline!" he cried, as he held his hand over the transmitter.

She looked up, and then as she saw him turn back to speak into the
instrument, she stooped swiftly and picking up something from the floor
she hurried from the room.

She found Anita on the couch in the hall, and speaking somewhat sharply,
Pauline said, "Where's Estelle?"

"Mercy! I don't know!" and Anita's blue eyes stared coldly. "How should I
know anything about Estelle?"

"But she must have brought that tray an hour ago. Did she upset it, or
who?"

"Pauline, why do you act as if I knew anything about this matter. Is it
because _you_ do?"

The blue eyes, cold like steel, and the dark ones, flashing fire from
their shadows, looked steadily at each other.

Gray Haviland came hurriedly out to the hall.

"The doctor will be here at once," he said; "and he will call the
coroner."

"Coroner!" screamed Anita; and ran away to her own room.

"Let her alone," said Pauline, contemptuously; "but Gray, we must nerve
ourselves up to this thing. Don't you think we ought to--to put away the
jewels? It's wrong to let any one come into a room where a fortune in
jewels is displayed like that."

"But Doctor Stanton said to touch nothing,--nothing at all. You see,
Pauline, in a murder case,----"

"Oh, I know; 'nothing disturbed till the Coroner comes,' and all that.
But this is different, Gray. Doctor Stanton didn't know there are two
hundred thousand dollars' worth of jewelry on that--that--on her."

"How do you know so exactly?"

"I'm not exact, but she has told me times enough that the rope of pearls
cost one hundred thousand, and that corsage ornament she is wearing and
her rings and ear-rings are easily worth the same sum. I tell you there
will be policemen here, and it isn't right to throw temptation in their
way."

"Besides," and Anita's voice spoke again as she reappeared in the
doorway, "besides, Pauline, they are all yours now, and you should be
careful of them!"

The tone more than the words conveyed a veiled insolence, and Pauline
accepted it for such. With a sudden determined movement, she went swiftly
to her aunt's side, and unfastened the long rope of pearls, the wonderful
glittering sunburst, and a large diamond and emerald crescent that held
together the glistening silk folds. The rings and ear-rings she could not
bring herself to touch.

"It is only _right_," she contended, as if trying to persuade herself,
"these are too valuable to risk; no one could fail to be tempted by
them."

"Why don't you finish your task?" said Anita, smiling unpleasantly, "why
leave so much?"

"No one would attempt to take the rings or ear-rings," said Pauline,
steadily, "and that scarab bracelet is not of great value."

"I thought that was a most valuable antique that her nephew sent her."

"She thought so, too," said Pauline, carelessly, "but Carr told me it was
an imitation. Not one expert in a hundred can tell the difference,
anyway."

As Pauline placed the mass of gems in the safe, the doctor came. "What
does it mean?" cried the bewildered man, coming into the room. "Miss
Carrington----"

Words failed him as he saw the astounding sight. For surely, no one had
ever before seen a murdered woman, sitting before her dressing-table,
staring but smiling, and garbed as for a fancy-dress ball!

Doctor Stanton touched the icy-cold hand, felt for the silent heart, and
then turned his attention to the disheveled hair and broken comb.

"Fractured skull," he said, as his skilled fingers thridded the auburn
tresses. "Killed by a sudden, swift blow on the head with a heavy,
blunt,--no, with a soft weapon; a black-jack or sandbag."

"A burglar!" exclaimed Pauline.

"Of course; who else would deal such a blow? It was powerful,--dealt by a
strong arm--it has driven bits of this broken shell stuff into the brain.
But it was the force of the concussion that killed her. Here is a deep
dent,--and yet.--Tell me the circumstances. Why is she rigged out like
this?"

"I've no idea," answered Pauline, taking the initiative. "When I left her
last night, she had on an evening gown. But this negligée is not unusual;
it is one of her favorites. Though why she has on that spangled scarf, I
can't imagine."

"She seems to have been posing before the mirror, rather than engaged in
making a toilette." Dr. Stanton was a pompous middle-aged man of fussy
manner. He did not again touch the body, but he stepped about, noting the
strange conditions and commenting on them. "This paper snake,--tight
round her neck! What does that mean?"

"What _can_ it mean?" returned Pauline. "She had an intense hatred,--even
_fear_ of snakes; I've never seen it before. Could it have been placed
there to frighten her to death?"

"No; she didn't die of fright. See, her expression is placid,--even
smiling. But the shattered comb and dented skull have but one
explanation,--a stunning blow. Did she have on the comb last evening?"

"Yes; it is a favorite one with her. An heirloom, from a Colonial
ancestor. It encircled the entire back of her head, when whole."

"At what time was she killed?" asked Gray Haviland. He had stood, till
now, a silent listener to the conversation between Pauline and the
Doctor.

"Oh, many hours ago," returned Stanton; "six or eight at least. Evidently
she was preparing for bed, and trying the effect of some new finery."

"Those things are not new," put in Anita; "she has had them all a long
time. But she must have been admiring herself, for when we found her she
had on all her finest jewels."

"What?" cried Dr. Stanton; "where are they?"

"I took most of them off," replied Pauline, quietly, "and put them in the
safe. If the police people must come, I am not willing to have a fortune
in jewels here to tempt their cupidity. And I have a right. It is no
secret that my cousin Carrington and I are her heirs. But that snake
perplexes me beyond all else. If you knew her aversion to them,--even
pictured ones----"

"I do know it," returned the doctor; "I have often heard her say so. Ah,"
as he stepped carefully about, "she _was_ adorning herself; see, here is
powder scattered on the floor. She used this powder-puff, shaking it over
the rug and floor."

"I saw that the first thing!" cried Pauline, excitedly; "and there was
a----" she stopped, looking in amazement at the white dust on the floor.
For where she had seen a distinct footprint, as of a stockinged foot,
there was now merely a blurred whirl! Some one had obliterated that
footprint!

"A what?" asked the doctor, sharply.

"Nothing. A--a lot of powder spilled,--I was going to say."

Gray Haviland looked at her. "Tell the truth, Pauline," he said.

"I have," she replied, with a calm quite equalling his own. "Must we have
the Coroner, Dr. Stanton?"

"Yes, yes, of course; I will telephone at once. There will be police and
detectives,--oh, it is a terrible case! Nothing must be touched, nothing!
If there is _any_ clue to this mystery, do not let it be disturbed."

"But you say it was without doubt a burglar who did it," said Anita, her
wide eyes gleaming blue.

"It must have been."

"Then why were none of her jewels stolen?"

"Bless my soul!" and Dr. Stanton looked as if a bomb had exploded at his
feet. "Sure enough! It cannot have been a burglar! Who, then? What other
motive than robbery----"

"It _was_ a burglar," declared Pauline, "and he was--he was frightened
away by--by a noise--or something----"

"Not likely!" said Anita, "with all those gems in easy reach!"

"The Coroner and the police must get here at once!" and the doctor wiped
his perspiring brow. "Never have I seen such an inexplicable state of
affairs! Was--was Miss Carrington indisposed at all last evening? Did she
say or do anything unusual?"

"Not at all," began Pauline, but Anita interrupted; "Yes, she did! She
said, 'You little know what's going to happen to me! To-morrow you may
sing another tune!'"

"What did she mean by that?"

"I've no idea. Could it mean suicide?"

"No!" thundered the doctor; "her skull was fractured by some one bent on
wilful murder! As there is no robbery, we must look for a deeper motive
and a cleverer villain than any professional burglar!"




                                   IV
                             A PAPER SNAKE


On the third floor was the bedroom of the maid, Estelle, and before its
locked door stood Pauline and Anita, demanding admittance. There was no
response from inside, until Pauline said sternly, "Unless you open this
door at once, Estelle, the police will force it open."

The key turned, the door moved slowly ajar, and Estelle's face appeared,
wearing an expression of amazement.

"What is it you say, Miss Pauline? The police? Why?"

The maid was making a very evident effort to appear composed, and was
succeeding wonderfully well. Her eyes were reddened with weeping,--a
condition which a hasty dabbing of powder had not concealed. She was
nervously trembling, but her air of injured innocence, if assumed, was
admirable.

"Estelle," and Pauline loomed tall and magnificent as an accusing angel,
"what do you know of your mistress' death?"

Estelle gave a shriek and threw herself on her bed in apparent hysterics.

"Don't begin that!" ordered Pauline, "sit up here and tell the truth."

"But," and the maid sat up, sobbing, "I know nothing. How can I?"

"Nonsense! You took the tea-tray to her at eight o'clock. What did you
see?"

Estelle shrugged her shoulders. "I saw Miss Carrington sitting before her
mirror. She, I assumed, was engrossed in reverie, so I set down the tray
on a tabouret and departed."

"You noticed nothing amiss?" said Anita, staring at the girl.

"No; I scarce looked at the lady. She reproved me harshly last night, and
I had no wish to annoy her. I set down the tray with haste and silently
departed."

"You set it down? Who, then, overturned it?"

"Overturned? Is it then upset?" Estelle's manner was the impersonal one
of the trained servant, who must show surprise at nothing, but it was a
trifle overdone.

"Estelle, stop posing. Wake up to realities. Miss Carrington is dead! Do
you hear? Dead!"

"Ah! _Mon Dieu_! Did it then kill her?" and Estelle's calm gave way and
she screamed and moaned in wild hysterics.

"What can we do with her?" asked Anita, helplessly; "she must know all
about the--the----"

"The murder," said Pauline calmly. "But she will tell us nothing. It is
useless to question her. The Coroner will attend to it, anyway."

"The Coroner," and Anita looked frightened. "Will he question all of us?"

"Of course he will. And, Anita," Pauline whirled on her suddenly, "what
are you going to say was the errand that took you to Aunt Lucy's room
after one o'clock last night?"

"I! Nothing of the sort! I was not in her room after we left it
together."

"I saw you. Don't trouble to deny it," and Pauline dropped her eyelids as
one bored by a conversation.

"You did!" and Anita's flower face turned rosy pink and her blue eyes
blazed with an intensity that Pauline's dark ones could never match. "Be
careful, Pauline Stuart, or I shall tell what _I_ know! You _dare_ to
make up such a story! It was _I_ who saw _you_ come from your aunt's room
at a late hour! What have you to say now?"

"Nothing--to you," and Pauline swept from the room and returned slowly
down the stairway to the second floor.

The sight of two police officers in the hall gave her a sudden start. How
had they appeared, so soon? And how dreadful to see them in the palatial
home that had heretofore housed only gentle-mannered aristocrats and
obsequious liveried servants! The men looked ill at ease as they stood
against the rich background of tapestry hangings and tropical palms, but
their faces showed a stern appreciation of their duty, and they looked at
Pauline with deferential but acute scrutiny.

Not noticing them in any way, the girl, her head held high, went straight
to her aunt's room. Sergeant Flake was in charge, and he refused her
admission.

"Coroner's orders, ma'am," he said; "he'll be here himself shortly, and
then you can see him."

"Come away, Pauline," and Haviland appeared and took her by the arm;
"where's Anita?"

"I left her in Estelle's room. Oh Gray, that girl----"

"Hush!" and gripping her firmly, Haviland led her to a small sitting room
and shut the door. "Now listen, Pauline; mind what I say. Don't give the
least bit of information or express the slightest notion of opinion
except to the chief authorities. And not to them until they ask you. This
is a terrible affair, and a mighty strange one."

"Who did it, Gray?"

"Never you mind. Don't even ask questions. The very walls have ears!"

"Who upset that breakfast tray?"

"Estelle, of course."

"She says she didn't."

"She lies. Everybody will lie; why, Pauline, you must lie yourself."

"I won't do it! I have no reason to!"

"You may find that you have. But, at least, Pauline, I beg of you, that
you will keep your mouth shut. There will be developments soon,--there
must be,--and then we will know what to do."

The two returned to the boudoir. At first glance it seemed to be full of
men. The beautiful room, with its ornate but harmonious furnishings and
appointments of the Marie Antoinette period, was occupied with eager
representatives of the law and justice hunting for any indication of the
ruthless hand that had felled the owner of all that elegance.

Coroner Scofield was receiving the report of Doctor Moore, who had
arrived with him.

Dr. Moore agreed with Dr. Stanton that the deceased had been struck with
a heavy weapon that had fractured the skull, but he admitted the wounds
showed some strange conditions which could only be explained by further
investigation.

The Coroner was deep in thought as he studied the face of the dead woman.

"It is most mysterious," he declared; "that face is almost smiling! it is
the face of a happy woman. Clearly, she did not know of her approaching
fate."

"The blow was struck from behind," informed Dr. Moore.

"Even so, why didn't she see the approach of the assailant in the mirror?
She is looking straight into the large glass,--must have been looking in
it at the moment of her death. _Why_ receive that death blow without a
tremor of fear or even a glance of startled inquiry?"

Inspector Brunt stood by, gravely, and for the most part silently,
watching and listening.

"That might imply," he said, slowly, "that if she did see the assailant,
it was some one she knew, and of whom she had no fear."

Gray Haviland looked up suddenly. A deep red spread over his face and
then, seeing himself narrowly watched by the detectives present, he set
his lips firmly together and said no word.

Pauline turned white and trembled, but she too said nothing.

"Why is she sitting in this large easy chair?" went on the Coroner; "Is
it not customary for ladies at their dressing tables to use a light
side-chair?"

This showed decidedly astute perception, and the Inspector looked
interestedly at the chair in question, which he had not especially
noticed before.

Being tacitly appealed to by the Coroner's inquiring eyes, Pauline
replied: "It is true that my aunt usually sat at her dressing-table in a
small chair,--that one, in fact," and she pointed to a dainty chair of
gilded cane. "I have no idea why she should choose the heavy, cushioned
one."

"It would seem," the Coroner mused, "as if she might have sat down there
to admire the effect of her belongings rather than to arrange her hair or
toilette."

Absorbedly, all present watched Coroner Scofield's movements.

It was true, the quietly reposeful attitude of the still figure leaning
back against the brocaded upholstery, and so evidently looking in the
great gold-framed mirror, was that of one admiring or criticising her own
appearance. Added to this, the fact of her bizarre costume and strange
adornments, it seemed certain that Miss Carrington had come to her death
while innocently happy in the feminine employment of dressing up in the
elaborate finery that she loved.

But the snake!

Carefully Coroner Scofield removed the inexplicable thing. He held it up
that all might see. A Japanese paper snake, a cheap toy, such as is found
together with fans and lanterns in the Oriental department of large
shops.

"Could this have been placed round her neck after death?" Scofield
inquired of the doctors.

The two physicians agreed, that though that was possible, yet the
appearance of the flesh beneath it seemed to indicate its having
encircled the throat during life.

"Never!" cried Pauline, excitedly. "Aunt Lucy _couldn't_ have sat there
and _smiled_, with a snake anywhere near her!"

"That would seem so," and Dr. Stanton nodded his head. "I well know of my
late patient's aversion to snakes. It amounted almost to a mania! It is
not an uncommon one, many women feel the same, though seldom to so great
an extent."

"That deepens the mystery," said Coroner Scofield; "unless, indeed, the
snake was put on after the crime. But that is even more mysterious. I
shall now remove these valuable jewels, and give them to----"

He looked inquiringly at Haviland and Pauline, and the latter immediately
responded: "Give them to me, Mr. Scofield. I am now mistress here."

Haviland said nothing, but he looked at Pauline as if in disapproval.

"Is this of great worth?" inquired Scofield, as he carefully removed the
scarf from the shoulders it surrounded.

"Only moderately so," returned Pauline. "It is a Syrian scarf and was
sent to her by her nephew who lives in Egypt. It is not new, he sent
several to us about a year ago."

She took the long, heavy, white and silver drapery, and laid it in a
nearby wardrobe. Then the Coroner unfastened the large pearls from their
place as eardrops, and taking up one lifeless hand removed its rings. All
these he handed to Pauline without a word.

"What is this?" he exclaimed suddenly; and opening the curled-up fingers
of the other hand he drew forth a crumpled gray object. It was a glove,
of soft suéde, and so tightly had it been held that it was deeply
creased.

"A man's glove!" said the Coroner, smoothing it out. "Will the wonders of
this case never cease?"

He scrutinized it, but remarking only that it was of medium size and
superior quality, he laid it carefully aside for the time.

From the same arm he removed the scarab bracelet, also handing that to
Pauline.

"The lady was fond of Oriental jewelry," he observed.

"Yes," returned Haviland, before Pauline could speak. "Her nephew sent or
brought home much of it. But, as we informed you, Miss Carrington was
also wearing pearls and diamonds of enormous value, compared to which
these trinkets are as nothing."

"But scarabs, I am told, are of great price."

"Some are," returned Haviland. "That bracelet, however, is not genuine,
nor of great value."

Then the Coroner, with delicate touch, removed the bits of broken
tortoise-shell from the puffs of hair, and carefully laid them together
on a small silver tray he appropriated from the dressing-table litter.

"I think," said Inspector Brunt, in his grave, slow way, "that it will be
wise to photograph the whole picture from several points of view before
the autopsy is performed."

Arrangements had been made for this, and Detective Hardy, a young man
from Headquarters, stepped forward with his camera.

As those who were asked to left the room, Pauline and Gray went out
together, and met Anita just outside in the hall.

"Oh, tell me, Gray! Who did it? What does it all mean?" she cried, and
grasped him by the arm.

"Tell her about it, Gray," said Pauline, and leaving the two together,
she went swiftly along the hall to her own room.

The alert eyes of the guarding policemen followed her, but also they
followed the movements of every one else, and if they had, as yet, any
suspicions, no one knew of them.

Meantime, the gruesome work of photography went on.

Surely never was such a strange subject for the camera! Denuded of her
jewels, but still robed in her gorgeous dressing-gown, and still leaning
back in her luxurious arm-chair, with that strange smile of happy
expectancy, Miss Lucy Carrington presented the same air of regal
authority she had always worn in life. Her eyes were widely staring, but
there was no trace or hint of fear in her peaceful attitude of repose.

"There's no solution!" said Inspector Brunt, deeply thoughtful. "No one
could or would crack a skull like that, but an experienced and
professional burglar and housebreaker. And such a one could have but one
motive, robbery, and the jewels were not stolen!"

"Inside job," observed Scofield, briefly, his eyes on his work.

"Maybe the burglar was frightened away at the critical moment."

"No. Whatever frightened him would be known to some member of the
family."

"Maybe it is."

"Hey? Have you a theory?" and the Coroner looked up suddenly.

"Anything but! There's no _possible_ theory that will fit the facts."

"Except the truth."

"Yes, except the truth. But it will be long before we find that, I'm
afraid. It strikes me it's at the bottom of an unusually deep well."

"Well, you'd _better_ find it. It'd be a nice how d'y' do for you to fall
down on _this_ case!"

"There's no falling down been done yet. And it may well be that the very
fact of there being such strange and irreconcilable conditions shall
prove a help rather than a hindrance."

And then, all being in readiness, the lifeless form of Miss Carrington,
once the proud domineering autocrat, now laid low, was borne to a distant
room, for the autopsy that might cast a further light on the mystery of
her tragic death.




                                   V
                             A MAN'S GLOVE


Inspector Brunt and the young detective, Hardy, were interviewing the
members of the household in the library, and the task was not an easy
one. The two girls were distinctly at odds, and Gray Haviland, whether
authoritatively or not, persisted in assuming a major rôle.

"It seems to me," Haviland said, "that it is the most remarkable mystery
that has ever occurred in the experience of you police people. Now, I
think the wisest plan is to call in a big detective,--no offence, Mr.
Hardy,--but I mean a noted fellow, like Stone, say, and let him get at
the root of the crime."

"I think, Gray," and Pauline looked very haughty, "that any such
suggestion would come better from me. I am now mistress of the place, and
it is for me to say what we shall do."

"I know it," and Haviland looked no whit abashed, "but you know Carr
Loria is equally in authority, even if he isn't here, and you see----"

"I don't see that Carr's absence gives _you_ any authority!"

"But it does, in a way. As Miss Lucy's man of affairs, I ought to look
out for the interests of her heirs, at least, for the absent one. I'm
sure Loria would want to do everything possible to find the murderer."

"Has this nephew been notified yet?" asked Inspector Brunt.

"Yes," returned Pauline; "we've telephoned a cablegram to the city to be
sent to him in Egypt. But I don't know when he will get it, nor when
we'll get a response."

"Where is he?"

"His permanent address is Cairo, but he is off in the desert, or
somewhere, so much that sometimes he is away from communication for weeks
at a time. Still I've sent it, that's all I can do."

"What did you tell him?"

"I made it rather long and circumstantial. I told him of Aunt Lucy's
death, and that she was killed by a blow on the head by a burglar, which
fractured her skull. I asked him if he would come home or if we should go
there. You see, we were intending to sail for Egypt in February."

"Who were?"

"Myself, my aunt, Miss Frayne and Mr. Haviland. Carrington Loria has been
begging us to make the trip, and at last Aunt Lucy decided to go. Our
passage is engaged, and all plans made."

"And now----?"

"Now, I do not know. Everything is uncertain. But if the burglar can be
found, and punished, I see no reason why I, at least, shouldn't go on and
make the trip. The others must please themselves."

Pauline looked at Anita and at Haviland with a detached air, as if now
they were no longer members of the household, and their plans did not
concern her.

Not so Haviland. "Sure I'll go," he cried; "I fancy Carr will be mighty
glad to keep me on in the same capacity I served Miss Carrington. He'll
need a representative in this country. I doubt he'll come over,--there's
no need, if I look after all business matters for him."

"What does he do in Egypt?" asked the Inspector, who was half engrossed
looking over his memoranda, and really took slight interest in the absent
heir.

"He's excavating wonderful temples and things," volunteered Anita, for
Pauline and Gray were looking, amazed, at a man who came into the room.
He was the detective who had been left in charge of the boudoir, and he
carried a strange-looking object.

"What _is_ it?" cried Pauline.

"It's a black-jack." replied the detective. "I found it, Inspector, just
under the edge of the tassel trimmin' of the lounge. The fellow slung it
away, and it hid under the fringe, out of sight."

Gravely, Inspector Brunt took the weapon. It was rudely made, of black
cloth, a mere bag, long and narrow, and filled with bird shot.

"That's the weapon!" declared Brunt. "A man could hit a blow with that
thing that would break the skull without cutting the skin. Yes, there is
no further doubt that Miss Carrington was murdered by a burglar. This is
a burglar's weapon; this it was that crushed the shell comb to fragments,
and fractured the skull, leaving the body sitting upright, and
unmutilated. Death was, of course, instantaneous."

"But the jewels!" said Detective Hardy, wonderingly; "why----"

"I don't _know_ why!" said Brunt, a little testily; "that is for you
detectives to find out. I have to go by what evidence I find. Can I find
a broken skull and a black-jack in the same room and not deduce a
burglarious assault that proved fatal? The thief may have been scared off
or decided he didn't want the loot, but that doesn't affect the certainty
that we have the weapon and therefore the case is a simple one. That
burglar can be found, without a doubt. Then we shall learn _why_ he
didn't steal the jewels."

"But the snake?" said Pauline, looking wonderingly at the Inspector; "the
burglar must have been a maniac or an eccentric to put that snake round
my aunt's neck after he killed her,--and nothing will ever make me
believe that she allowed it there while alive!"

"That's what I say," put in Haviland; "the whole affair is so
inexplicable,--excuse me, Mr. Brunt, but I can't think it such a simple
case as you do,--that I think we should engage expert skill to solve the
mysteries of it all."

"That must come later," and Inspector Brunt resumed his usual gravity of
manner which had been disturbed by the discovery of the black-jack. "Will
you now please give me some detailed information as to the circumstances?
Is the house always securely locked at night?"

"Very much so," answered Haviland; "Miss Carrington was not overly timid,
but she always insisted on careful precautions against burglary. She had
a house full of valuable furniture, curios, and art works besides her
personal belongings. Yes, the house was always supposed to be carefully
locked and bolted."

"Whose duty is it to look after it?"

"The butler Haskins, and his wife, who is the cook, had all such matters
in charge."

"I will interview them later. Now please tell me, any of you, why Miss
Carrington was arrayed in such peculiar fashion, last evening."

"I can't imagine," said Pauline. "My aunt was not a vain woman. I have
never known her to sit before a mirror, except when necessary, to have
her hair dressed. It is almost unbelievable that she should deliberately
don those jewels and scarf and sit down there as if to admire the effect.
Yet it had that appearance."

"But she wore the jewels during the evening, did she not?"

"Not all of them. She wore her pearls, because, as she told us, and as I
have often heard her say, pearls must be worn occasionally to keep them
in condition. But she added a large number of valuable gems--or, some one
did,--after we left her last night."

"Whom do you mean by we?"

"Miss Frayne and myself. We were in her room, to say good-night to her,
and we left at the same time."

"At what time?"

"About quarter past twelve, I should think, wasn't it, Anita? We went
upstairs about midnight, and were with my aunt ten or fifteen minutes."

"Were your good-nights amicable?" asked the Inspector, and Pauline looked
up in surprise. Then, recollecting the last words of her aunt, she shut
her lips obstinately and made no reply.

"Indeed, they were not!" declared Miss Frayne; "Miss Carrington told both
Miss Stuart and myself that it would be our last night beneath this roof!
That to-day we must seek some other home, for she would harbor us no
longer!"

"Ah! And why did she thus treat you?"

"There was no especial reason," and Anita's lovely blue eyes looked
straight at the Inspector with a pathetic gaze, "she was in a tantrum, as
she frequently was."

"She didn't mean it," put in Pauline, hastily.

"She did!" asseverated Anita; "I've heard her threaten to send us away
before, but never so earnestly. She meant it last night, I am sure. And,
too, she knew something would happen to her last night,--she said so."

"What? what's that?"

"Do hush, Anita!" said Pauline; "those foolish words meant nothing!"

"Proceed, Miss Frayne," and the Inspector spoke sternly.

"She did," went on Anita. "I don't remember the exact words, but she said
I little knew what was going to happen to her, and she said 'to-morrow
you may sing another song!' Surely such words meant something!"

"If they did," said Pauline, angrily, "they merely meant that she was
going to dismiss you to-day!"

"Not at all," and Anita glanced at her, "she distinctly said something
would happen to her,--not to me."

"You know better than to take things she said in a temper, seriously! If
we are to repeat idle conversations, suppose I say that I heard _you_ say
last evening that you'd like to kill her!"

"I didn't!" shrieked Anita.

"You did," declared Pauline, calmly; "and Gray said she ought to be
killed, too. I know you didn't mean to kill her, but I've just as much
right to quote your foolish words as you have to quote hers."

"Nonsense!" said Haviland; "let up, Polly! You two are always at each
other! As there is no question as to who killed poor Miss Lucy, why rake
up our foolish words spoken under the intense provocation of her
exhibition of temper,--which was specially trying last night. Inspector,
can we tell you anything more of importance?"

So far the Inspector had been almost silent, and appeared to be learning
some points from the conversation not addressed to him. Now, he changed
his manner, and began briskly to ask questions.

"This glove," he said, holding it out, "was, as you know, found clasped
in her hand. Is it yours, Mr. Haviland?"

"No," said the young man, as, after a close examination of the glove he
handed it back; "no, it is a size smaller than I wear, and it is of a
different make from mine."

"Have you any idea whose it can be? It is highly improbable the burglar
left it."

"I've no idea," and Haviland shrugged his shoulders. "But if it was not
left by the intruder, where could it possibly have come from? It is a
man's glove."

"Could it be one of Cousin Carr's?" said Pauline. "Aunt Lucy was awfully
fond of anything of his. She kept one of his caps in her drawer for
months, after he left the last time."

"No," replied Haviland; "it isn't Loria's. He wears larger gloves than I
do. My theory points to a sort of gentleman burglar, a 'Raffles,' you
know, and I think he talked with Miss Lucy, before he struck that blow,
and disarmed her mind of fear."

"What an extraordinary idea!" and Pauline looked thoughtful.

"But how else explain the glove?"

"And the snake? Did your gentleman burglar persuade her to wear that
paper thing? Never! Gray, you're absurd!"

"Another thing," went on Inspector Brunt, returning the glove to his
roomy pocket-book; "In the bedroom we noticed a glass of milk and beside
it an empty plate. Was it the lady's habit to have a night lunch?"

"Yes," said Anita; "but she rarely ate it. In case of insomnia, she had
ready a light repast, but she almost never touched it."

"The glass of milk is still untouched," said Brunt, "but the plate is
empty. What did it contain?"

"A sandwich, I think," said Anita. "That is what Estelle usually prepared
for her. She will know,--Estelle, the maid."

"Miss Carrington's lady's maid?"

"Yes; though not hers exclusively. She was expected to act as maid for
Miss Stuart and myself also, at such times as Miss Carrington didn't
require her services."

"And she, then, brought the breakfast tray, that is upset on the floor?"

"Yes; Miss Lucy always had an early cup of tea, before she dressed for
breakfast with the family."

"And the maid took it to her this morning? Did she not then discover
the--the tragedy?"

"She says not!" cried Pauline; "but I'm sure she did! She says she saw
Miss Lucy at the mirror, and thinking her engrossed, merely left the tray
on the tabouret and went away."

"Ridiculous!" exclaimed Haviland; "What does Estelle mean by such lies?
Of course she saw Miss Carrington's strange appearance, of course she was
frightened out of her wits, and of course she dropped the tray and ran.
But why not say so? And why not give an immediate alarm? She took that
tray, probably, about eight. Pauline went up at nine. What was Estelle
doing all that time? Why didn't she go in to dress Miss Carrington? I
tell you, Mr. Inspector, there's a lot of queer work to be explained, and
with all due respect to the force, I'm pretty sure you'll need expert
service if you're going to get anywhere. And I'm sure, too, that if we
can get word to Carrington Loria and back, he'll say spare no trouble or
expense to avenge his aunt's murder. He is equally heir with you,
Pauline, and he ought to be consulted."

"The will hasn't been read yet," said Miss Stuart; "we can't assume
anything until that is done."

"Pshaw! you know perfectly well half of the bulk of the estate is yours
and half Carr's. I have a small slice and Miss Frayne a bit. The older
servants have small legacies, and there are a few charities. That, Mr.
Brunt, is the gist of the will. Do you not agree with me, that as I was
the man of business for the late Miss Carrington, I am justified, in the
absence of Mr. Loria, in continuing my services, at least, until we can
get definite directions from him?"

"Those matters are outside my province, Mr. Haviland. Miss Carrington's
legal advisers will doubtless come here soon, and such things will be
decided by them. Now, here's another point. I noted in the course of our
investigation in the boudoir a quantity of powder fallen on the floor
near the dressing table, in such relation to it that it would seem Miss
Carrington was using the face powder as she sat there. Was this her
habit?"

"Her habit? Yes;" said Anita, "Miss Carrington was in the habit of using
face powder,--even cosmetics. It is not strange then, that such a
proceeding was part of her night toilette."

"No, not at all," agreed Mr. Brunt. "But where the powder was thickest,
on the hard floor, near the rug, was a muddled spot, as if some one had
wiped out or swept up a mark or print. Can any of you explain this?"

No one spoke, and the stern voice went on. "I remember, Miss Stuart, that
you began to say something bearing on this while we were in that room,
and you suddenly stopped, appearing confused. I ask you why?"

Pauline hesitated, bit her lip, looked at Gray and then at Anita, and
finally said, "I may as well tell. It is nothing. When I went to my
aunt's room, and found what I did find,--I was so excited and nervous I
scarce knew what I did. But I remember seeing a footprint in that powder,
and in obedience to an impulsive instinct I--I obliterated it."

"With what?"

"With my handkerchief. I merely slapped at it, and the light powder flew
about it."

"Why did you do this?"

"I don't know. I had no real reason. I was not thinking of what I was
doing."

"Then you did not have a desire to shield some one from possible
suspicion?" The words were shot at her so swiftly that Pauline gasped.

"Suspicion! What do you mean? Was it not the work of a burglar?"

"Was the impression of a foot that you saw, the foot of a man or a
woman?"

"How can I tell? It was large, but as it was a bare or stockinged foot I
could not judge. Might not the burglar have removed his boots, before
entering the room?"

"He might, indeed, and that is just what he did do. For more prints of
that stockinged foot have been discovered on the stairs, and there is no
doubt that the tracks are those of the assailant of Miss Carrington. With
your permission, Miss Stuart, I will now go to interview the servants.
May I ask you to await me here, all of you? I shall not be very long."

As the Inspector and the detectives left the room, Haskins appeared to
announce Mrs. Frothingham and Count Henri Charlier.




                                   VI
                           A NEIGHBOR'S CALL


"Oh, is it not terrible? What _can_ I say to comfort you!"

Mrs. Frothingham's distressed tones and her air of eager, intense
sympathy met with little response from Pauline.

Haviland had been called from the room on an errand and Anita's
willingness to receive the neighbor's condolences did not seem
acceptable. The overdressed, forward-mannered widow continued to direct
her attention entirely to Pauline, and that young woman merely surveyed
her visitor coolly and replied in monosyllables.

"Thanks," she said, and her icy air would have deterred a less determined
intruder.

"I simply couldn't help running over as soon as I heard the dreadful
news. For we are neighbors after all, though not so very well acquainted;
and neighbors have a camaraderie of their own, I think."

"Yes?" said Pauline, and her eyelids fell slightly, with an expression of
boredness.

"Yes, indeed," Mrs. Frothingham rattled on; "and I said to our dear
Count, we must run over at once, there may be something we can do for the
saddened ones."

"Thank you;" and had a marble statue been given vocal powers the effect
would have been much the same.

"Dear friend," continued the unabashed visitor, "I know how overcome you
must be----"

"I am not overcome at all," said Pauline, rising, and determined to hear
no more; "and I must beg to be excused, Mrs. Frothingham, as I have many
matters to attend to this morning."

"Ah, yes, of course, you have. We will not detain you. The Count and I
merely called for a moment to inquire----"

"Yes, I quite understand. Miss Frayne will be pleased to answer your
inquiries. Thank you both, and--good-morning."

With a polite but distant bow, Pauline left the room, and as Count
Charlier sprang to hold the door open for her, he, after a moment's
hesitation, followed her out.

"A moment, I beg, Miss Stuart," he said as they reached the hall; "You
are offended at Mrs. Frothingham's intrusion, but have I not a right to
call? Was I not such a friend of Miss Carrington as to justify this
tribute of respect to her memory?"

"Certainly, Count," and Pauline grew a shade kinder, "but I am not
sufficiently acquainted with your friend to receive her visits."

"Ah, no. That is conceded. But, I pray you, tell me of the sad affair. I
have heard no details,--that is, unless you would rather not."

"No, I am not unwilling. You were a good friend of Aunt Lucy's--she was
fond of you, and I am glad to talk to some one. Let us sit here." Pauline
indicated a recessed seat in the hall and the pair sat there. She
recounted briefly the story of the tragedy and the Count was duly
sympathetic. Pauline watched him closely, and discerned great interest
but little grief or sorrow.

"A burglar, of course," said the Count hearing of the cruel weapon. "How
_could_ any one attack the charming lady! And the marvelous jewels she
wore! They were, of course, stolen?"

"No; that's the strange part. They were not."

"Ah, how splendid!" and his absorbed air of satisfaction gave Pauline a
thrill of disgust at his cold-bloodedness. "And now they are all yours?
Those magnificent gems?"

"The property, most of it, is divided between my cousin and myself."

"Your cousin? Mr. Haviland?"

"No; he is but a distant connection. I mean my first cousin, Mr. Loria,
now in Egypt."

"Ah, yes, I have heard Miss Carrington refer to him. He will come home?"

"I do not know. We have cabled of course. Count Charlier, do you remember
hearing my aunt say, last evening, that she expected something to happen
to her?"

"I remember, Miss Stuart."

"Have you any idea what she meant?"

"I? But how could I know?"

"Answer my question, please."

The Count's eyes fell, and he shifted his feet about uneasily. At last he
said: "It is not pleasant to say such things, but since you ask, I may be
permitted to assume that the late Miss Carrington had a regard for my
humble self."

"And she expected, she--hoped that her regard might be returned?"

"It may be so."

"And that last night you might tell her so?"

"You honor me."

"Did you tell her so?"

"I did not, Miss Stuart. What might have happened had she lived I cannot
say, but I did not, last evening, say any word to Miss Carrington of my
aspiration to her hand."

"Did you say anything that could have been taken as a hint that some
time, say, in the near future, you might express such an aspiration?"

"I may have done so."

"Thank you, Count Charlier. I had perhaps no right to ask, but you have
answered my rather impertinent questions straightforwardly, and I thank
you."

Pauline rose, as if to end the interview. In the doorway appeared Anita.
"Pauline," she said, "I wish you would come back and listen to Mrs.
Frothingham's story. It seems to me of decided importance."

"You have something to tell me?" asked Pauline, returning to the library
and looking at the unwelcome neighbor with patient tolerance.

"Yes, Miss Stuart. Now, it may be nothing,--nothing, I mean, of
consequence, that is, you may not think so, but I----"

"Suppose you let me hear it and judge for myself."

"Yes. Well, it's only this. I was wakeful last night, or rather early
this morning, and looking from my bedroom window, which faces this house,
I saw a man climb out of a window on the first floor and skulk away among
the shrubbery."

"At what time was this?" and Pauline looked interested at last.

"About four o'clock. He was to all appearances a burglar----"

"How could you tell? Was it not dark at that hour in the morning?"

"No; the moon is past full, you know, and it shone brightly in the
western sky."

"Enough for you to discern the man clearly?"

"I took a field-glass to assist my vision. He stealthily climbed out and
skirting the bushes made his way swiftly toward the great gates."

"This is indeed an important bit of information, Mrs. Frothingham; I dare
say you ought to tell it to the police who are here."

"Oh, I couldn't! I'm so timid about such things! But,--if you would go
with me, Miss Stuart----"

"Miss Frayne will go with you," said Pauline, coolly; "You will find a
policeman in the hall who will direct you where to find the Inspector."

Without another word Pauline bowed in a way to include the lady and the
Count also, and went away to her own room.

"Stuck-up thing!" exclaimed Mrs. Frothingham, and Anita nodded her golden
head in agreement.

Inspector Brunt instructed Hardy to hear the story of Mrs. Frothingham,
and he devoted his own attention to Count Charlier, of whom he had heard
as being a friend of Miss Carrington's.

He quizzed the Frenchman rather pointedly as to his friendship with the
unfortunate lady and the Count became decidedly ill at ease.

"Why do you ask me so much?" he objected; "I was a friend, yes; I may
have aspired to a nearer relation, yes? That is no crime?"

"Not at all, Count," said Mr. Brunt; "I only want to find out if Miss
Carrington's strange reference to something about to happen to her could
have had any reference to you."

"It might be so; I cannot say. But all that has no bearing on the poor
lady's death."

"No. At what time did you go away from here, Count Charlier?"

"At about midnight."

"You went directly home?"

"To Mrs. Frothingham's, where I am a house guest, yes."

"And you retired?"

"Yes."

"And remained in your bed till morning?"

"But of a certainty, yes! What are you implying? That I had a hand in
this affair?"

"No, no; be calm, my dear sir. I ask you but one question. Is this your
glove?"

The Inspector took the glove from his pocket and offered it to the Count.

The Frenchman took it, examined it minutely and without haste.

"No, sir," he said, returning it; "that is not my property."

"Thank you, that is all," and the Inspector put the glove back in his
pocket.

"There is no doubt as to the main facts," said the Inspector, a half hour
later, as, with the members of the family he summed up what had been
found out from all known sources. "The assailant was most certainly a
burglarious intruder; the weapon, this 'black-jack'; the motive, robbery.
Why the robbery was not achieved and what is the meaning of the
unexplained circumstances of the whole affair, we do not yet know. They
are matters to be investigated, but they cannot greatly affect the
principal conditions. You may be thankful, Miss Stuart, that the sad
death of your aunt was undoubtedly painless; and also that the thief did
not succeed in his attempt to purloin the valuable gems."

The Inspector's speech might seem cold-hearted, but Brunt was a practical
man, and he was truly glad for himself that in addition to finding the
murderer he did not also have to recover a fortune of rare jewels.

"Now," he went on, "as to the maid, Estelle. I have talked with her, but
she is so hysterical and her stories so contradictory, that I am inclined
to the opinion that she has some sort of guilty knowledge or at least
suspicion of the intruder. The man was stocking-footed, and it is a pity,
Miss Stuart, that you erased that footprint on the floor! But it would
have been of doubtful use, I dare say. We have found faint tracks of the
powder on the steps of the staircase, and though the last ones are almost
indiscernible they seem to lead through the butler's pantry, and to an
exit by that window. But the window was found fastened this morning, so,
if it was used as a means for the burglar's getaway, it must have been
fastened afterward by some person inside. Could this person have been the
maid, Estelle?"

"Sure it could!" exclaimed Haviland, who was an interested listener.
"That girl is a sly one! I caught her this morning, trying to take away
that glass of milk. I told her to let it alone."

"Why?" asked the Inspector.

"Because I thought if she wanted to get it away, there must be some
reason for her to want it! What was it?"

"Nonsense!" and Anita looked scornfully at Gray; "naturally, Estelle
would do up the rooms, and would, of course, remove the remains of Miss
Lucy's night luncheon."

"But that's just it!" said Haviland, triumphantly: "she didn't take the
plate that had had sandwiches on it! If she had, I should have thought
nothing of it. But she took the glass of milk, in a furtive, stealthy
way, that made me look at her. She turned red, and trembled, and I told
her to set the glass down. She pretended not to hear, so I told her
again. Then she obeyed. But she glared at me like a tigress."

"Oh, rubbish!" said Anita. "She was annoyed at being interfered with in
her work, and perhaps fearful of being censured."

"All right," said Haviland, "then there's no harm done. If that girl is
entirely innocent, what I said won't hurt her. But she looked to me as if
on a secret errand and a desperate one."

"What puzzles me is," mused the Inspector, "why she persists in saying
that she left the tray in good order in the room,--though it was
discovered an hour later, upset,--when we know that Miss Carrington had
been dead since, at least, two or three o'clock."

"Look here, Inspector," and Haviland frowned, "if the murder was
committed at two or three o'clock, how is it that Mrs. Frothingham saw
the intruder escaping at four or later?"

"There is a discrepancy there," admitted Brunt, "but it may be explained
away. The doctors cannot be sure until the autopsy is completed of the
exact hour of death, and, too, the lady next door may have made an error
in time."

"Well, I'll inform you that Estelle did upset that tray herself," said
Pauline with an air of finality.

"How do you know?" and Inspector Brunt peered at her over his glasses.

"It was while Gray was telephoning for the doctor," said Pauline,
reminiscently, "that I looked carefully at that overturned tray."

"I know it," said Haviland, "I told you not to touch anything."

"I know that, but I did. I picked up from the _débris_, this;" and
Pauline held up to view a tiny hairpin of the sort called 'invisible.'

"It is Estelle's," she said; "see, it is the glistening bronze color of
her hair. Anita has gold-colored ones, and I do not use these fine wire
ones. I use only shell. Moreover, I know this is Estelle's,--don't you,
Anita?"

"It may be."

"It is. And its presence there, on the tray, proves that she let the tray
fall in her surprise at seeing Aunt Lucy, and in her trembling excitement
loosened and dropped this hairpin. Doubtless, she flung her hand up to
her head--a not unusual gesture of hers--and so dislodged it."

Brunt looked closely at the speaker. "You've got it all fixed up, haven't
you, Miss Stuart?"

Pauline flushed slightly. "I didn't 'fix it up,' as you call it, but I
did gather, from what I saw, that the truth must be as I have stated; and
in my anxiety to learn anything possible as to the mystery of this crime,
I secured what may or may not be a bit of evidence. As Mr. Haviland has
said, if Estelle is entirely innocent of any complicity in the matter,
these things can't hurt her. But it would scarcely be possible for her to
have been so careless as to drop a hairpin on the tray without noticing
it, if she were not startled and flurried by something that took her mind
and eyes entirely away from her duties."

"I think you are purposely making a great deal out of nothing," remarked
Anita; "it seems unfair, to say the least, to condemn the poor girl on
such trifling evidence."

The talk was interrupted by the entrance of the Coroner and the two
doctors.

"It is found," said Coroner Scofield, "that the cause of Miss
Carrington's death was not the blow on the head."

The Inspector looked his amazement, and the others sat with receptively
blank countenances waiting further disclosures.

"No," went on Scofield, "we find in the stomach unmistakable traces of
poison."

"Poison!" It was Anita's frightened whisper; "who would poison her?"

"What kind of poison?" asked Brunt.

"Aconitine; deadly and sure. It leaves little trace, but certain tests
reveal it beyond all doubt. That is why we have been so long. The tests
are difficult of performance. But, it is over, and we report that Miss
Lucy Carrington was poisoned by aconitine, administered either by her own
hand or another."

"Oh, she never would poison herself!" cried Anita; "who did it?"

"And the blow on the head?" said Inspector Brunt, looking deeply
perplexed.

"Her death, from poison, occurred at or near two o'clock," asserted the
Coroner; "the blow on the head was given after life had departed."

"Incredible!" said Brunt.

"It is, indeed, Inspector. But those are the facts. The heavy blow
fractured the skull, but left no bruise or mark, nor was there any blood
from the cut scalp. In addition we have the poison found in the system,
and the death symptoms of quiet, placid dissolution which are consequent
always on that particular poison."

"Could it have been self-administered?" asked Brunt.

"Not by Miss Carrington," said Doctor Stanton, decidedly. "The lady has
been my patient for years, and she had an absolute abhorrence of all
sorts of drugs or medicines. She made more fuss over taking a simple
powder than a spoiled child. I have often prescribed for her, knowing
full well she would not take my prescriptions because of her detestation
of taking medicine. When remedies have been really necessary, I have had
to administer them while with her, and a difficult task it was. Moreover,
my patient was not of the temperament or disposition to seek death for
herself, nor had she any reason to do so. No; the case is murder; the
poison was administered by some one who wished for her death and
deliberately set out to accomplish it,--and succeeded."

"Is the action of this poison instantaneous?" asked Brunt.

"No; death ensues about a half hour to an hour after the dose is taken
into the system."

"Then, we gather that the poison was taken in the neighborhood of one
o'clock, last night."

"Yes," agreed the Coroner, "about one o'clock."

"About one o'clock!" whispered Anita, in an awe-struck, gasping way, and
her great blue eyes stared dazedly into the dark ones of Pauline.




                                  VII
                              THE INQUEST


Next morning the inquest was proceeding. The great living-room at Garden
Steps was crowded with listeners, drawn hither by sympathy, interest or
curiosity. And each class found ample to satisfy its motive. The mere
fact of being within that exclusive home, within those heretofore
inaccessible doors, was enough to thrill and delight many, and
observation and scrutiny were as well repaid as was the listening to the
astounding revelations that were poured into their ears.

Coroner Scofield's jury was composed of intelligent men, who were eagerly
receptive to the appalling facts narrated to them and the curiously
bizarre bits of evidence that became known as the witnesses were
questioned.

Dr. Stanton told of his being called to the house, and his discoveries
and conclusions. He admitted that he assumed death was caused by the blow
on the head, but claimed that it was a pardonable error in view of the
fact that such a blow had been given. He affirmed, and Dr. Moore
corroborated it, that the autopsy showed that death was caused by
aconitine poison, administered, either by the deceased or another, at an
hour not earlier than one o'clock, and probably soon thereafter. The
terrible blow that had fractured the skull had been given after life had
been for some time extinct.

Dr. Stanton asserted emphatically his late patient's detestation of drugs
or medicines of any sort, adducing thereby the extreme improbability of
the poison having been self-administered. Moreover, the temperament and
disposition of the late Miss Carrington entirely evinced a love of life
and desire to prolong it by means of any device or assistance the doctor
might give.

Pauline was called next, and a little flutter of excitement in the
audience greeted her appearance.

Exceedingly dignified, but of a sweet, gracious mien, she at once
received the silent approval of the crowd. Her black gown, its collar of
sheer white organdy slightly open at the throat, well suited her pale,
beautiful face and her dark hair and eyes. To-day, her eyes seemed
fathomless. At times, gazing intently at the Coroner until they almost
disconcerted him; and then, hidden by veiling lids, whose long lashes
fell suddenly, as if to conceal further disclosures.

On the whole, Pauline was not a satisfactory witness. She told, in most
straightforward way, of leaving the breakfast table to go to her aunt's
room and of finding there the dead body. She told clearly all the
circumstances of the upset tray, the spilled powder and the eccentric
garb of Miss Carrington herself. But questions as to her opinion of these
facts brought little response.

"You left Miss Carrington at half-past twelve?" asked Coroner Scofield.

"Not so late, I think," returned Pauline; "probably at quarter or twenty
minutes past twelve,--I am not sure."

"How was she then dressed?"

"In the gown she had worn during the evening."

"And her jewels?"

"When I left my aunt, she was wearing her pearls and the other jewelry
she had worn with her evening dress. Some brooches and rings and
bracelets."

"But not so much as she had on when you discovered her in the morning?"

"Not nearly so much."

"How do you account for this?"

"I don't account for it. To me it is exceedingly mysterious."

"And the paper snake round her neck?"

"I have no idea by whom such a thing could have been brought to my aunt.
But I am positive she never put it on herself. Nor can I think she would
allow it to come near her if she were alive,--or conscious,--or, had
power to scream for help. Any one knowing my aunt's fear and horror of
anything reptilian will agree to this."

"It seems evident," said the Coroner, thoughtfully, "that some intruder
entered Miss Carrington's room, at or near one o'clock. That this
intruder in some manner induced Miss Carrington to swallow the poison,
whether conscious of her act or not. That the intruder subsequently, and
for some reason, placed the snake round the neck of the victim, and,
later still, brutally gave her a stunning blow with the black-jack which
was found, and thereby fractured her skull. Granting these assumptions,
can you, Miss Stuart, give us any information that would lead to
discovery of the hand that wrought this havoc?"

"Not any," and Pauline raised her great eyes a moment to Scofield's face
and slowly dropped them again.

"Then can you not express an opinion or suggest a theory that might
account for such strange happenings, at least, in part?"

"No," said Pauline, slowly; "I have no idea, nor can I imagine why my
aunt should be so elaborately arrayed and seated in an easy chair in
front of her mirror. It is contrary to all her customs or habits."

"Could she have been killed first and could the jewels and adornments
have been added afterward?" asked the Coroner of the doctors.

"No," replied Dr. Moore; "the whole condition of the body and clothing
make such a theory practically impossible."

"Quite impossible," added Dr. Stanton; "and, too, what would be the sense
of such a proceeding?"

"We are establishing the facts of the proceedings, not the sense of
them," returned the Coroner, a little testily, for he was at his wits'
end even to make a beginning in this strange case.

"At least," he went on, "we have the facts and the approximate time of
the crime; have you, Miss Stuart, any suspicion of who the murderer can
be?"

The question was shot out suddenly. If its intent was to startle the
witness, it certainly succeeded. Pauline Stuart turned even whiter than
she had been, and she caught her breath quickly and audibly as she
flashed a frightened glance at Gray Haviland. It was by no means an
accusing glance, though many who saw it, eager for a direction in which
to cast their suspicions, took it for such.

But Pauline controlled herself immediately. "Certainly not," she said
coldly. "That is, I can have no suspicion of the murderer's identity. It
was, of course, a midnight intruder, of the criminal class. I have no
individual acquaintances who use or possess the weapon that was employed
in this crime."

"The black-jack is an auxiliary only. The poison may have been
administered by one not versed in the ways of professional criminals. You
admit that, I suppose?"

"It is no doubt true," said Pauline, icily, "that poison may be given by
a person not belonging to the criminal classes. I fail to see, however,
how that fact affects the matter in hand."

"It may well affect it. Since Miss Carrington was killed by a deadly
poison, we must conclude that the black-jack assault was made with the
intention of concealing the poisoning and making it appear that the blow
caused the death. There seems to me no other way to account for the
conditions that confront us."

A silence followed this. Its truth was patent to everybody. Clearly, the
poisoner had delivered the blow, for no one else would attack a victim
already dead. And a plausible reason would be the hope that the poisoning
would pass unnoticed in view of the other apparent cause of death.

"And it points to the work of an amateur," went on Scofield; "a
professional criminal would know that the autopsy would disclose the
earlier crime."

Pauline lost her nerve. "I don't know anything about it!" she cried, and
sank back into her seat, her face buried in her hands.

Coroner Scofield was a man of tact. "It is entirely natural, Miss
Stuart," he said, "that this thought should overcome you. But we must
realize the fact that the theory of a professional burglar is practically
untenable, because nothing was stolen. A burglar's motive could be only
robbery, and this did not take place. Nor can we think that a burglar was
frightened away, before he could appropriate the jewels. For, after
giving the poison, and before the blow was given, sufficient time elapsed
for a successful getaway to be made. Nor would the burglar have been at
pains to cover up his poisoning work, for having achieved his end, he
would have secured his booty and made escape. So, it is evident that the
motive, not being robbery, is as yet unknown, and may be obscure and
complicated."

"What could it have been?" asked Pauline, her composure regained, her
voice low and even.

Scofield looked at her. "It is said, Miss Stuart, that the only motives
for murder are love, revenge or gain. Can you imagine any one of these
directed toward your aunt?"

Pauline replied tranquilly. Evidently she had fully recovered her poise.
"I can think of no one who could have killed my aunt for love; it is
improbable that she has ever done any one such wrong as to call for such
a deed in revenge; as to gain, if you mean pecuniary gain, all the
legatees mentioned in her will may be said to have that motive."

Pauline's manner and tones were so impersonal, so scathingly ironic as to
amount to a disclaimer for all the legatees. Her way of suggesting it
made it seem so far removed from possibility that it was far more
emphatic than any denial could have been.

But Coroner Scofield was as unmoved as his witness.

"Quite so," he said coolly; "and therefore inquiries must be made. Did
you, Miss Stuart, after leaving your aunt soon after midnight see or hear
anything unusual or suspicious?"

"What do you mean by unusual or suspicious?"

"I mean did you see or hear anything, anything at all, that you could not
explain to yourself as being in any way connected with the tragedy we are
investigating?"

Before answering, Pauline looked in turn at all the members of the
household. Haviland slowly turned his head as if to look at something
across the room, and as slowly brought it back to its previous position.

"I did not," said Pauline, looking straight at the Coroner.

"That is all," said Scofield, briefly, and the next witness was called.

This was the maid, Estelle. Her eyes were red with weeping, but she was
not hysterical now, or incoherent. She answered tersely questions as to
Miss Carrington's habits and as to her words and actions during the
maid's last interview with her.

"I left her at about quarter of one," the witness deposed; "I had given
her the Oriental negligée, of which she is fond. I offered to take down
her hair and put away her jewels, but she declined those services, and
bade me leave her."

"She was wearing, when you left her, only the jewels she had worn during
the evening?"

"Only those, sir. When I changed her evening gown for the boudoir robe,
she bade me replace such jewels as I had already taken off her. She kept
on her rings, bracelets and her long rope of pearls while I changed her
costume."

"And then she dismissed you for the night?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where was she then? Sitting before the mirror?"

"No, sir. She stood in the middle of the floor."

"Was she in an amiable mood?"

"She was not. Because I offered to assist her further, she ordered me
from the room in anger."

"Ah, in anger! Was Miss Carrington often angry with you?"

"Indeed, yes; as she was with everybody."

"Confine your answers to your own experience. You prepared a night
luncheon for your mistress?"

"Yes, sir," and now Estelle's voice trembled and her eyes rolled
apprehensively.

"What was it?"

"Two small sandwiches and a glass of milk."

"What sort of sandwiches?"

"Caviare, sir."

"Ah, yes. And why did you put a large dose of bromide in the glass of
milk?"

"Did it kill her?" and Estelle screamed out her query. Pauline and Anita
looked at one another. It was the same question Estelle had asked of
them.

"An overdose of bromide may be fatal," parried the Coroner, not answering
the question directly. "Why did you do it?"

"I didn't do it," and the French girl shrugged her shoulders; "why should
I poison my mistress? She was quick-tempered, but I was used to that."

"Don't be stupid," said the Coroner; "the bromide didn't poison Miss
Carrington, for, in the first place, she didn't take it. The glass of
milk was found next morning untouched, though the sandwiches were gone.
Therefore, the bromide in the milk was found. Why did you put it in?"

"_I_ didn't do it," reiterated the maid. "Look higher up for that!"

"What do you mean?"

"I mention no names, but somebody must have done it, if bromide was found
in that milk."

"But you tried to get the glass away next morning, without being seen."

"Who says I did?"

"Never mind that; you were seen. Why?"

"Well, sir, if I thought anybody was going to get into trouble because of
it, I was only too glad to help, if I could, by removing it before it was
noticed." Estelle spoke slowly, as if weighing her words, and her furtive
glances at Pauline bore only one significance. It was palpably apparent
that she suspected Miss Stuart of the deed, and out of kindness had tried
to remove the incriminating evidence.

Pauline stared at her with a glance that went through her or over her or
around her, but gave not the slightest attention to the speaker.

"Did you put bromide in your aunt's glass of milk, Miss Stuart?" asked
the Coroner, and Pauline said, calmly, "Certainly not."

Mr. Scofield sighed. It was a difficult matter to get at the truth when
the witnesses were clever women, in whose veracity he had not complete
confidence.

He gave up Estelle for the moment, and called Gray Haviland.

The young man's appearance gave every promise of frankness and sincerity.
He detailed the circumstances precisely as Pauline had told them. He
denied having heard or seen anything suspicious during the night. He
referred to the Coroner's list of motives for crime, and added that he
agreed with Miss Stuart that the present case could scarcely be ascribed
to love or revenge. If the murder was committed for gain, it was, of
course, a formal necessity to question all the beneficiaries of Miss
Carrington's will, but he was sure that all such inheritors were quite
willing to be questioned. For his part, he believed that the criminal was
some enemy of Miss Carrington, unknown to her immediate household, and he
suggested that such a one be searched for.

"You've got that glove," he reminded, "that was found clasped in the hand
of the murdered woman. Why not trace that; or endeavor to learn in some
way the reason for the many peculiar circumstances; or discover, at
least, a way to look for further evidence; rather than to vaguely suspect
those who lived under Miss Carrington's roof?"

"I am not asking your assistance in conducting this inquiry, Mr.
Haviland," and the Coroner spoke shortly; "but pursuing my own plan of
obtaining evidence in my own way. Will you kindly answer questions
without comment on them?"

"Oh, all right; fire away. Only remember, that we relatives and friends
are just as much interested in clearing up this mystery as you are, and
we want to help, if we can be allowed to do so intelligently."

Asked again if he saw or heard anything unusual in the night, Haviland
replied, "You said 'suspicious' the other time. I did see something
_unusual_. I saw Estelle go stealthily downstairs at three A.M. That's
unusual, but I don't go so far as to call it suspicious."




                                  VIII
                             ANITA'S STORY


Instead of showing surprise at this statement, the Coroner broke the
breathless silence that followed it, by saying:

"Will you please explain what you mean by 'stealthily?'"

"Just what I say," returned Haviland, bluntly. "She went slowly, now and
then pausing to listen, twice drawing back around a corner and peeping
out, and then coming forth again; she wore no shoes and carried no light;
she went down the big staircase in the manner I have described, and after
about ten minutes, returned in the same fashion. That's what I mean by
stealthily."

"What was your errand?" asked Scofield of Estelle.

"Nothing. I didn't go," she replied, coolly.

"She tells an untruth," said Gray, calmly. "She did go, just as I have
described. But it was doubtless on an innocent errand. I have no idea she
was implicated in Miss Carrington's death. I am sure it is of casual
explanation,--or, I was sure, until Estelle denied it."

"How was it you chanced to see her?"

"I was wakeful, and I was prowling around to find something to read. I
went out in the hall and got a magazine from the table, and had returned
to my room and was just closing the door, when I saw a white figure glide
across the hall. She passed through a moonlit space or I could not have
seen her. She was wrapped in a light or white kimono thing, and I should
never have thought of it again if it were not for what has happened."

"You knew it to be this Estelle?"

"Yes; her red hair was hanging in a braid."

"'Tisn't red!" snapped Estelle, but Mr. Scofield silenced her with a
frown.

"Well, auburn, then," said Haviland, easily. "You may as well own up,
Estelle; what did you go down for?"

"I didn't go," repeated the maid, obstinately, and no cross-questioning
could prevail on her to admit otherwise.

"All right," and Haviland shrugged his shoulders; "I suppose it doesn't
matter, as the crime was committed about one o'clock. It's up to you, Mr.
Coroner, to find some person who acted suspiciously nearer that time.
And, by the way, as man of business of this estate, unless some
worthwhile evidence is forthcoming pretty soon, I'm going to round up a
detective or two who will get somewhere."

"Give us a little more time, Mr. Haviland," said Scofield, suavely, "this
inquest is only begun."

"Well, get it over with, and then, if the truth hasn't come to light,
I'll take a hand."

Miss Frayne was called next, and Anita, with a look of importance on her
pretty face, came forward.

Her evidence, at first, was merely a repetition of that already heard,
and she corroborated Pauline's recital of the scene as the two girls bade
Miss Carrington good-night.

"And then?" prompted the Coroner.

"Then I went to my room, but I didn't retire. I sat thinking over what
Miss Carrington had said to me. And as I thought about it, I concluded
that this time I was really dismissed from her secretaryship. And that
made me feel very sorry, for it is a good position and I've no wish to
lose it. So,--after a time, I began to think I would go to Miss
Carrington's room and if she were still up, I would beg her forgiveness."

"Forgiveness for what?"

"For any fancied grievance she might have against me. I have always tried
to please her, but she was, er,--difficult, and it was not easy to do the
right thing at all times."

"Did you go to her room?"

"I went to the door----"

"At what time?"

"Soon after one o'clock. Not more than five or ten minutes after."

There was a rustle of excitement. The poison was said to be administered
at about one! Did this fair doll-like girl know the secret of the
tragedy?

"Proceed, Miss Frayne; tell the story of anything you saw at that time."

"I saw nothing. But I heard a great deal."

"What was it?"

"The door of Miss Carrington's room was closed, and I was about to tap at
it, when I heard talking inside. I paused, and I listened, in order to
discover if her maid was still with her, or some one else. If it had been
Estelle, I should have tapped for admittance. But it was not."

"Who was it?"

"I cannot say. The voice I heard distinctly was that of Miss Carrington
herself. Her voice was high-pitched, and of what is called a carrying
sort. The things she said were so strange, I lingered, listening, for I
was so surprised I couldn't help it."

"First, I heard her say, quite plainly, 'Your face is the most beautiful
I have ever seen! I wish mine were as beautiful.' I assumed, then, she
must be talking to Miss Stuart, for surely she would not say that to her
maid. Then she said, 'But, to-morrow, I shall be forever freed from this
homely face of mine.'"

"Miss Frayne, this is very singular! Are you sure you heard correctly?"

"I am sure. But there is more. She next said, 'To-morrow you will be
glad!--_glad!_' It was almost a scream, that. And she went on, 'To-morrow
all these jewels will be yours,--if you--ah, but _will_ you?' and then
her voice trailed off faintly, and I could hear no more."

"You heard nothing more at all?"

"Yes; I waited,--oh, I admit I was eavesdropping, but it was so strange I
couldn't help it,--there was silence. It may well be some one else was
replying to her, but I could not make out any other person's words. A low
voice would not be audible like a high-pitched one. But after a moment,
Miss Carrington resumed; she said, 'I shall change my will. Not Carr's
half, that must stand. But the other half shall never go to a niece who
has no affection for me!' Again I heard nothing, for the responses were
inaudible. Then Miss Carrington said, in a musing tone: 'I have already
willed you ten thousand dollars of those United States bonds, but----'
And then, after quite a long pause, Miss Carrington cried out, not
loudly, but tensely, 'Henri, Henri! _you_ are the mark I aim at!' That
frightened me so, I ran swiftly back to my room, and locked the door."

"You assumed Henri to be Count Charlier?"

"I had no other construction to put upon the words."

"You thought the gentleman was in Miss Carrington's room?"

"I couldn't think that! And yet, it sounded as if she were speaking to
him, not of him."

"This is a very strange story, Miss Frayne. Have you mentioned these
things you overheard to any one before this?"

"No. I have thought them over, and concluded it was best to tell the
story first to you."

"And quite right. It is, then, your opinion that there was another person
in Miss Carrington's room, to whom she was speaking?"

"It seemed so to me."

"But you did not hear this other person's voice?"

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

"Did you hear it at all?"

"I cannot say. When I did not hear Miss Carrington's voice clearly, there
were sounds that might have been another person or her own voice speaking
more inaudibly."

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

"It could not have been that. She spoke definitely and decidedly _to_
some one when she said 'Your face is beautiful,' and when she said, 'I
have willed you ten thousand dollars,' indeed, every thing she said was
as if spoken to some hearer; not as one who talks to herself."

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

"No, I did not."

"H'm. Now, are you positive, Miss Frayne, that all these speeches were
said just as you have repeated them? It is a great strain on the memory
to repeat accurately a conversation as long as the one you have just
rehearsed."

"The speeches I heard are burned into my brain. I could not forget them
if I would. I may have erred in some minor or unimportant words, but the
most of what I heard is precisely as I have repeated it. Indeed, so
thoroughly was I amazed at it all, I wrote it down as soon as I reached
my room. I had then no thought of--of what was going to happen, but Miss
Carrington had made peculiar remarks during the evening about something
happening to her, and in connection with that the words I heard seemed so
remarkable,--not to say uncanny,--that I made a note of them. This is not
an unusual habit with me. I often make notes of conversations, as it has
been useful in my services as secretary."

"As how?"

"If a caller in a social or business way had conversation with Miss
Carrington, and I was present, I often made a record, in case she asked
me later just what had been said."

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

"I can only think that Miss Carrington was in favor of considering a
marriage between herself and the Count."

"You made use of the word 'uncanny.' Do you imagine that Miss Carrington
had any foreboding of her approaching doom?"

"When I heard her say, 'To-morrow I will be forever freed from this
homely face of mine,' and 'to-morrow all these jewels will be yours,' I
couldn't help thinking,--after the discovery of her death,--that she must
have anticipated it."

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

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

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

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

"Her speech was not continuous, then?"

"Not at all. It was broken, and in snatches. But, remember, I could not
hear all of what she said, and the other person or persons not at all."

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

"I cannot say. Much, in a low tone, that I could not hear clearly, might
have been Miss Carrington's voice or another's. The door was closed, and
as soon as I realized there was some one there, not Estelle, I had no
thought of knocking, and I soon went away. I ought to have gone away
sooner, and would have done so, but I was so amazed and puzzled I stayed
on involuntarily."

"Your story, Miss Frayne, is very extraordinary. Can you suggest, from
what you heard, who might have been in the room with Miss Carrington?"

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

"I wish to say a word, Mr. Coroner," and Pauline Stuart, with her dark
eyes blazing, rose to her feet. "I am sorry to say this, but I must ask
you to hesitate before you put too much faith in the amazing tale you
have just listened to. I am sure Miss Frayne could not have heard all
that nonsense! It is impossible, on the face of it, that my aunt should
have received any one in her room after her maid left her. It is
incredible that she should have made all those ridiculous and meaningless
remarks! And it is despicable for any woman to imply or hint that Miss
Carrington was receiving a gentleman caller! I am surprised that you even
listened to what must be the ravings of a disordered mind!"

Pauline looked at Anita like an avenging goddess. But the darts of scorn
from her dark eyes were met and returned in kind from the big blue ones
of the secretary.

"I resent your tone and your words," said Anita, deliberately; "but since
you choose to adopt that attitude, I will go on to say what I had
intended not to reveal, that I saw you coming from your aunt's room,
after the conversation I have told of took place."

"Wait a minute," said the Coroner; "you said that immediately after
hearing the alleged conversation you went at once to your room, and did
not leave it again."

"Nor did I. But a few minutes later, unable to restrain my curiosity, I
opened my door, and looked out. My position then commanded a full view of
the hall, and I saw Miss Stuart go from her aunt's room to her own."

Pauline looked at the speaker. Coldly her glance swept back to the
Coroner, and she said: "I deny that I was in my aunt's room after leaving
it at midnight in company with Miss Frayne. But she forces me to tell
that _I_ saw _her_ going away from it at exactly quarter past one."

"How do you fix the time so accurately?"

"I was sitting in the upper hall,--it is really a sitting-room, at the
bay-windowed end,--looking at the moon. I, too, had been disturbed at my
aunt's attitude, and her threats to send me away to-day, and I had gone
to the hall window-seat, a favorite haunt of mine, and had sat there for
a half hour or more."

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

"Probably not, as the draperies are heavy, and I was in the deep
window-seat. I was thinking I would go to my room, and then I saw Miss
Frayne come from my aunt's room and go to her own."

"Are you sure she came from the room?"

"She was closing the door, her hand was on the knob. She did not see me,
I am sure, for I drew back in the window and watched her. And just then I
heard the hall clock chime the quarter after one."

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

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

"Nor did you hear her?"

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

"What did you next do?"

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

The slight hesitation told against Pauline. All through her testimony,
all through her arraignment of Anita,--for it amounted to that,--she had
been cool, calm and imperturbable. But now a momentary hesitation of
speech, added perhaps, to the circumstantial story of Anita Frayne,
caused a wave of doubt,--not enough to call suspicion,--but a questioning
attitude to form in the minds of many of the audience.

To whom, if not Miss Stuart, could Miss Carrington's remarks about beauty
have been addressed? It was well known that Miss Lucy adored beauty and
had all her life lamented her own lack of it. This was no secret woe of
the poor lady's. To any one who would listen, she would complain of her
hard lot in having all the gifts of the gods except good looks. To whom
else would she say 'To-morrow all these jewels will be yours,--if
you--ah, but _will_ you?'

And yet, after all, it did not make sense. Was it not far more likely to
be a figment of Miss Frayne's clever mind, for what purpose who might
say?

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

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




                                   IX
                           FURTHER TESTIMONY


Count Henri Charlier was being questioned, and he was distinctly ill at
ease. His French _savoir faire_ was not proof against definite inquiries
as to his intentions regarding the late Miss Carrington, and indefinite
allusions concerning his movements on the night of her death.

He had related, straightforwardly enough, his visit at Garden Steps that
evening and his departure at or about midnight. He denied his engagement
of marriage, but admitted that he had paid Miss Carrington such
attentions as might lead her to suspect an attachment.

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

"Most assuredly not."

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

Count Charlier's black eyes snapped. But by a successful effort he
controlled his indignation, and said, simply, "I was not."

"But she was heard to address you."

"Impossible, as I was not there."

"She distinctly declared that you were the mark she aimed at. What
construction do you put upon those words?"

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

Count Charlier simpered a little, and Gray Haviland looked at him with a
frown of undisguised scorn. Haviland had never liked the Count, indeed,
he even doubted his right to the title, and especially had he feared a
marriage between him and Miss Lucy. And, granting that this feeling was
partly due to a consideration of his own interests, Haviland also
distrusted the Frenchman and doubted Miss Lucy's happiness as his wife.

"Did Miss Carrington leave you a bequest of ten thousand dollars in
United States bonds?" went on the Coroner.

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

"You do know!" shouted Haviland; "the will has been read, and you know
perfectly well that such a bequest was left to you."

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

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

"You are sure!" stormed Gray. "Now where were you when Miss Carrington
spoke those words to you? If not in her boudoir, then on the balcony
outside the window, perhaps."

"Absurd," said the Coroner.

"Not at all," said Gray; "that window opens on a balcony enclosed by
glass. It is easily reached from outside by a small staircase, mostly
used in summer, but always available. How could Miss Carrington speak to
the Count concerning the bonds and concerning her infatuation for
himself, which is no secret, unless he were there before her? And how
could he be in the room--in her boudoir--unknown to the servants?
Moreover, Mr. Coroner, I believe the glove found in Miss Carrington's
hand to be the property of Count Charlier."

"But no!" cried the witness, excitedly; "I have repeatedly disclaimed
that glove. It is not mine, I know not whose it is. I know nothing of
this sad affair, whatever. If the money is left to me, as I have been
told, it is a--a surprise to me."

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

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

After a moment's hesitation, Coroner Scofield decided to let her tell it,
as having a possible bearing on Count Charlier's testimony.

The rather stunning-looking widow was fashionably dressed, and she
fluttered with an air of importance as she took the stand. She related
again the story she had told of the supposed burglar, whom she saw
leaving the living-room by way of a window, at four o'clock on Wednesday
morning.

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

"Oh, he looked like one. All huddled up, you know, and his face buried
between a high coat collar and a drawn-down cap. And he walked
slyly,--sort of glided among the shrubs and trees, as if avoiding notice.
No man on legitimate business would skulk like that."

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

"Certainly not!" and Mrs. Frothingham gave a little shriek. "The Count is
a slim and elegant figure; this was a stocky, burly man; a marauder, I
know."

"It may be," said the Coroner, wearily. "It may be that a burglar was
concealed in the house, or let in by a servant, and that he attacked Miss
Carrington as she was seated at her dressing table. It seems impossible
that he should have administered poison to her, however, and the
conjoined circumstances may indicate collusion between----"

"Between whom?" asked Inspector Brunt.

"I don't know," confessed Scofield. "Every way I try to think it out, I
ran up against an impassable barrier."

"That's what I say," began Haviland; "it is a most involved case. I shall
cable Carrington Loria for authority to employ an expert detective."

"Why cable him?" asked Pauline; "I am equally in authority now. Carr and
myself each receive half the residuary estate of Aunt Lucy, and, of
course, I am as anxious to find the--the murderer, as Carr can possibly
be."

"Well, somebody will have to authorize it who is willing to pay for it.
As man of business in this home, I am willing to attend to all such
matters, but I must have authority."

"You seem to me a little premature, Mr. Haviland," commented the
Inspector. "Perhaps when the inquest is concluded, it may not be
necessary to call on any other detective than our own Mr. Hardy."

"Perhaps not," agreed Haviland; "but unless you people all wake up,
you're not going to get anywhere. I admit the getting is difficult, but
that's just the reason a wise sleuth should be called in before the
trails grow cold."

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

The widow was not definitely helpful. Her statements were often
contradictory in minor details, and when she corrected them they seemed
to lose in weight. She stuck to the main points, however, that by the
help of a strong field-glass she had discerned, in the bright moonlight,
a man leave by way of the French window, at four o'clock, and had seen
him make his way stealthily out by the great entrance gates of the place.

Cross-questioning on this brought no variations, and the jurymen wagged
their heads in belief of her story.

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

"I was in my own home all the evening," she said at one time; and again,
"I went out for a short walk at eleven o'clock." This last in refutation
of Haskins, the Carrington butler, who deposed to having seen the lady
walk across the lawns of Garden Steps.

"Where did you walk?"

"Oh, just around my own place; and for a moment I strolled over here
because the Steps looked so beautiful in the moonlight."

"You were alone?"

"I was. I have no house guests at present, save the Count; and as my
brother, who lives with me, is on a Western trip, I was alone, and I
walked about to kill time until Count Charlier should return after his
bridge game over here."

"Did you walk near the house, while on the Garden Steps' estate?" asked
Scofield, scenting a possible espionage of her titled visitor.

"Oh, no!" and the witness bristled with indignation; "why should I! I was
not really an acquaintance of Miss Carrington, merely a neighbor."

"Beg pardon, ma'am, but I saw you on the conservatory verandah," said
Haskins, in a deprecatory way.

"That is not true, Mr. Coroner," said the lady, glancing scornfully at
the butler. "I beg you will not accept a servant's statement in
preference to mine!"

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

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

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

"I most certainly do! How absurd for me to be over here, and how more
than absurd for me to deny it if I were!"

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

If there were collusion or criminal assistance by any of the servants,
surely the word of all of them must be mistrusted unless proven.

And, too, what could have brought Mrs. Frothingham to the verandah of a
home where she was not an accepted guest? Or, could she have been spying
on the Count?

For it had slowly entered the Coroner's not very alert mind that perhaps
the volatile widow had her own plans for the Count's future, and Miss
Carrington did not figure in them. The manner of the witness bore out
this theory. She was self-conscious and at times confused. She frequently
looked at the Count and then quickly averted her gaze. She blushed and
stammered when speaking his name or referring to him. In a word, she
acted as a woman might act in regard to a man of whom she was jealous.
And the situation bore it out. If Mrs. Frothingham had matrimonial
designs on her distinguished guest, would she not naturally resent his
visits to a rich neighbor? Mrs. Frothingham was not rich, and she may
well have been afraid of Miss Carrington's charm of gold, which could
cause many a man to overlook anything else that might be lacking.

Coroner Scofield was getting more and more tangled in the mazes of this
extraordinary case. He was practically at his wits' end. At last he
blurted out: "It is impossible, it seems, to get a coherent, or even
plausible story from a woman! Is there any man present, who knows any of
the details of the happenings of Tuesday evening and night?"

There was a moment's silence at this rather petulant speech, and then
Stephen Illsley rose, and speaking very gravely, said:

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

The relieved Coroner heard this with satisfaction. Accepting his good
fortune, he prepared to listen to Illsley's testimony.

"I was spending the evening here," the witness began, "and during my
visit I was in the various rooms. At a late hour, perhaps something after
eleven,--I was crossing the hall, and I saw Mrs. Frothingham on the
stairway."

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

"Yes," returned Illsley, his grave eyes resting on the face of the widow,
who stared at him as if stricken dumb. "Yes, I saw her distinctly. She
was evidently coming downstairs, one hand rested on the banister, and she
was looking upward at the ceiling."

"Did she see you?"

"I think not. If so, she made no sign. But she was not looking my way,
and I went on into the reception room, where I was going in search of a
scarf Miss Stuart had left there. When I recrossed the hall, the lady had
disappeared."

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

"I had no right to any opinion on the subject. It was not my affair what
guests were at the house I was visiting, or what they might be doing."

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

"I did not know that, then; and even so, it gave me no right to speculate
concerning the lady's presence there. Nor should I refer to it now,
except that in view of the subsequent tragedy it is due to every
principle of right and justice that all truths be known as to that
evening. Mrs. Frothingham will, of course, recall the episode and can
doubtless explain it."

"I should like to hear the explanation!" said Pauline, with flashing
eyes. "As mistress here now, I am interested to know why a stranger
should wander about this house at will."

Mrs. Frothingham sat silent. Her face showed not so much consternation or
dismay as a cold, calculating expression, as if debating just what
explanation she should offer.

At last she spoke. "I may as well own up," she said, and laughed
nervously. "I _was_ on the verandah, as the vigilant butler noticed. I
did step inside the hall, as I had so often heard of the rare tapestries
and paintings, and, in my _ennui_, I thought it no harm to take a peep.
The great door was ajar, and I was a little chilled by my walk across the
lawns. I said to myself, if I meet any one I will merely beg a few
moments' grace and then run away. Yes, I did take a step or two up the
stair, to look at a picture on the landing. It was all innocent enough,
perhaps not in the best of taste, but I was lonely, and the light and
warmth lured me. In a moment I had slipped out and run away home,
laughing over my escapade like a foolish child."

Her light laugh rippled out as she concluded her story. She looked
ingenuous and truthful, but the Coroner distrusted feminine fairy-tales,
and this was a little too fanciful to be true.

Moreover, Mrs. Frothingham was looking at him sharply from the corner of
her eye. Clearly, she was watching him to see how he took it.

He didn't take it very well. The acknowledged presence of an outsider in
the house, for a not very plausible reason, was illuminating in his
estimation. She had been on the stairway. Had she been to Miss
Carrington's room? True, she said she went only to the landing,--but
pshaw, women had no regard for the truth! Had she and Count Charlier
planned between them to--bah, _why_ did this woman want to kill her
neighbor? Even if she were jealous of the Count's attention, would she go
so far as crime? No, of course not! He must question her further. And
yet, what good would that do, if she would not tell the truth?

Well, she was in the house at half-past eleven, that much was certain,
for Stephen Illsley's story and her own and also the butler's testimony
all coincided as to that.

And then, Detective Hardy, who had just returned from a short errand,
made a startling statement. He declared that the glove which had been
found clasped tightly in the dead fingers of the late Miss Carrington did
belong to Count Henri Charlier.

Mr. Hardy had been searching the Count's wardrobe, and though he did not
find the mate to that particular glove, he found many others, some worn
and some entirely unused, but all of the same size and made by the same
firm as the one now in the Coroner's possession!

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

"I denied it," he thus excused himself, "because I have no idea how it
came into Miss Carrington's possession, and I did not wish to implicate
her in an affair with my unworthy self."

"H'm," thought Gray Haviland, fixing his attention on the Count and on
the flustered Mrs. Frothingham; "a precious pair of adventurers! I expect
Scofield is right, we won't need an expert detective."

There was more of the inquest. But its continuance brought out no
developments not already here transcribed. There was much
cross-questioning and probing; there was much rather futile effort to
make all the strange details fit any one theory; there was variance of
opinion; and there was more or less dissension.

But as a final result, the Coroner's jury brought in a verdict that Miss
Lucy Carrington met her death by poison administered by a person or
persons unknown, who thereafter, probably for the purpose of diverting
attention from the poison, struck her a blow on the head. The jury in
their deliberation felt that Count Henri Charlier was implicated. But not
having sufficient evidence to make a charge, suggested to the detective
force that he be kept under surveillance.




                                   X
                             BIZARRE CLUES


It was Saturday. The funeral of Miss Carrington had been held the day
before and the imposing obsequies had been entirely in keeping with her
love of elaborate display in life. The casket was of the richest, the
flowers piled mountain high, the music, the most expensive available; for
the young people in charge had felt it incumbent on them to arrange
everything as Miss Lucy would have desired it.

It was a pathetic commentary on the character of the dead woman that
while all who mourned her felt the shock and horror of her death, they
were not deeply bowed with sorrow. Pauline, as nearest relative, would
naturally grieve most, but for the moment her affections were lost sight
of in the paralyzing effects of the sudden tragedy.

Anita Frayne had practically "gone to pieces." She was nervous, and
jumped twitchingly if any one spoke to her.

Gray Haviland was reticent, an unusual thing for him, and devoted most of
his time to matters of business connected with the estate.

Estelle, the maid, had succumbed to a nervous break-down, and had been
taken to a nearby sanatorium, where she indulged in frequent and violent
hysterics.

The household was in a continual excitement. Lawyers and detectives were
coming and going, neighbors were calling, and reporters simply infested
the place.

Pauline and Anita, though outwardly polite, were not on good terms, and
rarely talked together.

But this morning the two girls and Haviland were called to a confab by
Hardy, the detective.

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

"Arrested Count Charlier! Put him in jail?"

"Yes," returned the detective. "I found the other one of that pair of
gloves, the mate to the one in the lady's hands,--where, do you suppose?"

"Where?"

"Rolled up in a pair of socks, in the Count's chiffonnier drawer; of
course, to hide it, as it is not at all easy to destroy a thing like that
while visiting."

"I know it," said Pauline, earnestly; "it is hard. I've often noticed
that, when I've wanted to burn a letter or anything. You can't do it,
unknown to the servants or somebody."

"Rubbish!" said Anita, "It would have been easy for the Count to dispose
of a glove if he had wanted to. But he didn't. He never committed that
crime! If a glove was found, as you say, somebody else put it there to
incriminate an innocent man. It's too absurd to fasten the thing on Count
Charlier! Do you suppose he went to the boudoir and gave Miss Carrington
poison, and then shook hands good-evening, and left his glove in her
grasp? Nonsense! The glove in her dead hand was put there by the criminal
to implicate the Count, and the glove in the rolled-up socks for the same
purpose and by the same person!"

"By Jove, Miss Frayne! You may be right!" cried Hardy. "Somehow I can't
see the Count's hand in this thing, and yet----"

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

"I'm sorry," said Pauline, and her face was white; "Did he--did
he--c-confess?" The girl's voice trembled, and she could scarcely
pronounce the words.

"Not he," said Hardy; "he seemed dazed, and declared his innocence,--but
he was not convincing. He takes it very hard and talks wildly and at
random. But you know what Frenchmen are; liable to go off their heads at
any time."

"But look at it," reasoned Anita; "_why_ would the Count kill Miss
Carrington? Why, he thought of marrying her."

"Not much he didn't!" and Hardy smiled a little. "I size it up this way.
Matters had gone so far that he had to propose to the lady or clear out.
He didn't want to clear out for then she would take back the little
matter of ten thousand dollars already marked for him in her will.
Moreover, he couldn't realize that tidy little sum, which he very much
wants, so long as she lived. To be sure, he would have had far more, had
he married her, but that was not in 'his nibs'' plans. So he resorted to
desperate measures. He's a thorough villain, that man! Outwardly, most
correct and honorable, but really, an adventurer, as is also his friend,
the dashing young widow."

"Mr. Hardy," and Pauline spoke calmly, now, "do you _know_ these things
to be true of Count Charlier, or are you assuming them?"

"Well, Miss Stuart, I know human nature pretty well, especially male
human nature, and if I'm mistaken in this chap, I'll be surprised. But
also, I've set afoot an investigation, and we'll soon learn his record,
antecedents and all that. At present, no one knows much about him; and
what Mrs. Frothingham knows she won't tell."

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

"Not at all," broke in Gray, "I know all about that. Miss Carrington had
a certain bunch of bonds that amounted to just fifty thousand dollars. In
one of her sudden bursts of generosity, and she often had such, she
decided to give those bonds to five people. I mean, to devise them in her
will, not to give them now. Well, four were Miss Stuart and Carr Loria,
Miss Frayne and myself. And then, she hesitated for some time, but
finally announced that the fifth portion should be named for the Count. I
was there when the lawyer fixed it up, and Miss Carrington turned to me
and said, laughingly, 'I may change that before it comes due!' Oh, she
was always messing with her will. I'm glad there's a tidy bit in it for
me, as it is. Her demise _might_ have taken place when I was for the
moment cut out."

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

"There sure was! Only last month, she got firing mad with me, and crossed
me off without a shilling. Then she got over her mad and restored me to
favor."

"You and Miss Frayne have other bequests than those particular bonds you
mentioned?" asked the detective.

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

"None too much, considering what I have stood from her capricious temper
and eccentric ways," returned the girl.

"Your own temper is none too even," said Pauline, quietly; "I'd rather
you wouldn't speak ill of my aunt, if you please."

What might have been a passage at arms was averted by the appearance of a
footman with a cablegram.

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

  Awful news just received. Shall I come home or will you come here? Let
  Haviland attend all business. Love and sympathy.

                                                       Carrington Loria.

"He's in Cairo," commented Haviland, looking at the paper; "that's lucky.
If he had been off up the Nile on one of his excavating tours, we
mightn't have had communication for weeks. Well, he practically retains
me as business manager, at least for the present. And Lord knows there's
a lot to be done!"

"I don't understand, Gray, why you look upon Carr as more in authority
than I am," said Pauline, almost petulantly; "I am an equal heir, and,
too, I am here, and Carr is the other side of the world."

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

"That doesn't make any difference. I think from now on, Gray, it will be
proper for you to consider me the head of the house as far as business
matters are concerned. You can pay Carr his half of the residuary in
whatever form he wants it. I shall keep the place, at least for the
present."

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

"I scarcely think so," replied Pauline. "There's really no use of his
doing so, unless he chooses. And I'm pretty sure he won't choose, as he's
so wrapped up in his work over there, that he'd hate to leave unless
necessary."

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

"I don't know," and Pauline looked thoughtful. "You see what he says;
when he asks if he shall come home, he means do I want him to. If I don't
request it, I'm fairly sure he won't come. Of course, when he learns all
the details, he will be as anxious as we that the murderer should be
found. But if I know Carr, he will far rather pay for the most expensive
detective service than come over himself. And, too, what could he do,
more than we can? We shall, of course, use every effort and every means
to solve the mysteries of the case, and he could advise us no better than
the lawyers already in our counsel."

"That's all true," said Haviland; "and I think Loria means that when he
puts me in charge of it all. But after a week or so we'll get a letter
from him, and he'll tell us what he intends to do."

"I shall cable him," said Pauline, thoughtfully, "not to come over unless
he wants to. Then he can do as he likes. But he needn't come for my
benefit. The property must be divided and all that, but we can settle any
uncertainties by mail or cable. And, I think I shall go on the trip as we
had planned it."

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

"Yes, I don't see why not. I'd like the trip, and it would take my mind
off these horrors. Our passage is booked for a February sailing. If
necessary I will postpone it a few weeks, but I see no reason why I
shouldn't go. Do you?"

"No," said Haviland, slowly.

Hardy seemed about to speak and then thought better of it, and said
nothing.

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

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

"Why shouldn't I, if I choose?" returned Anita, and her pink cheeks
burned rosy. "I am my own mistress, I have my own money. I am as free to
go as you are."

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

"That you may take another," and Anita laughed shortly. "But I may prefer
to go on the one you do. Aren't you rather suddenly anxious to leave this
country?"

Pauline faced her. "Anita Frayne," she said, "if you suspect me of crime,
I would rather you said so definitely, than to fling out these continual
innuendoes. Do you?"

"I couldn't say that Pauline. But there are,--there certainly are some
things to be explained regarding your interview with your aunt on Tuesday
night. You know, I heard you in her room."

"Your speech, Anita, is that of a guilty conscience. As you well know, I
saw you come from her room at the hour you accuse me of being there."

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

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

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

The impending scene was averted by Haviland, who insisted on knowing what
word should be sent to Loria.

"May as well get it off," he said; "it takes long enough to get word back
and forth to him, anyway. What shall I say for you, Polly?"

"Tell him to come over or not, just as he prefers, but that I shall be
quite content if he does not care to come; and that I shall go to Egypt
as soon as I can arrange to do so. Put it into shape yourself,--you know
more about cabling than I do."

Haviland went away to the library, and Hardy followed.

"Look here, Mr. Haviland," said the latter, "what do these ladies mean by
accusing each other of all sorts of things? Did either of them have any
hand in this murder?"

"Not in a thousand years!" declared Gray, emphatically. "The girls never
loved each other, but lately, even before the death of Miss Lucy, they
have been at daggers drawn. I don't know why, I'm sure!"

"But what do you make of this story of Miss Frayne's about hearing Miss
Stuart in her aunt's room?"

"She didn't hear her. I mean she didn't hear Miss Stuart; what she heard
was Miss Carrington talking to herself. The old lady was erratic in lots
of ways."

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

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

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

"Yes; as she was in love with any man she could attach. No, that's not
quite true. Miss Lucy cared only for interesting men, but if she could
corral one of those, she used every effort to snare him."

"Is the illustrious Count interesting?"

"She found him so. And, yes, he always entertained us. She made that
bequest to attract his attention and lure him on. And then----"

"Well, and then?"

"Oh, then he couldn't withstand the temptation and he shuffled her off,
to make sure of the money now."

"You think he killed her, then?"

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

"But the poison?"

"Had it been poison alone, there might be a question. But that stunning
blow has to be remembered. And neither Miss Stuart nor Miss Frayne can be
thought of for a moment in connection with that piece of brutality."

"But the snake? The queer costume?"

"The costume wasn't so queer--for a boudoir garb. The snake _is_
inexplicable,--unless the man has a disordered mind, and used insane
methods to cover his tracks. Then there's the glove, you can't get around
that!"

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

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

"Oh, let up on that professional burglar business! No burglar is going
off without his loot, when he has uninterrupted time enough to kill a
person twice, with poison and then, to hide that, with a fractured skull!
How do you explain, even in theory, those two murderous attacks?"

"Good Lord, man, _I_ don't know! It's all the most inexplicable muddle. I
don't see how any of the things could happen, but they _did_ happen!
You're the detective, not I! Aren't you ever going to discover anything?"

"I may as well own up, Mr. Haviland, I am beyond my depth. There is a
belief among detectives that the more bizarre and amazing the clues are,
the easier the deduction therefrom. But I don't believe that. This case
is bizarre enough, in all conscience, yet what can one deduce from that
paper snake and that squeezed-up glove? It was all up in a little wad,
you know, not at all as if it were carelessly drawn from a man's hand, or
pulled off in a struggle."

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

"I know it. That proves it was no burglar. Well, I'm up a tree. I wish
you felt inclined to call in Fleming Stone. He's the only man on this
continent who could unravel it all."

"I want to get him, but Miss Stuart won't hear of it. I'd have to have
either her authority or Loria's."

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

"Yes, for ordinary business matters. But this is different. I'd have to
have assurance that he'd pay the bills before I engaged Stone. I've heard
he's some expensive."

"I've heard that, too. But, by Jove, I'd like to work with him! Or under
him. I say, I wish you could bring it about."

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

"Do. For as you say, the two ladies cannot possibly be involved, and I,
for one, don't believe that nincompoop Count ever pulled off such a
complicated affair all by himself."

"What about the widow he's visiting?"

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

"I'd like to have it straightened out," said Haviland, thoughtfully. "In
a way, I feel responsible to Loria, since he has put me in charge. And if
he wants me to get Stone, I'll be glad to do so. As you say, it can't
affect the girls,--that stuff Anita made up was only to bother Pauline.
You see, Pauline came back at her with a counter accusation. They're both
unstrung and upset, and they scarcely know what they're saying."

"Then there's that French maid."

"Oh, Estelle. She's a negligible quantity. She's hysterical from sheer
nervousness, and she lies so fast she can hardly keep up with herself."

"Well, think it over, and if you see your way clear to call in Stone,
I'll be mighty glad. If the Frenchman _is_ the guilty party, Stone will
nail him and prove it beyond all doubt. And if not, we surely don't want
an innocent man to swing."

"That we don't," agreed Haviland.




                                   XI
                             FLEMING STONE


"Yes, I have often heard the idea expressed that the more bizarre the
clues appear, the easier the solution of the mystery. And this is
frequently true."

Fleming Stone looked from one to another of the interested group of
listeners. They sat in the library,--Pauline, Anita, Gray Haviland and
the young detective, Hardy.

Haviland had carried out his plan of cabling Carrington Loria for
authority to employ Mr. Stone, and had received a reply to use his own
judgment in all such matters and charge the expense to Loria's account.

Pauline had been opposed to the idea of calling Fleming Stone to the
case, but as she seemed unable to put forth any valid objections,
Haviland had insisted until she gave her consent. So arrangements had
been quickly made, and the great Detective had reached Garden Steps on
Wednesday afternoon, just a week after the discovery of the murder.

Previously unacquainted with Stone, the whole household was interested in
his personality, and this preliminary conversation was by way of
introduction.

A man of nearly fifty, Fleming Stone was tall and well proportioned, with
a carriage and bearing that gave an impression of strength. His clear-cut
face and firm jaw gave the same character indications as are seen in
portraits of Lincoln, but his features were far more harmonious than
those of our rugged-faced president.

Stone's hair, thick and dark, was slightly grayed at the temples, and his
deep-set eyes were now lustrous, and again, shadowed, like the water of a
dark pool. His lean jaw and forceful mouth made his face in repose
somewhat stern, but this effect was often banished by his delightful
smile, which softened his whole countenance and gave him a distinct air
of friendliness.

His manner was full of charm, and even Pauline became fascinated as she
watched him and listened to his talk.

Fully at ease and skilfully directing the conversation, while he seemed
merely sharing it, Stone was studying and classifying the new elements
with which he had to deal. Not yet had he inquired as to the details of
the case in hand, he was discussing detective work in general, much to
the gratification of Tom Hardy, who listened as a pupil at the feet of
Gamaliel.

"Yes," went on Stone, settling back sociably in his easy chair, while the
others unconsciously fell into more informal postures, "Yes, bizarre
effects do often point the way to a successful quest. Why, once, a man
was found dead, with his feet in a tub of cold water. It was discovered
that his feet had been immersed after death had taken place. Obviously
the tub of water had been used as a blind, to fog up the case. But the
very character of the clue led at once to a man who was known as a 'cold
water fiend,' and a fiend indeed he was. He was the murderer. You see, he
was clever, but not clever enough. He had wit enough to think of the
queer circumstance of the tub of water, but not enough to realize that
the clue would lead directly to his own undoing."

Everybody looked thoughtful, but it was Hardy who spoke; "Yes, Mr.
Stone," he said, "but that clue was put there on purpose. Do you think
these strange effects connected with Miss Carrington's murder were
deliberately arranged?"

"That I can't tell now, Mr. Hardy. In fact, I have not heard a connected
and circumstantial account of the discoveries, as yet. Suppose we go over
the case, leisurely, and let me get a complete account by means of a
general conversation. I will ask questions, or you may volunteer
information, as seems most enlightening. Tell me first of the character
and characteristics of Miss Carrington. Was she timid, or fearful of
burglars?"

"Not at all," said Haviland. "She was careful to have the house locked up
at night by the servants, but she had no burglar alarms or anything of
that sort."

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

"No, I don't think so," volunteered Anita. "She would more likely demand
to know what he wanted and order him out."

"Yet the black-jack clearly indicates a burglar," went on Stone; "I can't
imagine an ordinary citizen, of any calling, owning or using such a
weapon."

"Have you examined the thing?" asked Haviland.

"No; I should like to see it."

Tom Hardy at once produced it, having brought it with him from Police
Headquarters for the purpose.

"H'm," said Fleming Stone, as he fingered the not very alarming-looking
affair. In fact, it was merely a long, narrow bag, made of dark cloth and
filled with shot. The bag was tied tightly at one end with a bit of twine
to prevent the escape of the contents.

"Home-made affair," Stone went on. "Made probably by a professional
burglar, but an amateur murderer. See, it is merely a bit of heavy cloth,
out from an old coat sleeve or trouser leg, sewed up in a bungling manner
to make a bag. It is stitched with coarse black thread and the stitches
are drawn hard and firm, evidently pulled through by a strong hand. Then,
filled with shot, it is tied with a bit of old fish-line, which also is
pulled and knotted by muscular fingers. And----" Stone paused abruptly.

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

"Nothing much," and Stone smiled; "only I should say the burglar lived in
a house recently remodeled."

Hardy nodded in satisfaction. This was the sort of deduction he was
looking for. Next he hoped for the color of the man's hair, and the sort
of cigar he smoked. But he was doomed to disappointment.

"We seem to have drifted from the subject of Miss Carrington," Stone
said. "The evening before her death was she in her usual spirits?
Evidently no premonition of her fate?"

"On the contrary," said Gray, "she remarked during the evening that
something would happen to her that night which would surprise and astound
us all. She said distinctly that 'to-morrow everything would be
different.'"

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

"We couldn't understand it at all. It was most mysterious. Nor do we yet
know what she meant. For surely she had no thought of dying. She spent
the evening playing cards and listening to music, and conversation with
the family and guests, quite as usual."

"In amiable mood?" asked Stone.

"No," replied Pauline, taking up the talk; "on the contrary she was
exceedingly irritable and ill-tempered."

"You saw her after she went to her room for the night?" and Stone turned
his whole attention to Pauline.

"Yes; Miss Frayne and I always went to her room with her, to say
good-night and to receive possible orders or suggestions for the next
day's occupations."

"And you say she was unamiable?"

"That is a mild word," and Pauline smiled a little. "She was in a high
temper, and she told us both that we were to leave this house the next
day."

"You both left her in that mood?"

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

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

Pauline hesitated for a perceptible instant, then she said, with a slight
air of bravado, "next morning."

"I have been told the main facts," went on Stone, "but I want to learn
certain details. Please tell me, Miss Stuart, exactly how she then
appeared."

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

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

This seemed to rouse Pauline, and she looked up haughtily at the speaker.
"I don't wonder _you_ think so!" she cried. "But since you ask, Mr.
Stone, I will do the best I can. My aunt was seated at her
dressing-table, but not in her usual chair,--or indeed, as if she were in
any way attending to her toilette,--but in an easy chair, more as if she
were sitting there in contemplation."

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

"Not at all. My aunt was not a beautiful woman, and she had no illusions
about her personal appearance. I have never known her to look at herself
in a mirror more than was necessary for her dressing. Her maid will tell
you this."

"Go on, please, Miss Stuart."

"When I saw my aunt, she was sitting placidly, even smilingly,--and I did
not, for a moment, imagine she was not alive. Then I noticed her large
tortoise-shell comb was broken to bits, and I noticed, too, her rigid,
staring face. The next few moments are a confused memory to me, but I
know I touched her hand and felt it cold, then I called to Mr. Haviland
and he came."

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

"Only in the accessories. The gown she had on was a negligée of Oriental
make and fabric, elaborate, but one of which she was fond and which she
had worn several times. Round her shoulders was a scarf, one of those
heavy Syrian ones, of net patterned with silver. Then, she had on
quantities of jewelry. Not only her pearls, and a few pins, which she had
worn during the evening, but she had added many brooches and bracelets
and rings of great value."

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

"Far more than that. Her pearls alone are worth that amount. Her diamond
sunburst is valued at fifty thousand dollars and her emerald brooch is
equally valuable. My aunt believed in gems as an investment, and though
she usually kept them in a safe deposit vault, she had recently taken
them from there, and had them all in the house."

"A strange proceeding?"

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

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

"That is the strangest part of all! My aunt was not only afraid of live
snakes, but she had also a perfect horror of any picture or artificial
representation of them. She could never, in her right mind, have placed
that paper snake about her own neck, nor would she have allowed any one
else to do it, without screaming out in horror. Yet, the doctors declare
it must have been placed round her neck before death. Therefore, it is to
me entirely unexplainable."

"Is not that a bizarre clue that should make the case an easy one?" asked
Anita, with an inquiring glance at Stone.

"It may be so," he replied, with a thoughtful look at her. "Where could
such a snake have come from?"

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

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

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

"Could you, by inquiry, find out if Miss Carrington purchased it herself
at any of those places?"

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

"It would simplify matters somewhat if you would kindly find out," and
Stone nodded at her, as if to stamp this suggestion a definite request.

The conversation went on, and no one noticed that so deftly did Fleming
Stone guide it that only facts were brought out. No sooner did any one
begin to formulate an opinion or theory than he skilfully turned the
subject or changed the drift of the discussion.

He gathered from facial expressions and manners much that he wanted to
know, he learned the attitudes of the various members of the household
toward each other, and he came to the conclusion that as Gray Haviland
had engaged him, and as he stood as business head of the estate by
authority of Carrington Loria, to Haviland should his reports be made.

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

"He and I are children of Miss Carrington's two sisters," said Pauline.
"Our parents all died when we were young children and Aunt Lucy brought
us both up. Carr, as we call him, lived with us, except for his college
terms, until four years ago. Then he had an opportunity to go to Egypt
and engage in excavation and ancient research work. He is absorbed in it,
and has been home only twice in the four years. It was planned that my
aunt and I should go to Egypt next month on a pleasure trip, and both he
and we looked forward eagerly to it. Miss Frayne was to accompany us, and
Mr. Haviland also."

"Is it your intention to abandon the trip?"

"Speaking for myself, Mr. Stone, no," and Pauline looked determined. "I
cannot answer for the others, but it seems to me that such a visit to my
cousin would be not only right and proper for me, but the only way for me
to find relief and distraction from these dreadful scenes."

"You won't go, I assume," said Stone, gently, "until the murderer of your
aunt is apprehended with certainty?"

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

"Rather not!" declared Anita, with an unpleasant glance, and Fleming
Stone made haste to introduce a new phase of the subject.




                                  XII
                            ESTELLE'S STORY


At the invitation of Haviland, Fleming Stone was a house guest at Garden
Steps. Pauline had raised objections to this, but with Carr Loria's
authority back of him, Gray had insisted, and Pauline unwillingly
consented.

Stone himself recognized the fact that Pauline disliked him, or at any
rate disliked having him on the case, but he ignored it and showed to her
the same gracious manner and pleasant attitude that he showed to all.
Anita, on the other hand, seemed charmed with Stone. She lost no
opportunity to talk with him, and she used every endeavor to attract his
attention to herself. In fact, she tried to flirt with him, and much to
the surprise of the others, Stone seemed ready to meet her advances and
respond to them.

The morning after his arrival, breakfast over, Stone announced his
intention of making a thorough examination of Miss Carrington's rooms,
and asked that he be permitted to go alone for the purpose.

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

Stone passed through the boudoir to the bedroom and from that to the
elaborate dressing-room and bath. Quickly he noted the obvious details.
Everything had been left practically untouched, and his rapid, trained
gaze took in the bed, turned down but not slept in; the toilet
accessories laid ready in the bathroom; and the fresh, unused towels,
that proved the unfortunate victim had not prepared to retire, but had,
for some reason, donned her jewels at that unusual hour.

Back to the boudoir Stone went and made there more careful scrutiny.
Carefully he examined the white dust of powder on the floor. At Hardy's
orders, this had not been swept away, and Stone stood, with folded arms,
looking at it. He saw the place where the powder had been smeared
about,--he had been told of this,--but he saw other places where faint
footprints were to his keen eye discernible. Not sufficiently clear to
judge much of their characteristics, but enough to show that a stockinged
foot had imprinted them.

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

"Their tale is a short one but clear," returned Stone, smiling a greeting
to the younger detective. "As you see, they go out of the room only, they
don't come in."

"Proving?"

"That the intruder came in at the door, accomplished his dreadful
purpose, and then, stepped around here in front of his victim,--here
where the powder is spilt, and then went straight out of the room. Why
did he do this?"

"He heard something to frighten him off?"

"He saw something that frightened him. I doubt if he heard anything. But
he dropped his black-jack and fled. Did you bring the photographs of the
scene?"

"Yes, here they are." Hardy handed over a sheaf of the gruesome pictures,
and Stone scanned them eagerly. Yet their gruesomeness lay largely in the
idea that the subject of them was not a living person,--for in appearance
they were by no means unpleasant to look at. The face of Miss Carrington
was serene and smiling, her wide-open eyes, though staring, were filled
with a life-like wonder, not at all an expression of fright or terror.

"You see," volunteered Hardy, "she was sitting here, admiring herself,
and happily smiling, when the villain sneaked up behind her and gave her
that crack over the head."

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

"So the doctors think, but I believe they're mistaken. Why, there's no
theory that would account for hitting a dead person!"

"And yet, that is what happened. No, Hardy, the doctors are not mistaken
about the hour of death, and about the poison in her system and all that.
But the most obvious and most important clue, for the moment, is that
black-jack. Just where was it found?"

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

"No, I think not. Dropped by the burglar, rather, when he was startled by
something unexpected. You see, he doubtless stood here, where the powder
is dusted about, and to drop the thing quickly, it would fall or be flung
just there where it was found."

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

"Something that frightened him so terribly that he fled without taking
the jewels he had come for! Something that made him make quick, straight
tracks for the door and downstairs and out, by the way he had entered."

"Good lord! Say, Mr. Stone, you think it was that make-believe Count,
don't you?"

"Why make-believe?"

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

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

Hardy had brought some of the exhibits held by the police, and, taking
the glove from his bag, he handed it to Fleming Stone.

Stone looked at the glove hastily, but, raising it to his nose, smelled
of it very carefully.

"No," he said, returning it, "no, the Count is not the man who wielded
the black-jack. I'm fairly certain of that."

"Well, I'm blessed if I can see how you know by smelling! By the way, Mr.
Stone, I suppose you heard all about the conversation that Miss Frayne
related as taking place in this room after one o'clock that night?"

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

"Oh, I think it was the Count, talking to Miss Carrington before he
killed her. He has a very low voice, and speaks almost inaudibly always.
Then, you see, he is down in her will for ten thousand dollars of those
bonds, and he's very fond of pearls,----"

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

"Oh, maybe you didn't hear about that. Why, Miss Frayne remembered
afterward, that another sentence she heard Miss Carrington say was, 'I
know how very fond you are of pearls.' She forgot that speech in her
evidence, but found it afterward in the written account she had of what
she overheard at the door. And his Countship is fond of pearls. He talked
a lot about those the lady wore that last evening. He says himself pearls
are a hobby with him."

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

"Surely I do. It's no insult to the lady's memory to say so. She had a
right to receive him in her boudoir if she chose to do so. It's no secret
that she was trying to annex him, and he was not entirely unwilling. You
see,--the way I dope it out,--she had him up here to show off her
stunning jewels, and so tempt him on to a declaration that she couldn't
seem to work him up to otherwise. You know she said, 'To-morrow these may
all be yours, if you will only----' or some words to that effect. What
could all that mean, except as I've indicated? And she said, 'You are the
game I'm after,'--those weren't the words, I know, but it meant that."

"However, I can't think the Count struck that awful blow that fractured
her skull. Villain he may be, even a murderous one, but that black-jack
business, to my mind, points to a lower type of brain, a more
thick-skinned criminal."

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

"Could it be," he went on, "that she was talking to herself? or, say, to
a picture,--a photograph of somebody? I don't see any photographs about."

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

"Funny," said Hardy: "most women have photographs of their family or
relatives all over the place. Not even one of Miss Stuart or of her
nephew, Loria."

"No, nor any of absent friends or school-mates." Stone looked over all
the silver paraphernalia of the dressing-table and other tables for even
a small framed photograph that might have escaped notice, but found none.
On the walls hung only gilt-framed water colors or photographs of famous
bits of art or architecture in dark wood frames. Many of these were of
old world masterpieces, Italian cathedrals or Egyptian temples. Others
were a well-known Madonna, a Venus of Milo, and one at which Hardy
exclaimed, "She's a sure enough peach! Who's she?"

"That's Cleopatra, starting on her Nile trip," said Stone, smiling at
Hardy's evident admiration.

"'Tis, eh? Then Loria brought it to her. He's daffy over anything
Egyptian. And he's mighty generous. The house is full of the stuff he
brings or sends over; and it's his money, Mr. Stone, that pays your
damages. Miss Stuart, now, she's none too free-handed, they say."

But Fleming Stone paid little heed to this gossip. He was studying the
photographs of the dead lady as being of far more interest than pictures
on the boudoir walls.

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

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

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

"Yes, I suppose so. It's right near here. A small private affair, only a
few patients. They needn't really have sent her, but she carried on so,
Miss Stuart wouldn't have her about any longer."

"Come, let us go there." As he spoke, Fleming Stone left the room, and
without waiting for the hurrying Hardy, ran downstairs, and was in the
hall, getting into his great coat when the other joined him.

So great was Hardy's faith in his superior, and so anxious was he to
watch his methods, that he donned his own overcoat without a word, and
the two set forth.

It was only a short walk, and on the way, Stone looked about in every
direction, asking innumerable questions about the neighboring houses and
their occupants.

After passing several large and handsome estates, they came to a district
of less elaborate homes, and after that to a section of decidedly poorer
residences. At one of these, Stone stared hard, but not till they were
well past it, did he inquire who lived there.

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

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

At the sanatorium they found Estelle. She was not hysterical now, but was
in a sort of apathetic mood, and listless of manner.

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

"It will be much better for you, Estelle," he said, pleasantly, "if you
will speak the truth. Better for you, and better for----you know whom."

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

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

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

"But some one with----" Stone leaned forward, and in the tense pause that
followed, Estelle's lips half formed a silent 'B'.

"Yes," went on Stone, as if he had not paused. "If you will tell the
whole truth, it will be better for Bates in the long run."

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

"I know a great deal," said Stone, gravely, "and, unless assisted by what
you know, my knowledge will bring trouble to your friend."

"What do you want me to tell you?" and Estelle, now on her guard, spoke
slowly and clearly, but her fingers were nervously twining themselves in
and out of her crumpled handkerchief.

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

"How do you know it was Bates?"

"We have learned much since you left Garden Steps," and now Stone spoke a
little more sternly. Hardy looked at him in wonder. Who was this Bates,
clearly implicated in the murder, and known to Estelle?

"You see, Mr. Haviland saw you go down to open the window for him to come
in," Stone went on, as casually as if he were retailing innocent gossip.
"Did you go down again and close it?"

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

"No, but you will do so when you realize how necessary it is. I tell you
truly, when I say that only your honesty now can save your friend Bates
from the electric chair."

Estelle shuddered and began to cry violently.

"That only makes matters worse," said Stone patiently. "Listen to me.
This is your only chance to save Bates' life. If I go to the police with
what I know, they will convict him of the murder beyond all doubt. If you
tell me what I ask,--I think, I hope, between us, we can prove that he
did not do it."

"But didn't he?" and Estelle looked up with hope dawning in her eyes.

"_I_ think not. Now there's no time to waste. Tell me what I ask or you
will lose your chance to do so. You opened the living-room window for
Bates to come in, at about three o'clock?"

"Yes," admitted the girl.

"And went down and closed and fastened it at----"

"Five o'clock," came in lowest tones.

"Not knowing that Miss Carrington was dead?"

"Oh, _No_!"

"For Bates went there only to steal the jewels?"

"Yes."

"And so, when you took the breakfast tray, and found the lady--as you did
find her--you were frightened out of your wits, and dropped the tray?"

"Yes."

"And so, to shield Bates, who you thought had killed her, you lied right
and left, even trying to incriminate Miss Stuart?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you seen Bates since?"

"No, sir."

"And until now you have thought he killed your mistress?"

"I didn't know."

"Another thing, Estelle; you put bromide in the glass of milk in order
that Miss Carrington might sleep soundly, and not hear Bates come in?"

"She didn't drink that milk!"

"But you fixed it, thinking she would?"

"Yes."

"That's all. Come on, Hardy." and somewhat unceremoniously, Stone took
leave, and made for the nearest telephone station.

After that, matters whizzed. Stone had called the Police Headquarters and
asked that an officer be sent with a warrant for the arrest of Bates.

"How do you know where he is?" asked Hardy, nearly bursting with
curiosity.

"I'm not sure, but at least I know where to start looking for him," Stone
replied, as the two went back the way they had come.

Stone stopped at the boarding-house he had noticed on the way to the
sanatorium, and rang the bell.

Sure enough, Bates lived there and Bates was at home.

At Stone's first questions he broke down and confessed to the assault
with the black-jack.

"But I didn't kill her!" he cried, "she was already dead! Oh, my God! can
I ever forget those terrible, staring eyes! The saints forgive me! I was
half crazy. There she was, dead, and yet smiling and happy looking! Oh,
sir, what does it all mean?"




                                  XIII
                           BATES, THE BURGLAR


Brought before the magistrate, Bates told a coherent though amazing
story.

It seems he was Estelle's lover, and had long ago persuaded her to let
him know when Miss Carrington had a quantity of jewelry in the house,
that he might essay a robbery. The plan was simple. Estelle had promised
to slip downstairs at three o'clock and raise a window for his entrance,
and later, but before any one else was about, she was to slip down and
lock it again. In the meantime, they assumed, the burglary would be
quietly accomplished, their supposition being that Miss Carrington would
be asleep in her bedroom, and the boudoir easy of access.

"You entered by the window, then, at what time?" asked Stone, who was
doing most of the questioning.

"At quarter of four in the morning," replied Bates, and all noted that
this was shortly before the hour when Mrs. Frothingham saw through her
field-glass a man leaving by the same window.

"You went directly up the stairs?"

"Yes; Estelle had often told me the lay of the rooms, and I went straight
to the lady's boodore."

"You carried with you a 'black-jack.' Did you have murder in your heart?"

"That I did not! I took that, thinkin' if the lady woke up and screamed,
I'd just give her a tap that would put her to sleep without hurtin' her
at all, at all. I'm no murderer, Sir, and I'm confessin' my attempt at
burglary, and--and assault, so I won't be accused of a greater crime."

"That's right, Bates, it'll be better for you to be perfectly truthful.
Now, what did you see when you entered the room?"

"I had stepped inside and shut the door before I saw anything, and then,
I turned to see the lady's face, but in the mirror. I was behind her, and
in the glass I saw her smilin' face, and of course, I thought she was
alive, and that she saw me. I knew she'd scream in a minute, and the
sight of all the jewels gleamin' on her neck drove me fair crazy with
greed, I suppose, and I up with my sandbag, and hit her head, not meanin'
to hit hard enough to kill her, but only to knock her unconscious-like."

"And then?"

"The blow smashed the big comb she was wearin' but she didn't move nor
fall over. She was leanin' back in her big chair, and she jest sat there,
and kept on smilin'. My knees shook like the ague, for I thought it was
magic, or that my eyes was deceivin' me. There was no sound anywhere, and
I stood starin' at that smilin' face and she starin' back at me! I nearly
screamed out myself! But I bucked up, and thinkin' that she was struck
unconscious so quick, her face didn't change, I made to take off some of
the jewels I was after. I touched her neck and it was cold! The lady was
dead! Had been dead some time, I was sure, 'cause she was so cold and
stiff. I trembled all over, but my only thought then was to get out. Not
for a million dollars would I touch them sparklers! There ain't often a
burglar who is ghoul enough to rob a corpse! Leastways, _I'm_ not. I
wouldn't. I wouldn't! I'm a tough and a bad egg generally, but I wouldn't
steal from no corpse! Not I!"

"So you left the house at once?"

"That I did, as fast as my tremblin' legs could get me downstairs. I was
clean daft. I couldn't make it out and I didn't try. I thought it was the
Devil's own work, somehow, but how, I didn't know. My mind was full,
makin' my escape. I ran like the old boy was after me, and reachin' home,
I hid under me bedclothes and groaned all night. Full a week went by, and
I begun to breathe easy, thinkin' I'd never be suspected of a hand in it,
when up comes this gentleman, and says I done it. Well, I've told the
truth now, and I'm relieved to get it off my chest."

Bates heaved a deep sigh, as of a man eased of a great burden. His whole
story bore the stamp of truth, and his manner of telling was
straightforward and earnest. Nor was there reason for doubt. Though a
startling tale, it entirely explained many of the strange conditions that
had seemed so bewildering. It would never have occurred to Bates nor to
any one to make up such a yarn, and what else could have deterred him
from the contemplated robbery but the superstition that makes even the
most hardened criminals refuse to steal from a dead person? Therefore,
the narrative was accepted as probably true, and Bates was taken to the
Tombs to await further proceedings against him.

"You're a wonder!" said Gray Haviland, as, that same afternoon, he
discussed the matter with Fleming Stone. "Would you mind telling me how
you went straight to the criminal and walked him off to jail?"

"That was practically a bit of luck," and Stone smiled. "It was the
black-jack that gave me the clue. If the fellow hadn't dropped that in
his fright, we might never have traced him. Though we would perhaps have
found him eventually, through the maid, Estelle. She is not good at
keeping things secret. However, he did drop the weapon, and it led
straight to him."

"But how?"

"Well, the thing smelled strongly of creosote. Now, it was made from a
bit of old cloth that looked like a piece of some discarded garment,--a
man's coat, say. If the odor had been camphor or moth balls, I should
have assumed a garment laid away in storage, but creosote is not used for
that purpose. So I deduced a house recently remodeled by use of a certain
kind of shingles. I know that the odor of those shingles clings to
everything in the house for months. It is almost ineradicable. So I
looked about for a house lately reshingled."

"Why not a new house?" asked Hardy, who was present.

"A point well taken," said Stone, nodding approval, "but in a new house
the odor often is dispelled before the people move in. In a remodeled
house, the furnishings stay there during the work and so are deeply
impregnated with that unmistakable smell of creosote. At any rate, I
worked on that, and when I found that a newly shingled old house was a
boarding-house of the type Bates would be likely to live in, I went there
to see, and found him."

"Yes, but how did you know there was such a person as Bates? Where did
you get his name?"

"From your cook," returned Stone, simply. "I concluded there was no doubt
that Estelle had let the man in and relocked the window afterward. So I
deduced a friend of the girl's so dear to her that she would do this for
him. I asked the cook, Mrs. Haskins, as to Estelle's admirers and learned
that there were two, Bates and Higgins. Mrs. Haskins couldn't say which
one Estelle more favored, so I decided to try both. Bates--the cook told
me--lived in a boarding-house near here, and Higgins over in New York. So
when I asked Estelle a few leading questions I pretended to greater
knowledge than I really had. I spoke of a name beginning with either B,
H, or S. She fell into the trap and said quickly that she knew no one
initialed S. Then I said, 'but beginning with----' and waited; she said
no name, but involuntarily her lips form a silent 'B,' and I knew she had
Bates in mind. The rest was easy. Bates, the boarding-house and the
shingles formed a combination too indicative to be merely coincidence.
And so we found him. And I, for one, believe his story. I know the strong
superstition that imbues those people concerning a corpse, and the
unexpected discovery that he had attacked one was enough to make that man
beside himself. Indeed, it's a wonder that he didn't himself make an
outcry in his terror and fright."

"I have heard of your prowess in these matters," said Haviland, "but I
didn't look for such quick work as this. Why, you hadn't even interviewed
Estelle when you came to your conclusions about Bates."

"No, but remember, I have seen a full account of all the evidence, not
only at the inquest, but all that has been gathered by the police and by
Mr. Hardy here. Last night I read all this carefully, and it was
enlightening on these points that led up to to-day's work. But, now, I
don't mind telling you, Mr. Haviland, that a much more difficult and
complicated problem faces us, to discover who gave to Miss Carrington the
poison that killed her."

"Have you any suspicions?" and Gray looked the Detective straight in the
eyes.

"I have not, as yet," and Fleming Stone returned the steady gaze. "Have
you?"

Gray Haviland hesitated. Then he said: "I would rather not answer that
question, Mr. Stone. If I should have suspicions, and they should be
unjust or ill-founded, is it not better to leave them unmentioned, even
to you? You are here to discover the criminal. I can not think my
suspicions, if I have any, could help you, but they might easily hinder
you by wrong suggestion."

"Very well, Mr. Haviland, just as you please. But I assume you will tell
me frankly anything you may know or learn in the way of direct evidence
bearing on the matter?"

"That, certainly." But though Haviland's words were a definite promise,
his tone and manner seemed hesitant, and a trifle vague.

"Am I to have the privilege of working with you, Mr. Stone?" inquired
Hardy, his heart beating tumultuously lest he receive a negative answer.

"If you care to. And if you are willing to work in my way. I am somewhat
impatient of interference or questioning. But, if you want to assist in
investigating, under my absolute orders, I shall be glad to have you do
so."

Nothing was further from Hardy's mind than to interfere or to show any
undue curiosity concerning the work or methods of the great Detective. He
was more than content to watch silently, to run errands, and to make
himself useful in any way desired by his superior. He said this, and
Stone nodded indulgently.

"I shall begin with this matter of the arrest of Count Charlier," said
Stone, as he looked over his note-book. "Either that man is the guilty
party or he is not. If not, he must be released. If so, it must be
proven. What do you know of his history, Mr. Haviland?"

"Very little, Mr. Stone. In the first place, I doubt his right to the
title he assumes."

"You do? And why?"

Haviland looked a little embarrassed. "I'm not sure I know why. But he
doesn't act like a real Count."

"Yes? And how do real Counts act, I mean in ways that differ from this
man's habits?"

"You're having fun with me, Mr. Stone," and Gray blushed like a
school-boy. "But I mean it. It's this way. I'm not a Count, but if I
wanted to pretend I was, I'd act just as Count Charlier does. There!"

"Good! That's definite, at least. Now make it a little more so by
describing some of these actions."

"Well," and Haviland's brow wrinkled, "well, to begin with, his manners
are too slick and polished."

"A traditional trait of Frenchmen."

"Yes, if real. But his seem artificially, purposely,--oh, _fakely_
polished! Have you seen him, Mr. Stone?"

"No, not yet."

"When you do, you'll see what I mean. He has shifty eyes, and he rubs his
hands together, and if he's standing, he half bows with every sentence he
utters, and he smirks instead of smiling, and his whole attitude is a
fifty-fifty of apology and bumptiousness."

"Bravo! You've given a graphic picture of him at all events. I'll reserve
further consideration of his personality until I have seen him."

"You believe implicitly all that story of Bates, do you, Mr. Stone?" and
Haviland looked dubiously at the Detective.

"Yes, I do, at present. If anything turns up to disprove any part of it I
may have to revise my ideas. But just now, it seems to me that Bates told
the simple truth. To be sure, he only told it because he feared an
accusation of murder, and he knew that to confess to the lesser crime
would go far to help him deny the greater."

"You may be right. But might there not be collusion between Friend Count
and Bates?"

"Collusion?"

"Just that," and Gray shook his head doggedly. "I've a vague idea that
Frenchy is mixed up in this thing somehow. Now, he couldn't possibly have
administered the poison, himself, personally, nor could he have struck
the blow personally, but couldn't he have hired the man Bates to do it
for him?"

"On the face of things, Mr. Haviland, does that look plausible? Is the
Count, as you describe him, a man who would engage a burglar of the Bates
type to commit a brutal crime? Again, if Bates were merely the Count's
tool, would he not, when caught, pass the blame on to his employer?"

"He sure would! You are right, Mr. Stone, those two never hooked up
together! It's out of the question. But as Estelle and Bates are in
cahoots, why didn't she give Miss Carrington the poison, herself?"

"Well, she did fix the bromide, hoping to make her mistress sleep
soundly. But the lady never took it. Now, if the maid had given or
expected to give the poison, why the bromide at all?"

"But, look here," broke in Hardy, "mightn't it be that Estelle did do the
poisoning and arranged the bromide as a blind, to put us off the track,
exactly as it has done?"

"There's small use speculating about that poison," said Stone
thoughtfully, "we must go at that systematically. We must find out where
it was bought and by whom. People can't go round buying deadly poison
without a record being made of the sale. We must inquire of druggists,
until we find out these facts."

"There's no druggist about here who would sell aconitine," said Hardy,
"it doubtless was bought in New York."

"That, of course, adds to the difficulty of tracing the sale, but it must
be done. Mr. Hardy, I will ask you to do all you can to find out about
that."

"You want to look up a French apothecary," advised Haviland. "That Count
is at the bottom of this, as sure as shootin', and he's full clever
enough to hide his tracks mighty closely. Why, that man is a
fortune-hunter and an adventurer, and he wanted that ten thousand
dollars, and he poisoned Miss Lucy to get it! That's what he did! And he
was on deck that night, after the jewels, that's where he was! It was he
in that room talking, it was he who left his glove there,--of course, he
didn't know it,--and now you've got him under lock and key, I hope you'll
keep him there, and not let this Bates discovery get him the slip. If the
two were not working together, then, surely they are incriminated
separately, and you want to look into the case of little old Mr. Count!"

"You may be right, Mr. Haviland," and Fleming Stone smiled at him, "but I
think you are assuming a lot because of your prejudice against the
Frenchman. Was he very attentive to Miss Carrington? Had he proposed
marriage to her?"

"That we don't know. Of course, we had all been afraid he would----"

"Why afraid?"

"Oh, we didn't want my cousin to marry an adventurer. Of course, he only
wanted her fortune, and as her business manager, I had a right to
interfere, or at least, to look after her interests enough to prevent
that."

"But was she not a capable woman, who could be supposed to know her own
mind?"

"Ordinarily, yes. But, there's no use mincing matters. Miss Carrington
greatly desired to marry. However, she paid no attention to men whom she
did not consider interesting. There were several such, and she sent them
packing. The Count, though, she took to at once, partly because of his
title and partly because,--well, he has a way with him. He flattered her,
and she took the bait like a hungry fish!"




                                  XIV
                          WHO GAVE THE POISON?


Though Fleming Stone's acumen and quick perception had led to a swift
apprehension of Bates, his next steps were not taken so rapidly. He spent
much time in the boudoir of Miss Carrington, as if striving to make the
walls tell what their traditional ears had heard.

The upset breakfast tray had been removed, but nothing else disturbed.
Estelle had owned up, after Bates' arrest, that she did drop the tray, in
her fright at the sight of the dead lady, and that she afterward denied
it lest she be suspected of wrong-doing.

The plate that had contained sandwiches was still on the bedside table,
but the glass of milk, with bromide in, had been carried away.

Stone looked at the empty plate, and wondered. Had the poison been placed
in the sandwiches? By Estelle? By anybody else? Who had had opportunity?
Estelle had brought the sandwiches and milk to the bedroom, according to
her usual custom, when she prepared the bed for the night. A tiny
serviette had been over the sandwiches, and was still there beside the
plate. Stone looked at it. A mere wisp of fine linen, with a monogrammed
corner. The few wrinkles in it showed clearly to Stone's sharp eyes the
dainty touch of fingers that had held the caviare sandwich. It
undoubtedly denoted that Miss Carrington had eaten the sandwich. Had any
one merely removed it, the napkin would have been uncreased. He had been
told that she rarely ate this night luncheon, though it was always placed
for her. Why had she partaken of it on that particular night? Had some
one advised her to? Or urged it? Had the Count really visited her in the
boudoir, and having previously arranged the poisoned sandwich, made sure
that it would perform its deadly mission? Could he have entered the room
unknown to the rest of the household?

Stone went to the window. Yes, that matter was easy enough. A balcony
outside the long French window was connected with the lower verandah by a
spiral staircase. Any one could run up 

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