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Title:      Death of a Celebrity
Author:     Hulbert Footner
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Edition:    1
Language:   English
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Date first posted:          October 2003
Date most recently updated: October 2003

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A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Title:      Death of a Celebrity
Author:     Hulbert Footner




HULBERT FOOTNER, whose inside knowledge of the underworld of New York
and Chicago makes his crime stories ring so true, has had an amazingly
adventurous career. He was obliged to leave school at fourteen to earn
his own living as an office boy and clerk--such a bare living that when
he wanted new shoes, he had to sell his stamp collection. But from his
room he could see the stage door of the old Grand Opera House, and
becoming stage struck, he wrote a play which was actually accepted,
while he was given a small part himself. But he was, the critics
insisted, a rotten actor, so there was nothing for it but a return to
the hated commercial life.

A year or two later the next break came when a friend in Calgary,
Alberta, representing Footner as a star reporter from the New York
Herald, got him a job on the Morning Albertan. Footner played up well
and spent a year expanding two-line telegram dispatches (all the paper
could afford) into front-page stories.

Then, adventure calling, he embarked on a twelve-hundred mile trip,
alone, into the almost unknown Northern Regions of the province.
Returning to New York, he obtained a well-paid job in a mysterious
investment house which proved to be crooked. After a brief period of
penury some stories were accepted by the Century Magazine, and so
Footner's career as an author began. He now lives in Maryland in
Chailesgift, one of the oldest houses in America, built in 1650.




DEATH OF A CELEBRITY



Miss GAIL GARRETT, accompanied by her elderly maid, Catherine, was on
her way to dinner at Gavin Dordress'. She was appearing in Robert
Greenfield's play. White Orchids, at the time, and the party had been
arranged for Sunday night to suit her convenience. She had not the
expression of one who is looking forward to a good time. In the
seclusion of the car her beautiful face was tense and stormy. When the
cab stopped, she saw several men with square boxes hanging around the
apartment house door, and she hesitated before getting out. "Press
photographers? Who do you suppose tipped them off? Gavin wouldn't."

"They always seem to know where you're going to be, Miss," said
Catherine.

It was a small apartment house, one tenant to a floor, and there was
nobody to open the door of the car. "I don't see why Gavin lives in such
a dump," grumbled Miss Garrett. "He doesn't have to. Get out first and
keep my skirt off the running-board."

Catherine obeyed. Miss Garrett settled the collar of her ermine coat
more becomingly around her neck, and assumed the famous smile. When she
had descended, Catherine closed the door of the car, and hung behind so
that she would not spoil the pictures. All the photographers tried to
crowd in front of the star simultaneously. "Walk slowly," said one.
"Give us a chance." Another was crying: "Look at me, Miss Garrett. Look
at me!"

She smiled, the bulbs flashed; they made way for her, and she entered
the building. As the sober Catherine followed, one of the young men
winked at her broadly. "Hi, Toots!" he said softly.

Catherine glared at him, and all the young men laughed.

The entrance door led directly into a small, square foyer with a single
elevator. The operator was a sharp-featured young white man with an
insinuating smile. As soon as he had closed the elevator door, he turned
around, saying: "Good-evening, Miss Garrett. Hope it's not a liberty,
but I seen you in your play on Thursday night. It was swell!"

Gail smiled automatically. "Thank you." He went on: "If you would give
me your autograph, Miss Garrett, I would value it above anything I own."
From his pocket he produced a fountain pen and a little pad. "I can't
write with my gloves on."

"Sure you can! Plenty good enough."

"Didn't I give you my autograph before?"

"No, Miss," he said with an open-eyed candour that was a little
overdone. "Must have been one of the other boys."

"Watch your car!" said Catherine nervously.

"That's all right. She stops automatic at the top."

At that moment the car did stop. As the operator still stood offering
her the pen and the pad, Gail took them and scribbled her name as the
quickest way of getting rid of him. "He had a nerve!" muttered Catherine
when the elevator door closed.

"I am the servant of the public," murmured Gail plaintively.

The door of the apartment was opened, not by Gavin's Hillman, but a man
engaged for the evening.

From the foyer double glass doors led into a sunroom which was filled
with growing plants and had a little fountain playing in the middle. It
was the penthouse which had attracted Gavin to the otherwise
undistinguished apartment house on Madison Avenue. He had leased it
while the building was still going up, and had designed the big sunroom
after his own ideas. One side of it, filled with glass, made an immense
how jutting into the roof-garden. Gavin was in the sunroom now, mixing a
cocktail at a portable bar. Gail waved her hand to him and turned aside
in the corridor leading to the bedrooms. "You needn't trouble to show
me," she said to the servant. "I know the way."

In the guest-room Catherine took her mistress' cape, and handed her what
she required from the little dressing-case the maid carried. Gail
studied herself in the mirror with the anxiety of a beauty of
forty-three. Her figure was still willowy, but after forty, blonde hair,
no matter what you do to it, is apt to betray. She was wearing a
virginal dress of white chiffon with puffs at the shoulders and a skirt
shirred in tiers. The tense look in her eyes displeased her.
"Eye-drops," she said, and Catherine got out the bottle and the dropper.

"How do I look?" asked Gail when this operation was finished.

"Lovely, Miss," said Catherine. "White suits you so well!"

"That's what you always say," grumbled Gail, "whether I am wearing black
or red or green."

Catherine primmed her lips a little. It was as if she had said: "Then
why ask?"

"You may go now," said Gail. "Tell Martin I shan't want him again
to-night. I'll taxi home."

"Is it safe?" murmured Catherine.

"If not, somebody will bring me."

When she entered the sunroom Gavin came to meet her. He was frankly
forty-five and handsomer than he had ever been, the lines in his face
were lines of distinction. "Lovely!" he murmured, picking up her hand
and conveying it to his lips.

Gait's smile became tight. "Only my hand?" she said.

"The servant is still in sight."

She looked over her shoulder. "He's gone now."

He pressed her lips lightly with his own.

A flicker of anger crossed Gail's face. "It wasn't always like that,"
she said.

"I didn't want to rumple you, my dear."

"Ah, don't make pretences! I can see through you perfectly!"

"Cigarette?" he said, offering the box.

"No!" She immediately changed her mind, and helped herself. She turned
away, and glancing in a mirror, tried to smooth her face out. "You can't
make me quarrel with you," she said.

"I'm not trying to." He was smiling broadly and that angered her afresh.

She struggled with it. "How about the new play? Is it finished?"

"All but," he said. "In another week."

"Tell me about it."

"My dear," he protested, "you know I never talk about my work. Wasn't it
Stevenson who said you must never show unfinished work to anybody?"

"That's not what Stevenson said. He said never show unfinished work to
women or fools."

"Well, I never show it to anybody."

"So you say. Mack Townley has announced that he is going to produce the
play in January."

"That's the usual press stuff. Mack knows no more about the play than
its title: The Changeling."

"Do you mean to say he is willing to produce it sight unseen?"

"Well, after we have been working together for eighteen years that's not
very strange. . . . Cocktail?"

"No, thank you."

"I have got to the age where I need it."

"This talk of your growing old is all nonsense," said Gail angrily. "It
doesn't fool me."

"You're wrong," said Gavin, holding his glass up to the light. "It's the
cause of the misunderstanding between us. I am getting old."

She bit her lip. "Well, never mind that . . . Am I to have the leading
part in the new play?"

"Ah, don't let's talk business," said Gavin cajolingly.

"I insist on an answer! That's why I came early. You never give me a
chance to see you alone. I have to make my plans as well as Mack
Townley."

"There is no part in it worthy of you," said Gavin. "It's a man's play."

"There must be a woman in it, or it wouldn't be your play."

"The only important woman's part is that of a young girl."

Gail flung her cigarette violently on the floor. "I thought so! I
thought so!" she cried. "Why don't you say right out that I'm too old to
act in your plays!"

"Gail, for God's sake!" he remonstrated.

She looked more than her age now. The repulsion that she could see in
his eyes made her worse. "So this is what I get for having given you the
best years of my life! For having devoted all my art to making you
famous! You owe your fame to me! To me! Do you hear? Where would you
have been if I had not breathed life into the silly puppets in your
plays?"

Gavin's face hardened. "You are a great actress," he said. "I have never
failed to acknowledge my debt to you. . . . But just now you are making
a show of yourself."

"How dare you!" she gasped. "O God, that I should live to hear a man
speak to me like that! I won't bear it! I won't. . .!"

He seized her wrists to make her listen to him. "There are strange
servants in the flat," he said. "Do you want to read all this in the
gossip columns tomorrow?"

"I don't care! I don't care!" she cried; nevertheless she lowered her
voice. The husky tones were venomous. "I'm not going to take this from
you! I'm not the sort of woman who can be chucked aside like an old hat.
I'll show you up. I'll ruin you! O God! How I hate you! Smug and
sneering as you are . . ."

Gavin put in mildly: "I never sneered at anybody in my life."

"You lie! You're sneering now! I could kill you for the way you've used
me! I could kill you . . .!"

A bell sounded in the distance. Gail caught her breath on a gasp, and
running out, turned towards the guest-room at the end of the corridor.
She passed the manservant on his way to the entrance door. Gavin poured
another cocktail.

Emmett Gundy, the novelist, and his friend, Luella Kip, were on their
way to Gavin Dordress' apartment in a taxicab. Emmett was bundled up in
a blue rumble-seat coat belted around the waist, the only one of that
colour in New York, he claimed. With the collar turned up and his
hat-brim snapped down in front, all that could be seen of him were his
glittering dark eyes, and small, carefully-trained moustache. Louella
was one of the army of free-lance writers who somehow managed to scrape
a living without ever becoming known to the public. A little, faded
woman with a harassed expression, she looked twenty years older than
Emmett, but they were in fact the same age. Emmett looked her over
critically. "That dress has seen better days," he remarked.

"Well, you know the state of my wardrobe," said Louella philosophically.
"It's the best I have. Mr. Dordress is a friendly man. He won't care."

"There will be others present."

"If you are ashamed of my appearance you shouldn't have brought me,"
said Louella, plucking up spirit.

"Gavin invited you. I merely conveyed the invitation."

"Were you hoping I would decline?" she asked quietly.

He did not answer her. "Gavin will be friendly enough if you flatter
him," he said bitterly. "He doesn't care who it comes from."

"He doesn't need flattery," said Louella. "He's at the top of his
profession."

"You would say that. Just to be disagreeable. You mean that he makes
more money than any other playwright of the day. Money isn't everything.
As a matter of fact, Gavin Dordress hasn't a spark of original talent.
What he has is a talent for publicity. He understands the politics of
the theatre. He knows what wires to pull. It is Gail Garrett and Mack
Townley who have made him."

"Everybody else says that it was Gavin Dordress who made them."

"O, I dare say! Nothing succeeds like success. He's got you going like
all the other women. Gavin has made his way step by step through using
women. A male charmer, that's what he is."

"How can you say such a thing?" she murmured.

"But he can't fool me," Emmett went on. "I've known him too long. I've
known him since he was a half-baked frosh in college."

"You were a freshman, too, then."

"Sure; but I made good. I was famous before I graduated from college. My
first book sold forty thousand copies. It was four or five years after
that before Gavin even got a production. His first play was a complete
flop."

"I hate to hear you talk about him like that," murmured Louella. "Your
oldest friend!"

"Sure, he's my friend. So what?"

"It sounds as if you hated him."

"Don't be silly. I see him as he is, that's all. He can't pull any wool
over my eyes." Emmett laughed bitterly. "I've got to hand it to Gavin
for his cleverness. I only wish I could get away with it. It doesn't pay
to be sincere. Tripe is what they want, and tripe is what they pay for!"

This started Louella's thoughts in a new direction.

"What did Middlebrook say about your novel?" she asked.

"He was keen to publish it," said Emmett, "but I told him to go to
hell."

"Why?" she asked blankly.

"Because he suggested certain changes that showed he completely
misunderstood it. I took the script and walked out."

"O, Emmett!"

"Well, do you expect me to prostitute myself to an ignorant fool like
Middlebrook? He's a butcher, not a publisher. He buys and sells novels
by the pound-like the tripe they are!"

"What will you do?" she murmured. "What will we both do?"

"Have you been turned down, too?" he asked sharply. "Your articles for
the Metropolitan?"

"No," she said sadly. "I give them what they want. I have no talent, so
it doesn't matter. But they have reduced my rate. There are so many
younger writers in the field."

"Middlebrook is not the only publisher," growled Emmett.

"But the novel has been turned down so many times!"

"Gavin could help me if he wanted to," said Emmett sorely. "With a
recommendation from him any publisher would bring it out."

"Have you asked him?"

"Sure, he's read the script."

"What did he say?"

"He intimated that he didn't think much of it. O, very delicately, of
course. Suggested that I try something else. Pure professional jealousy.
He is enough of a writing man to recognise real talent when he sees it.
You can hardly blame him. Said that novels were a bit out of his line,
and offered me a hundred to tide me over."

"Another hundred?"

"Well, why not? What's a lousy hundred to Gavin? He makes a hundred
thousand a year."

"But it mounts up so. How will you ever pay him back?"

"That's the least of my troubles."

"Emmett," she said earnestly, "let's start in on your script to-morrow
and go over it chapter by chapter. . . ."

"So you think I can no longer write," he said harshly. "You, too!"

"No, Emmett, no! I believe in you. I shall always believe in you."

"You think you can teach me how to write!"

"No I have no talent. I have never had any illusions about that. But
I've been through a hard school. I know what the public wants. At least
I know what they say the public wants. If we could just fix this novel
up so you could get an advance on it, you could bring it out under
another name if you were ashamed of it."

"That would be artistic suicide."

"But you must live! Gavin Dordress will get tired of lending you money.
It's only human nature."

"Is that a way of saying that you're getting tired of helping me out?"

Louella lowered her head. "Emmett, how can you say such things to me?
After all these years!"

"For God's sake, don't turn on the waterworks," he said irritably, "or
you will look a sight when we get there." He lit a cigarette.

Louella dried her eyes. After a moment or two she returned to the
charge. "You see, if you could somehow wangle an advance on this novel,
it would give you the time to write something really fine; something
they would have to take."

"I have never allowed anybody to tell me what I ought to write," he said
harshly, "and certainly I'm not going to begin now. Please change the
subject."

"If there could only be some understanding between us, these troubles
would be easy to hear," she murmured. "What would we care if .. if .. ."

"O, for God's sake, don't get emotional!" he said. "We're almost there!"

After a silence Louella said very low: "I suppose you look on me as a
drag on you now. If I were strong enough I ought to leave you."

"So you're talking about deserting me now," he-said. "I thought we were
leading up to that."

She put her hand over his-briefly. "Don't be afraid. I'll never leave
you . . unless you wish me to."

The car stopped. "Press photographers?" she said uneasily.

Emmett turned down the collar of his coat. "Gavin Dordress doesn't often
entertain," he said. "Naturally it has news value."

"How did they know about it?"

"Well, I tipped them off if you must know. Won't do me any harm to be
shot as a guest of the great man-. . . You go in first. It's me they
want."

The photographers glanced indifferently at Miss Kip and Mr. Gundy.
Louella disappeared within the apartment house, while Emmett lingered on
the step as if he wanted a last puff or two at his cigarette. "Well,
boys," he said pleasantly. "Always on the job!"

"Are you a friend of Gavin Dordress?" asked one.

"The oldest friend he's got," said Emmett with a careless air. "So
what?"

They focused their cameras, and set off the flashes while Emmett
nonchalantly flipped the ash from his cigarette. "What name?" asked the
young photographer who had first spoken. "Emmett Gundy. Emmett with two
t's, please."

"What's your line, brother?" asked another photographer.

Emmet looked at him coldly. "Novelist," he said. "Where have you been
keeping yourself?"

He went on into the apartment house and the four young men grinned at
each other. The one whom Emmett had rebuked asked: "Is this guy Gundy
such a muchness?"

"Nan," said another. "I seem to remember that he wrote a novel of
college life way back before the war. That was before I was breeched."

"It's always the way with these has-beens."

SIEBERT ACKROYD and Cynthia Dordress were driving up the Avenue from
Washington Square in Siebert's little convertible with the top down. It
was a typical November night, cold, with sparkling stars. Cynthia was
enveloped in a beaver coat, Gavin's gift, and had a chiffon veil around
her trim head to keep her hair in place. When her hair was covered, it
emphasized the clean, pure line of her profile. Siebert was a big young
man with strongly-marked features and a look of resolution that verged
on impatience. Most men, seeing the look in his eye, addressed him
politely. "What a night!" he said. "I wish we could drive right through
until morning, without having to go to that silly party at your Dad's."

"Dad's parties are not silly," said Cynthia.

"By morning we could be in Virginia," murmured Siebert. "You are sweet
enough to eat."

"Long before morning we should be quarrelling." said Cynthia.

"Well, is it my fault that we always seem to get in a quarrel?"

"Is it mine?" countered Cynthia.

"Let's not start anything now," said Siebert quickly. "Let me put the
case to you in a matter-of-fact way without any heat or passion. I am
horribly in love with you. I have gone all out. To be beside you like
this is heaven for me. Does that make you sore?"

"Of course not," she said in a softened voice.

"You have me to make or break," he went on. "You come between me and
everything. Naturally, such a state of suspense is hell on earth. I am
good for nothing."

"That seems a little excessive to me," said Cynthia.

"Excessive!" he exclaimed. "Do you want a half portion of love? Do you
wish that I wasn't completely in love with you?"

"No .. yes ... I don't know," she said. "I suppose it would be better
for you it you weren't."

"Do you love me back again?"

"Well, yes, in a way."

"In a way! ... In a way!" he muttered, pounding a fist on his thigh.
"That's what gets me! How can any warm-blooded person be in love 'm a
way'?"

"Well, it hasn't swamped my intelligence," said Cynthia.

"Meaning that it has mine."

"Now you're beginning to quarrel."

"No! No!" he said quickly. "I am perfectly cool and reasonable. I'm
trying to get to the bottom of this. I'm head over heels in love with
you, and you love me 'm a way'; why don't we get married?"

"I've told you so many times ..."

"Yes, but always with anger and insults. Consequently it wasn't
convincing. Let's talk it over calmly. We could afford to get married.
My agency is only a small affair, but it's solidly founded because I
only accept authors for my clients who have something in them, and I do
so well for them they will never leave me. Year by year it is bound to
pay better. O, God! to think of having a home! To come home to you at
night . . ."

"You forgot that I have my job, too, at the clinic."

"I admit I am jealous of your job," said Siebert "You are not
hard-boiled enough to deal with sick people all day. It takes too much
out of you."

"I have the feeling of being useful," said Cynthia. "There is nothing to
beat it."

"I wouldn't mind if you worked at home. You should write like your
father, and let me be your agent."

"I have no talent for writing."

"Well, I concede the job at the clinic," he said. "We can afford a good
servant. Don't you want a home, too? Wouldn't it be lovely to meet in
our own home after work and be together until we went to work again?"

"Yes," said Cynthia a little faintly; "but . . ."

"Then why don't we do it?" Taking a hand from the wheel he felt for
Cynthia's hand, but she drew it back out of reach.

"This is where we begin to quarrel," she said sadly. "Not to-night,"
said Siebert. "You couldn't make me mad."

"This longing to be together," she murmured, "this love, doesn't last-or
at least it changes very much. All older people, all books tell you
that."

"The heck with them!" said Siebert. "I will never change."

"And when it changes, we've got to have something more solid to go on
with."

"Time will take care of that."

"You are simply refusing to face things. That's what brings couples to
Reno."

"Cyn, for God's sake, if we love each other, why go behind it?"

"You're such a boy!" she murmured.

"Is that where I fall short?"

"Yes. I see through you too clearly. You're no wiser than I am. You
never surprise me."

"Well, I'm damned!" he muttered. And after a silence, grimly: "I could
surprise you all right, if I didn't love you so damned much!"

"I shall never marry," said Cynthia, "unless some man wants me who I
feel is bigger and cleverer than myself, and who has reserves that I
cannot enter into."

"In other words, a Gavin Dordress," he said with extreme bitterness.

"Now you're just being hateful."

"This feeling for your father is ridiculous!"

"It's not ridiculous; it's only unusual. The circumstances are unusual.
It's just a year ago since I saw my father for the first time. My mother
was a foolish, light-headed woman. She was jealous of his popularity and
his fame. Soon after I was born she divorced him, and regretted it as
long as she lived. She kept me away from him, and he made no effort to
see me because, as he has told me since, he thought the most important
thing was not to come between a child and its mother. Her bitterness
against him was pathological, and naturally I absorbed it. I grew up
thinking of him as a kind of monster.

"When I did go to see him after my mother's death, it was not with any
idea of finding a father; I simply meant to use him as a means of
getting on in the world. And then when I saw him and talked to him ...
O, Siebert! I thought I was hiding my hatred and bitterness, but of
course he instantly saw it, though he made believe not to. He was so
funny and human and casual; so honest! Not like a father at all, but
somebody my own age. I felt a sympathy and understanding such as I had
never known in my mother. Yet he didn't make any effort to win me over,
but just let me alone. All my defences went down immediately. I wanted
to grovel before him then. I felt as if it would take the rest of my
life to make up for the way I misjudged him."

"Well, that's all right," said Siebert grudgingly. "Gavin's a right guy.
He's your father. He doesn't conflict with me. I aim to be your
husband." He laughed, not very mirthfully. "A fellow is heavily
handicapped in marrying the daughter of such a superman, but I'll chance
it."

Cynthia did not respond to the laugh. "You don't understand," she said.
"During the past year my father has given me an ideal that I-well, I
couldn't take anything less than my ideal, could I?"

Siebert glanced at her in dismay. "Cynthia!"

"You asked for the plain truth," she cried, "and there it is!"

"Damn Gavin Dordress!" he said savagely.

"I hate you when you talk like that!" said Cynthia, teething. "You are
merely coarse and shallow! You understand nothing!"

"Damn him!" said Siebert. "I hate him!"

Cynthia was near tears then. "You knew him before I came on the scene.
It was at his place that I first met you. You were his friend."

"Sure, I was his friend. I don't mean to say that Gavin is a crook or
anything. But if he comes between me and you I hate him! It's a natural
feeling and I'm not ashamed of it. Damn him! I say. I'm no pious saint
to turn the other cheek. If anybody hurts me I'm going to strike back!"

"Well, I'm glad you have shown yourself in your true colours!" said
Cynthia.

"God! I'd like to shake you!" groaned Siebert. "I'd like to shake some
sense into your silly head!"

"Really!" said Cynthia.

They drove up in front of Gavin's house. "I suppose we've got to sit
through this damn dinner," he growled.

"I'll see that you're not placed beside me," said Cynthia.

"Go on in," he said. "I'll find a parking place and follow."

The bulbs flashed as Miss Dordress crossed the sidewalk. "Hold your head
up!" yelled the photographers, but she only pressed it lower. When
Siebert followed a few minutes later, one said: "Wipe off that scowl,
brother."

"Go to hell," said Siebert. The bulbs flashed anyhow. "Miss Dordress'
escort," said a voice. "What's the name, please?"

"Julius Caesar," said Siebert.

THOUGH he was not a tall man and far from slender, Amos Lee Mappin
stepped out with a good stride, and little Fanny Parran, clinging to his
arm, was obliged almost to trot to keep up. Fanny's littleness, her
dimples, her blonde curls and her lisp gave her the artless charm of a
child, but a man who assumed to talk baby-talk to her was apt to get a
shock.

She said: "On the level, Pop, you didn't wangle this invitation for me,
did you? Was it Mr. Dordress' very own idea to ask me?"

"Absolutely," said Lee. "He said to me: 'Lee, I'm short of a female for
Sunday night. Do you think that cheeky little secretary of yours would
condescend to accept an invitation?"

"Go on, Pop!" said Fanny. "Mr. Dordress never said that. He is too
dignified."

"You don't know the half of it, my child. Of course I couldn't swear to
his exact words, but that was the sense of it."

"O, dear!" said Fanny after a moment. "I suppose he does think I'm
pretty fresh."

"Well, he's considered a good judge of human nature."

"I didn't tell you what happened that day he came to your office, Pop. I
was ashamed."

"Good God! Did you assault the man?"

"Don't try to be funny! . . . You see, the Police Commissioner was with
you, and Mr. Dordress had to wait a few minutes in the outer room. He
looked at me in such a friendly way, I mean as if I was a human being,
and not just a piece of office furniture, and we got to talking. I can't
tell you just how it came about-I was fussed, you see, at being noticed
by the great man, and I heard myself saying: 'Mr. Dordress, I think the
women in your plays are terrible!'"

Lee chuckled. "Not a bad opening. And what did Gavin say?"

"He said: 'I think so too!'"

Lee laughed aloud. "It is undoubtedly to that that you owe your
invitation to dinner. Gavin is fed up with women who throw fits over
him. Strange as it may seem, he's a modest man."

"How kind of him to ask little me!" said Fanny "Do I look all right,
Pop? I won't disgrace you?"

"You do, and you will not," said Lee calmly. "You know that very well
already, so stop insulting my intelligence."

"Some men wouldn't force me to fish for compliments," said Fanny.

"I'm your boss, not your boy friend."

"Who will be there besides us?"

"I gather it's a kind of class reunion; Yale '13. Mack Townley and his
new wife . . ."

"That's Beatrice Ellerman. She's beautiful."

"Hm!" said Lee.

"Don't you like her, Pop?"

"A man never likes the young wives of his old friends. I think she's
taking Mack for a ride."

"But surely, with his experience he ought to know what he's doing. After
all the beautiful actresses he has hired and fired in his productions."

"That's just it. Over-confidence. Mack thinks he knows the sex. A man
can't have his guard up all the time. She watched him until he lowered
it, and pinked him! No man is safe."

"You have escaped."

"That's because I know my own weakness. I never try conclusions with a
woman. I run away."

"Have you never been in love?"

"Never! I would as soon toy with a cobra!"

"I think you're lying! . . . Who else will be there?"

"Emmett Gundy."

"Who's he?"

"Another one of our classmates. He writes novels. At least, I suppose he
still does. I haven't seen anything from his pen lately. In college
Emmett was considered the brightest of the lot. But he seems to have
flashed in the pan."

"Who is asked for him?"

"I don't know. Years ago Emmett had a girl called Louella Kip. Sweet
little thing, and absolutely devoted to him. I have forgotten whether he
married her. Gavin keeps up with him."

"You four were special friends in college?"

"Yes, pretty close. But in a little gang like that there are always
fellows who pair off. Gavin and I were the closest. We had been to prep
school together. Great days! Seems like yesterday. How well I remember
when we discovered the Phoenician alphabet in an old book. For years we
used to correspond in it."

"Your class was quite a distinguished one," said Fanny, "what with Gavin
Dordress and Mr. Townley and this novelist whoever he is."

"Gavin Dordress is the only real star we produced."

"O, I don't know, Pop, you're not so dusty. Of course, you haven't an
immense popular following like Gavin Dordress, because you're a
specialist. But you're known, your books sell. You're at the head of
your speciality."

"Crime, eh?"

"I love it!" said Fanny. "How did you come to adopt crime, Pop?"

"I suppose it's because I'm such a mild man. . . . And of course Gavin's
daughter and her young man will be there," he went on.

"He's cute," said Fanny.

"Quite!" said Lee. "Six foot two of cuteness!"

"And what lady will Mr. Dordress ask for himself?"

"O, Gail Garrett, of course."

"Why 'of course'? Is that still going on?"

"I don't understand you."

"All right. Prude . . . Gosh! Think of being asked to dinner with Gail
Garrett! I shall be perfectly overwhelmed!"

"Then we will see a phenomenon!"

"That's not very clever . . . You don't know me, Pop. I mean to be
perfectly quiet to-night and take everything in."

"Impossible!"

"What's Gail Garrett like, close to?"

"How am I to answer that? A popular star for twenty-five years. She's
not like a mere woman; she's a Broadway institution."

"She must be human."

"O, quite!" said Lee dryly, "in the wrong way . . . She won't cotton to
you."

"Why not? Everybody likes me-or almost everybody."

"Because you have twenty years advantage of her, that's why."

"I see. Well, I'll try not to provoke her."

As Lee and Fanny approached the steps of the apartment house where Gavin
Dordress lived, a photographer said: "Are you going to Mr. Dordress'?"

"Such was our intention," said Lee in his mild manner. "But if Dordress
is unfair to labour we'll eat elsewhere."

The photographers grinned and set off their flashes. "What name,
please?"

"Amos Lee Mappin."

"O, the detective."

"Nothing of the sort," said Lee. Fanny was delighted to see Pop getting
a little of his own back. "If you must hang a label on me make it
'amateur criminologist.'"

"Amateur nothing," said the young man, making a note; "famous
criminologist . . . And the young lady?"

"Miss Frances Parran . . . You can add that I am the author of The Fine
Art of Murder on sale at all bookstores."

"The heck with it!" said the young man. "You're the guy that the police
consulted in respect to the wash-tub murder. You solved it for them.
That's your news-value."

"Well, just as you like," said Lee. He and Fanny entered the apartment
house.

BEA ELLERMAN, now, officially, Mrs. Mack Townley, was one of the most
beautiful women in the public eye, and the little cushions of
self-satisfaction at the corners of her adorable lips suggested that she
knew it. Her tall figure, her classic features, her soft dark hair, all
were perfect, and she had in addition that all-over lusciousness of
aspect that defies description. Her husband could deny her nothing. She
was wearing a Hattie Carnegie dress of stiff blue silk besprinkled with
tiny gold stars and a fifty-thousand dollar sable coat; clips, necklace
and bracelet of diamonds and emeralds. She sat a little forward in the
taxi, smoothing the wrinkles out of her gloves, while Mack from his
corner watched her with a kind of agony of desire and frustration. A
tall man, Mack, beginning to grow a little heavy; dark, handsome,
self-indulgent face; famous for his perfect grooming. "We're half an
hour late," he growled.

"What of it?" said Bea. "They won't sit down without us."

"It's damn bad manners!"

"Nonsense. Nobody's on time. Not important people anyhow. I aimed to be
late to-night."

"Why, for God's sake?"

"Because I wasn't going to let Gail Garrett make an entrance on me. That
old woman!"

"All right," growled Mack. "But please remember that she's still an
important person in my business."

"She's slipping fast. It's ridiculous the way she tries to hang on to
Gavin Dordress. Anybody can sec that he is sick of her."

"What is it to you?"

"Nothing. But I hate to see Gavin made a fool of."

"Leave it to him."

"A man is no match for a woman in a situation like this. Gavin needs the
help of another woman in getting rid of Gail Garrett."

A spasm of anger crossed Mack's face. "Meaning yourself?" Bea smiled
confidently. "You keep out of this!" growled Mack. "I won't have it!"

Bea leaned over and slid the glass across so that the chauffeur could
not hear. "Don't speak to me like that," she said coldly. "I am not
accustomed to it."

"All right," said Mack. "But you leave Garrett alone, that's all."

"So she's important to you," said Bea with a disagreeable smile. "Are
you thinking of engaging her?"

"No. But I don't want any feud started."

"Mercy! I'm not going to do anything. I don't have to. The woman already
hates me as much as it is possible for one woman to hate another."

"All right," growled Mack.

Bea smoothed her gloves. "I'm quite looking forward to this dinner," she
murmured. "I expect to enjoy myself. I suppose Gavin will put Garrett at
his right hand and me at his left. Then we'll see."

Mack drew his lips back. "All right! But don't forget that a man can
stand only so much!"

"What on earth are you talking about?" she said, turning to him. He
refused to answer her. "Are you going to carry on like this every time a
man acts as if he liked me?"

"I don't care about any other man. It's only this man . . ,"

"He's your oldest friend."

"So much the worse."

Bea shrugged elaborately. "I don't see how I can act any differently. I
certainly can't set out to keep Gavin Dordress at arm's length. He's
your partner. It's absolutely essential to you." Mack said nothing. "I
should think you'd be glad to help him get rid an incubus like Garrett.
It would be tragic if he gave her the lead in his new play. She's
finished. Worse than tragic, it would be bad for business."

"All right," said Mack. "But you keep out of it."

"What's the new play about?" she asked. "I don't know."

"You announced it a week ago."

"That's a routine matter. It's not finished, I haven't seen it, and he
has told me nothing about it."

"Does he intend to give the lead to Garrett?"

"I don't know."

"Well, are you going to let him give her the part?"

"I never interfere with the casting of a Dordress play."

"Don't be a fool!" said Bea sharply. "Let us face realities. Do I or do
I not get this part?"

"Better wait and see the play."

"That's got nothing to do with it. There has to be a leading woman's
part and I'm going to play it. It's the next step in my career. I've
been planning this for years."

"Was that why you married me?" growled Mack.

"For heaven's sake, this is business!" she said. "Try to look at it from
my point of view. The new Dordress play will be the number one event of
the season. Naturally I play the lead. If the play was produced by Mack
Townley and Mack Townley's wife did not get the lead it would be like a
slap in the face, it would be like repudiation."

"The final choice rests with Gavin," said Mack.

"O, I'll take care of him," said Bea confidently. "I'll see that he
wants me to play the part."

Mack's face turned blackish, and his right hand clenched instinctively.
"By God!" he muttered. "By God! ..."

Bea, busy with her thoughts, did not notice him. "His giving a dinner at
this time falls just right," she said. "I'll get him to tell me about
the play. I'll clinch the matter to-night . . ."

Mack broke out in a low, thick voice. "God damn the play! And Gavin
Dordress, tool I'll have nothing to do with it. Let him find another
manager!"

Bea turned her head swiftly and looked at him from between narrowed
lids. "I'm fed up!" stormed Mack. "Fed up, do you hear? Gavin this and
Gavin that; you din his name into my ears from morning until night. The
man has laid a spell on you. Do you expect me to stand for it? Gavin and
Gavin's play! No, by God! I'm through with him and I'll tell him so
to-night. I'm going to take you away from all this!"

"You don't mean what you're saying," put in Bea quietly.

"All right! You'll see!" he cried.

"Listen to me," she said. "You're at the head of your profession in New
York and London. The first nights of the plays that you put on are
important social events. The people don't come to see your bright eyes.
It's because you're the fashion. If you drop Gavin Dordress, Maurice
Stein will get him, or Sam Nikodemus, or Gregory McArdle, and he will
become the fashion. You will be handing a great fortune to one of your
rivals, while you drop into second place!"

"I'm going to retire," muttered Mack. "I've made enough. We'll travel
abroad."

"Who, me?" said Bea. She laughed delicately, and paused to allow the
sound to sink in. "Can you see me fluffing from one European resort to
another with nothing to do but exchange gossip with the other wives and
get fat? You can do it if you want. Not me. I'm twenty-nine years old
and I'm not going to quit until I get to the top of the ladder. Get
that. When I agreed to marry you it was understood that you were to help
me in my career. If you chuck your part of the bargain don't expect me
to keep mine. The day you drop Gavin Dordress I go to Reno!"

"By God! you're a cold-blooded proposition!" muttered Mack, beaten.

"That doesn't help any," said Bea pettishly. "Really, Mack, I don't
understand you. With all your experience you must know that in our
profession business is all mixed up with personal relations. You can't
separate them. If, in order to get this part, it is necessary for me to
cajole the author, and even appear make love to him a little, why should
you care? You must have been through it a hundred times before."

Mack shook his head heavily. "No. Never before," said quietly. "Because
I'm in love with you, Bea, And there's something in a man more powerful
than business policy, or making money or getting ahead of others. A man
may keep it under for years, may never have known that it was there, but
it breaks out .. it breaks out . . .!"

Bea appeared to relent a little. She patted his hand, did not look
around. She was intent on her own thoughts. "I'm crazy about you!" he
murmured. "You came into my life at a time when I thought all that was
past. It is like a fire in me. It scorches. Everything in me is changed.
You can make my life either a heaven or a hell on earth!"

"Bear!" she said in a fond voice, but her expression had not changed.

"Tell me you are not so cold-blooded as you make out!"

"Of course I'm not! I was talking business!"

"Tell me you're just a little fond of me."

"Certainly I am. Or I wouldn't have married you."

"Kiss me, Bea!"

She obediently turned her head. "Don't muss me!" she warned. He kissed
her gently, his hand closing hard over hers. "Ouch! You're hurting my
hand."

"Sorry, dear . . . Let's not go to this dinner," he pleaded. "Honestly,
I don't feel up to it!"

"But we must!" she said. "We're there! We can't back out now . . .
Besides, the matter may be decided to-night. If I am not there, Garrett
will wangle the part out of him!"

"All right," he said heavily. "But I feel that it is a mistake."

"But Mack, we understand each other now. If you see me being very nice
to Gavin you will know it is only through motives of policy."

"You are not nice to him through motives of policy," he said darkly.
"The man excites you. I have eyes."

"I will be extra nice to you after we have left," she said softly.

"All right. But don't goad me too far while we're there." It was like a
groan. "Don't goad me!"

When they got out of the cab. Mack hung back in order to give the
photographers a fair show at Bea. Bea smiled dazzlingly at each young
man in turn. "Hello, boys! We meet again."

"Couldn't be too often for me, Miss Ellerman," said one. The bulbs
flashed. When Bea passed on they took Mack in turn. When Mack had
disappeared into the apartment house one young man said to another:
"Townley's showing his age."

GAVIN DORDRESS and his guests had moved into the studio after dinner.
This was a big room occupying the entire westerly end of the penthouse
with windows on three sides looking out on the neat box hedges of the
roof-garden. The window curtains were drawn back and coloured lights
were strung in the garden to make a festive effect. At the back of the
garden the wall of the adjoining building rose some fifteen feet higher,
covered with a lattice over which vines were trained in summer. Indoors,
Gavin did not go in for decorative fads: the room was of no period, but
merely comfortable, with deep chairs, mellow old rugs, shaded lamps and
endless shelves of hooks. A fire was burning.

The setting was right for a good party, and the company highly
ornamental. Gavin, Mack, Emmett and Siebert were tall, handsome men, and
Lee, though his figure was tubby, had a distinctive head; all the women
were beautiful women, each in her own style, except poor Louella.
Nevertheless, it was not a good party; there was no lack of brittle talk
and laughter, but it had overtures like thunder on the horizon.

Gavin had become aware of it as soon as they sat down to the table. He
could not talk all the time; he was hungry. And as soon as he fell
silent, the ladies at his right and left, with a too-perfect courtesy
and sweetness, began taking shots at each other. In his mind Gavin
consigned them both to the devil. His own clever Cynthia was silent and
distrait. He could do little with Louella Kip because she was afraid of
him. He addressed himself gratefully to Fanny Parran, whole sharp
answers were delightful. But when he talked to Fanny, both Gail and Bea
began to discharge their darts in her direction, and Gavin, for Fanny's
own sake, felt obliged to leave the girl alone. He was relieved when the
ladies left the table.

The men were no better. Mack Townley had drunk too much; Siebert
Ackroyd's comely young face was white and tight-lipped. Neither would
talk; they glanced at Gavin with barely-concealed animosity. Gavin
inwardly shrugged them off. In the brightly lighted room Emmett Gundy
had the look of a handsome boy who had started to wither before he was
quite mature. His would-be flattering remarks were curdled with envy.
Nursing his brandy goblet between his hands and sniffing the old
Armagnac, he simpered: "This is the incense of popular success." When he
lit a cigar he said: "I suppose some Cuban admirer presented you with
these."

Only Lee Mappin was his own dry, comical self, and Gavin's heart warmed
to him. His best friend! They talked about college days, hoping to draw
in the other two classmates, but without success. As soon as the men had
drunk their brandies, Gavin led them to the ladies in the sunroom,
hoping for the best. The tight smiles which greeted them were not
reassuring. What a party! Gavin glanced at Cynthia for humorous
sympathy, but Cynthia was sunk in her own painful thoughts. From the
sunroom they proceeded to the studio. Townley, tall, dark, regal in the
starry blue dress, looked around. "So this is where masterpieces are
produced!"

Gavin said: "I wish I could think so."

"So, is this the first time you have been in this room, darling?" asked
Gail. Alongside Bea she looked a little insipid. The gathered chiffon
dress was too youthful. Gail was straightening a picture on the wall,
and returning a book to its place on the shelf with a proprietary air
that made Bea's eyes snap. "O, dear no!" said Bea. "I have spent happy
hours here. But every time I enter I have the same feeling of awe."

"It will wear off," said Gail.

"Can I have a Scotch and soda?" growled Mack.

"Surely," said Gavin, pressing a bell. Even the perfect Hillman was
upset to-night, Gavin observed with wry humour when his servant entered,
wheeling the bar. Hillman's lean face was drawn and grey; his eyes and
his hands shook a little when he put ice in the glasses.

When Gavin took a glass from him he said: "You may go home with the
other men when they finish up. If we want anything we'll serve
ourselves."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," said Hillman.

After he had left the room Lee Mappin said, just to be saying something:
"Doesn't Hillman sleep in?"

"No," said Gavin. "He's a family man. He has a home of his own. Servants
ought to be allowed to live normal lives like anybody else."

"O!" exclaimed Bea. "Do you mean to say that after the butler goes home
you are all alone here on this roof?"

"Surely." said Gavin, "Why not?"

"Aren't you afraid?"

"Hardly. I've reached the age when I love to be alone."

Fanny Parran was beside him at the moment. "That's hardly polite," she
murmured.

"Well, do you blame me?" Gavin asked, smiling back.

Fanny glanced over the company. "No. If it was me, I'd tell them all to
get the heck out!"

Gavin laughed. "If they were all like you what a good party it would
be!"

"You're pretty nice yourself," said Fanny.

Gail and Bea, observing this low-voiced exchange, moved from different
directions to break it up. Bea said to Gavin: "I don't think it's right
for you to be alone at night. Suppose you were taken sick!"

"I am never sick," said Gavin. "If I should be, the telephone is beside
my bed."

"You might be too sick to use it."

"If I was unconscious what difference would it make to me?"

"You don't look as if you were going to be sick," said Bea, languishing
at him, "but men who are so much in the public eye are always a mark for
kidnappers, burglars, cranks, and so on."

" Anybody who lives in fear might as well die and be done with it," said
Gavin. "The elevator man is there to protect me from intruders. And up
here on the fifteenth floor it is hardly likely anybody is coming in by
the window."

Gail glanced scornfully at Bea: "Anybody who tried to tackle Gavin would
regret it. He is armed."

"Are you?" said Bea.

Gail moved towards an immense flat-topped desk at the south end of the
room. She said: "He keeps a gun here." Pulling out the middle drawer,
she picked up a business-like black automatic, and exhibited it. There
was something terrible in her smile. "You seem to be familiar with
them," said Bea.

"I use a gun like this in my present play."

"Put it away, Gail," said Gavin good-humouredly. "I hate to see anybody
fooling with a loaded gun."

Bea, her face sharpened by curiosity, had joined Gail at the desk. Gail
returned the gun to its place. Bea's eyes ran over the contents of the
wide, shallow drawer. Alongside the gun lay a pile of typescript with
corrections and interlineations in a quaint and individual hand. At the
top of the first page was typed the title: The Changeling. "O here is
the great play!" cried Bea. "Won't you read it to us, Gavin?"

Gail stood a little away from the desk, watching Bea with a slight,
malicious smile. Fanny Parran and Louella Kip, who did not know Gavin
very well, added their voices to Bea's. "O, do read it, Mr. Dordress!"

Gavin shook his head. "I never read my own stuff aloud," he said,
obstinately good-humoured.

"Please!" chorused the three women.

Emmett spoke up: "Leave him alone," he said with a sour smile.

"He hates to be the centre of attraction." "The truth is," said Gavin,
smiling, "I have listened to too many young playwrights laughing and
sobbing over their own lines."

"But among your intimate friends . . ." pleaded Bea.

"Shut the drawer, Bea," growled Mack. "Can't you see that he hates to
have his work touched?"

Bea smiled at her husband in a manner that presaged trouble later, and
slowly pushed the drawer in. Returning to Gavin, she said: "Well, tell
us something about the play: tell us the story of it."

He shook his head. "It is always likely to be stood on its head or
turned inside out up to the very moment when it is handed to the
typist."

Fanny, to create a diversion, asked: "Don't you have a secretary?"

"No," he said, suggesting by his smile that if he could have one like
her he would. "If she's young she tries to vamp you; if she's old she
tries to boss you ... I have a girl in occasionally for correspondence.
Writing a play is a slow business. I can type quite fast enough to keep
up with the flow of my ideas."

"Tell us about the people in the play," said Bea cajolingly.

She seated herself beside Gavin on the sofa and laid a hand on his arm.
From across the room Mack's glowering eyes watched her. "Not a word,"
said Gavin, smiling and firm. "It's the only rule I ever made for
myself-and kept."

"Then nobody in the world but you knows what is in that play?" said Bea.

"Nobody in the world! Mack is taking a big chance in announcing its
production."

"I could still refuse to produce it," growled Mack.

Everybody except Gavin laughed as at a good joke. Bea, laughing the
loudest, said to Mack: "You won't do that!"

"O, I don't know," he growled.

Gavin glanced at him, puzzled. Mack refused to meet his eye.

It was Emmett Gundy who made the first move to break up the ill-starred
party. He exchanged a meaning look with Louella and they arose. It was
no more than ten o'clock. The inevitable empty politenesses were
exchanged. "Must you go? It's so early."

"Sorry," said Emmett, " but we have promised to join some friends at the
Coq Rouge."

Louella looked as if this was news to her. She had too honest a face for
society. Gavin and Cynthia accompanied them to the door of the room.
"Are you going to be tied up to-morrow, Gavin?" asked Emmett
off-handedly.

"I'll be working on my play. I haven't made any engagements."

"Could I see you for a few minutes after working hours? I want to ask
your advice about rewriting my novel."

"Surely. Drop in about five."

When they had gone, Gavin said, low-voiced: "Stand by me, Cyn. I want
you to stay until after everybody has gone."

She looked quickly in his face. "Surely, Dad."

Lee and Fanny were on their feet. "Must you go?" said Gavin with real
regret.

"Must!" said Lee. They moved into the foyer and he added: "Fanny and I
thought this would be the quickest way to break it up. This party was
doomed not to prosper."

"Dear old Lee!" said Gavin warmly.

"Why this sudden burst of affection?"

"You shine like a good deed in a naughty world!"

"I've been called many things in my time," said Lee. "But that's a new
one."

"I'm sorry it wasn't a good party," said Gavin to Fanny.

"Ask me again."

"I shall."

When Gavin and Cynthia turned to go back, they met Siebert, very stiff
and good-looking, coming out of the studio. Cynthia, with the slightest
of bows, passed on into the room. "Must you go?" said Gavin. "I was
hoping you would stay on a little."

"Thanks," said Siebert, "but I'm sure you and Cynthia want a little time
together."

Gavin was drawn to this young man. "It's a long time since you have
dropped in on me, Siebert. When are we going to have another game of
chess?"

"Chess is all very well for you," said Siebert, "but I have my way to
make. I can't take the time for it."

"Well . . . I'm sorry," said, Gavin. "You had the makings of a good
player. Goodnight, Siebert."

Siebert went on to get his things.

Gavin looked weary when he re-entered the studio. In the beginning he
had exerted himself to make things go; now he didn't care. Thus, when
Mack growled: "Get your things, Bea," he said nothing.

Bea made no move. "It's only ten o'clock," she said. "Gavin will think
we're not enjoying ourselves. Sit here, Gavin."

Gavin sat beside her. Mack left the room. Bea looked after him
indifferently, and rattled on: "You and Cynthia must dine with us very
soon, and that handsome fellow, Siebert. . and, of course, you, Gail."

"Thanks." said Gail.

She was sitting opposite them with a ghastly fixed smile. She was
squeezing a handkerchief in her hand, and she had bitten off all the
lip-stick from her lower lip without knowing it. Bea, flaunting her
beauty and freshness, said: "What night shall it be, Gavin? I want to
make this a very special occasion."

"I'd rather not make any engagements until I get the play off my hands;
four or five days; a week at the outside."

"Very well, let me know. I want to consult you about the other guests .
. ."

Bea's flow was checked by the return of Mack. He had her coat over his
arm. "Come on," he said. Bea saw that she could not defy him without
creating a scene and got up slowly. "Husbands are so peremptory!"

All five of them passed out into the foyer, and stood there while Mack
helped his wife into her coat. Gail made no move to get her things. "Can
we put you down anywhere, Gail, dear?" said Bea.

"Thanks, darling. I'm not quite ready."

Bea's eyes glittered. She glanced across the sunroom. "How lovely the
garden looks under the lights!" she said. "Show it to me, Gavin. It
won't take a minute."

"Very well," said Gavin woodenly.

They crossed the sunroom. The key to the garden door hung alongside the
door-frame. Gavin opened the door and they went out, closing the door
behind them. The three waiting in the foyer could see them dimly through
the glass. Gavin was calling Bea's attention to something off to the
South. Bea slipped her hand cosily under his arm, and they passed out of
sight.

Gail and Mack continued to stare out through the glass. They had
forgotten where they were. Cynthia hastened to make conversation: "Dad
consulted a man up in the Bronx Botanical Gardens about planting the
sunroom. Everything looks as if it was growing naturally, doesn't it?
Some of the plants are very rare . . ."

Neither Gail nor Mack paid any attention and her voice trailed away. It
was so quiet they could hear sounds from the pantry where the servants
were washing up. Moment followed moment, increasing the strain. Finally
Gail said in an unnaturally sharp voice: "I'd like to see the garden,
too."

She crossed the sunroom and went out, leaving the door open. Outside she
started to run. Mack watched her for a moment, glowering, then silently
went after her. Cynthia, after hesitating painfully, followed Mack.

They found Gavin and Bea standing beside the parapet at the east end of
the roof. Behind them a wasted moon was rising over the river, and the
pinpoint lights of Queensborough stretched away to infinity. When
Cynthia came up to the group, Gail was saying shrilly: "You better look
after your wife, Mack! She needs it!"

"Don't want your help," growled Mack.

"She's loose! She's common! She's cheap!" shrilled Gail. "See her trying
to brazen it out..."

"Gail, for God's sake, be quiet!" said Gavin. His voice was weary with
disgust.

"Come in!" growled Mack to Bea, with a jerk of his head towards the
house door.

"You have no right to speak to me like that!" retorted Bea. "Am I your
servant?"

Mack raised his voice slightly. "Come in!" he repeated. "Or you'll get
worse."

Bea turned to Gavin. "You hear, he threatens me! He's mad! It is
dangerous for me to go with him!"

"He is your husband," said Gavin coldly.

That was all that was said, but the voices, that is, three of the
voices, were so charged with venom as to make the youngest person
present feel physically sick. Such a scene was new to Cynthia. Somehow
or other they found themselves in the sunroom again. Gavin drew
Cynthia's arm under his. She felt better when she saw his face. It was
weary and disgusted, but there was no loss of dignity there.

Mack made straight for the door of the apartment. He held it open for
Bea to pass through. She, having recovered herself partly, took her time
about it. "I'm going," she said to Gavin, "not because he orders me to,
but because I want to end a painful situation. Good-night, Gavin.
Good-night, Cynthia, dear. Goodnight, Gail." She went out with a
nonchalant air. Gail sneered.

Mack, preparing to follow Bea, looked furiously at Gavin. "Give your
play to whoever you like," he said. "I'm through!"

"That suits me," said Gavin levelly. The door slammed.

Gail, with a grotesque attempt to recover her usual sugary manner, said:
"Cynthia, darling, I want a few words alone with Gavin. You will excuse
us, I'm sure. Such old friends!"

Cynthia looked at her father, then at Gail. She said coolly: "I'm sorry,
but Dad just said he wanted to speak privately to me."

Gail caught her breath, and looked at Gavin. "Is this true?'"

"You heard her," said Gavin.

Gail could scarcely articulate now. "So! So! You put this child ahead of
me now! You're using her as a shield! This chit! Don't think that I
can't see through your pitiful evasions. . . ."

Cynthia ran away down the corridor. Gail was still storming when she
returned with the ermine coat over her arm. "Your coat, Miss Garrett."

"Am I being put out of the house now?" cried Gail. "Gavin, will you
stand for that? Do you put me out of your house?"

Her face was so distorted with rage neither Gavin nor Cynthia could bear
to look at her. Since she refused to put her arms through the sleeves of
her coat, Cynthia hung it over her shoulders. Gavin opened the door.
"Are you going to let me go down into the street alone?" cried Gail.
"Me? There is no doorman in this miserable house to find me a taxi!"

Gavin hesitated. "Hillman is still here," said Cynthia. She ran into the
pantry and fetched the butler out. "Hillman," said Gavin, "go down with
Miss Garrett and get her a cab."

"Yes, sir."

"You'll be sorry for this, Gavin!" cried Gail. "Remember, I warned you!
... I warned you!"

Gavin closed the door, and he and Cynthia looked at each other. "What a
mess!" he said wearily. "My child, I'm so sorry you had to be let in for
it!"

"It won't hurt me," said Cynthia. "I'm not made of glass." She laughed
shakily. "You are too attractive to the ladies, Dad."

"It's not my attractiveness," said Gavin, "but something more sordid.
These women are fighting to get a part in my play."

"Which one gets it?"

"Neither."

They dropped on a sofa alongside the fire. After a while Cynthia said:
"I'd better go, too. I feel done up, and so do you."

"Don't go," said Gavin. "Why don't you stay all night?"

"I haven't my things."

"I wish you'd come here and live," he said wistfully. "It would be so
jolly to have you in the house."

She shook her head firmly. "I love my independence. And so do you. We
can be friends without living together."

"I shall never give another party," said Gavin. "Why do people give
parties?"

"Don't say that."

"Even Hillman. What the devil do you suppose is the matter with
Hillman?"

"He confided in me a little yesterday," 'said Cynthia. "He is married to
an ambitious wife. She twits him all the time because he's only a
servant. She tells him that their children are old enough now to be
ashamed of him. She wants him to give up his job and do something for
himself. Hillman tells her he has no money. She says if he would use his
wits he wouldn't be without money."

"Poor devil!"

Cynthia stood up. "I must go, Dad."

"Wait! What's the trouble between you and Siebert?"

Cynthia turned away her head. "Ah, don't ask me! He's impossible! Always
pestering me to marry him!"

"Aren't you a little in love with him?"

She looked at the floor. "Yes," she murmured. "That's just the trouble.
He's so good to look at . . and such a boy! But I can't respect him,
Dad."

"Siebert's a good lad; sound at heart; able, too."

"I know. I know. But he has no imagination, none of the finer
qualities."

"What of it? These sensitive, imaginative creatures are not easy to live
with, Cyn. Siebert is very much of a man."

"You can say that about him!" she said in surprise. "You ought to hear
the way he abuses you!"

Gavin laughed. "Jealous, eh? I seem to be in everybody's way!"

"Don't say that!" cried Cynthia, putting her arms around him. "You are
my ideal!"

"Ideals are all very well," said Gavin, smoothing her hair. "But I
advise you to think twice before sending Siebert away. I suppose he
flies into a rage and uses bad language. That's a manly weakness, my
dear. If you married him his ridiculous jealousy would disappear."

"No! No! Not said Cynthia. "He is impossible!"

"Well . . . I'm sorry."

He kissed her good-night at the door. "We'll feel better in the morning,
Cyn."

"Will you go to bed now?" she asked.

"I'll read a little while to compose my mind. I'll call you when I
wake."

"Do, dear."

Hillman said: "Shall I get you a cab, Miss?"

"No, indeed. I am accustomed to going about by myself."

"Good-night, Miss."

"Good-night, Hillman."

In the elevator the boy Joe asked her with a sharp look: "Is the party
over, Miss?"

"Yes," she said. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, everybody's in the house now except the real late birds. If I'm
not wanted for a couple of hours I could get a sleep."

As Cynthia waited on the corner for a taxi, an odd-looking figure passed
by, a tall man with heavy, stooping shoulders, a foreigner by the look
of him. An old, yellowish overcoat as shapeless as a bag hung from his
shoulders without touching him anywhere and he wore a leather aviator's
helmet that fastened under his chin. He kept his head down as he walked;
he had on thick glasses and had an uncanny way of looking around them.
At the moment Cynthia scarcely noticed him, but the strangeness of his
appearance was impressed on her subconsciousness.

CYNTHIA lived in a small walk-up apartment, parlour, bedroom and bath,
in a converted dwelling in West Fifty-fifth Street, not half a mile from
Gavin's place. She let herself in and threw her coat on a sofa. Her
little living-room no longer seemed the same haven of peace and freedom.
One of the first things that caught her eye was a framed photograph of
Siebert on her desk. She thrust it face down in a drawer. After a while
she drifted back to the desk, and taking out the photograph, looked at
it a long time. She glanced at the clock; 10.50. After painful
hesitation, she picked up the telephone and dialled a number. Her
expression suggested that she had no intention of humbling herself, but
was willing to give Siebert a chance to say he was sorry.

He did not answer. She hung up and going slowly into the bedroom started
to undress. For a long time she lay open-eyed in her bed waiting for the
telephone. It did not ring. When she finally slept with wet lashes on
her cheeks, her sleep was broken by bad dreams. Distorted faces formed
and dissolved in front of her; Gail Garrett; Mack Townley; the envious
Emmett Gundy; the sharp-featured elevator boy; even Hillman, weak,
desperate and furtive.

She was awakened by a roaring that seemed to be inside her head. It
resolved itself into the ringing of the telephone bell. She glanced at
the bedside clock; 7.50. Her face cleared as if by magic, and she ran
into the next room with shining eyes.

But it was not the deep voice that she longed to hear, and her face
fell. This was a man's voice so distracted and broken she did not
recognise it. "Miss Dordress?"

"Yes. Who is it?"

"Hillman, Miss ... O, Miss! . . . There has been an accident ... I don't
know how to tell you . . .!"

An icy hand was laid on Cynthia's breast. "My father?"

"Yes, Miss . . . Come quickly!"

"What has happened?" cried Cynthia. The frantic Hillman had already hung
up. She threw on her clothes anyhow and got a cab at the door. In five
minutes she was at the door of the Madison Avenue apartment. Short as
the time was, a thousand horrors had suggested themselves. She fought
them off by saying to herself: Hillman is a fool! He exaggerates the
trouble.

There was a different boy on the elevator. This was Harry, whom Cynthia
liked. "What has happened?" she asked him breathlessly.

He turned away his head. "I don't know, Miss. They'll tell you."

He is afraid to tell me! she thought; it is the worst! Hillman opened
the door of the apartment. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hands shaking.
At the sight of her his eyes filled with weak tears. "O, Miss . . .!"

"What has happened?" cried Cynthia.

"Your father . . ." He was unable to go on. Cynthia turned to run to her
father's bedroom. "Not there. He's in the studio." When she turned in
that direction, he caught hold of her. "You mustn't go in there."

Cynthia, frozen, dropped weakly in a chair, staring at the man. "Is he?
.. is he? . . am I too late?"

Hillman nodded. "Mr. Dordress has passed away."

"No! It can't be so!"

"Yes, Miss. Many hours ago."

Cynthia covered her face with her hands. She did not weep. "Send for Mr.
Mappin," she whispered.

"He's on his way, Miss."

When the bell rang Cynthia turned her haggard face to see who it was.
Two or three-important-looking men pushed in as if they had a right to
enter. One was in uniform with a lot of gold braid. Police! Several
underlings followed, carrying paraphernalia of different sorts. "This
way, please, gentlemen," stammered Hillman, leading them towards the
studio.

"What are the police doing here?" whispered Cynthia.

When the bell rang again she went to the door herself. It was Lee
Mappin. He took her in his arms. "My dear, dear child!"

She drew herself away. "Never mind me. Go in there. Lee. In there! And
for God's sake come and tell me what has happened."

She dropped back in the chair and waited like a woman of stone.

When Lee entered the studio he saw the body of his friend lying huddled
on the floor near the fireplace. He drew a long breath to steady
himself. Gavin's right arm was outstretched and near it lay a black
automatic as if it had been knocked from his hand as he fell. Under his
head a pool of blood had spread out on the parquet floor and coagulated.
The wound itself was hidden. Gavin's eyes were fixed and staring. Near
him a police photographer was kneeling on the floor, preparing to take a
picture of the body. Lee looked around the room. The set-up was familiar
to him; Captain of the precinct; Lieutenant of detectives, another
detective, medical examiner, fingerprint expert and so on.

Captain Kelleran knew him. "Good God! Mr. Mappin, what are you doing
here!" he exclaimed. "Gavin Dordress was my oldest friend," said Lee.

"I didn't know that. You have my sympathy."

"When did this happen?" asked Lee.

"About nine hours ago. Say ten-thirty or eleven last night. There is
nothing here to interest us professionally. Clearly a suicide."

"He had everything to live for," murmured Lee.

"He left a letter," said the Captain, handing Lee a manilla sheet that
appeared to have been torn off a pad on Gavin's desk. "I take it that's
his handwriting?"

Gavin as a young man had taken the trouble to form a highly decorative
hand. The quaintly-formed characters were inimitable. "Undoubtedly,"
said Lee. He read the letter with a masklike face. "Do you recognise the
gun?" asked the Captain.

Instead of answering directly, Lee went to the desk at the other end of
the room and pulled out the middle drawer. He said: "Gavin kept his gun
here. It's gone. It was of the same style and calibre as that on the
floor. We may assume that that is his gun."

"So you see . . ." said the Captain, spreading out his hands. "We'll
check fingerprints on the gun to make sure. There are powder burns
around the wound."

There was something else about the drawer that made Lee look thoughtful.
He returned to the fireplace. The fire had been out for many hours. On
top of the dead embers lay the charred remnants of many burned papers.
One sheet had partly fallen out, and the top of it was unburned. Lee
could read a typed title: The Changeling. So Gavin had burned the new
play before killing himself. This was no business of the policeman's and
Lee said nothing about it.

Taking the letter, Lee returned to Cynthia in the foyer. She raised her
questioning eyes to his, and he said simply: "Gavin has left us."

"What was it?" she whispered. "Heart? . . . Why the police?"

"He took his own life."

Cynthia, wildly staring, stammered: "No, Lee, no!"

He put a hand on her shoulder. "You must face it, my dear. He had the
right to leave us if he wished to."

"Yes," she agreed. "But he couldn't have done it! . . . Last night when
I left him there was no such thought in his mind. He was looking ahead
to our future . . ."

"Then it was a sudden impulse."

"No, Lee! Dad was not a creature of impulse. He was stable!"

Lee handed her the letter. A spasm of pain crossed the girl's face at
sight of the decorative characters.-There was neither salutation nor
signature. She read: "I have reached the summit of my life-indeed I
appear to have passed it. I have done my best work. There is nothing
before me but a slow decline in power. I wish to be remembered by my
best, and so I choose to write the End while I can do it firmly. Men
live too long.

"What are the thoughts of a man who pauses on the brink of the
unknowable? I have often wondered. Now I know. He thinks of his
childhood; the first tree climbed; the first little creek that was swum
from bank to bank. Those were the biggest successes of life. Later he
remembers the words that remained unspoken; the wine untasted; the
kisses that were not given. They are the sweetest. He hears the first
sleepy notes of awakening birds, and sees a lake gleaming in the dawn.
And always the stars, his unchanging companions, who mocked him when he
was set up, and comforted him when he was cast down.

"This is the last thought: Man is not worthy of his beautiful earth. The
worst that has been said about man's life is true; it is cruel, ugly and
evil-but who would give up the privilege of sitting in on so magnificent
a show? I have seen it, and I leave the theatre without regret."

Cynthia's tears were falling fast before she came to the end. Some
moments passed before she could speak. "Was this all?" she whispered.
"Nothing . . not one word for me?"

"That is all," said Lee. "He would not leave me without a word!" she
cried. "Lee, I will not believe that he killed himself! There are people
who wished him dead."

"It must be faced," said Lee. "There is the gun, the powder marks. The
letter sounds like Gavin."

"It sounds like him," she agreed; "but it has a made-up sound. It is
like something he might have written in a play."

"Cynthia, my dear, you are only tormenting yourself!"

"Why shouldn't I be tormented?" she burst out. "He would not leave me
without a word. . . . Listen, Lee, we came close to each other for a
moment last night as I was leaving. There was nothing much said. We
understood each other without speaking. You cannot mistake such a
moment. After that he could not have left me without a word. I do not
believe he killed himself. I will never believe it.... Look at this
letter! Notice how in the first line he has changed "apex" to "summit";
down below he wrote "most men" and then crossed out "most," and changed
"abyss" to "unknowable." Would a man be thinking about literary effect
when he was about to die?"

"Habit, perhaps," said Lee. "He wrote the letter. How else can it be
explained?"

"It sounds like something out of a play," insisted Cynthia. "Let us read
the new play and see if there is not a clue there."

"He burned it," said Lee.

"Burned it? Why should he?"

"Well, he implies in the letter that he was dissatisfied with it."

"Implies! Implies! Words can imply so many things! He doesn't say that
he was dissatisfied with it. He told me he thought it was good."

"Sometimes there is a reaction. Every writer knows what that is like."

Cynthia was not listening. "Lee, suppose that this letter is something
that Dad wrote for his play. He was always making changes and inserting
new pages either in type or longhand. The murderer found it. He would
then be obliged to destroy the rest of the play, wouldn't he, in order
to conceal the fact that this had been taken from it?"

"That is too far-fetched!" objected Lee.

"What do you mean, far-fetched?"

"It is incredible that the murderer-if there was a murderer, should have
stumbled on something that came so pat to his needs."

"Perhaps he read the play first and this letter suggested the plan of
the murder."

"Gavin would allow no one to read the play."

"There were plenty of people whO were crazy to get a line on it. Hillman
may have betrayed Dad while lie was out. Hillman ..." She pulled up
suddenly, and her eyes widened.

"What is it?" asked Lee.

"Hillman has something on his mind."

"Naturally, after . . ."

"O, this began many days ago."

"Where does Hillman live?" asked Lee.

"I don't know. It's in Gavin's address book." Captain Kelleran came out
of the studio with his men tailing after him. He bowed to Cynthia with
grave sympathy and drew Lee aside. "There is nothing in this case for
the police," he said. "With an ordinary magnifying glass we could
identify Mr. Dordress' fingerprints on the gun without the necessity of
taking photographs. The medical examiner will hand you the necessary
permit for burial, and we will trouble you no more. Please convey my
sympathy to the young lady."

"Thank you. She will appreciate it, Captain." Lee shepherded them out
through the door.

When they were left alone Cynthia came and wound her arms around Lee's
neck. "Thank God, I have you!" she said. "Bless your heart!" he
murmured. "Have I convinced you that Gavin did not kill himself?" she
asked, looking deep into his eyes. "No, my dear," he said gravely. "So
far this is only a surmise on your part. We must have evidence."

"Then look for it! Look for it!" she said, urging him with her hands.
"Before anything is moved or changed, before any one else comes. You can
lay bare the truth. Lee, if anybody can."

"I'll do my best," he said.

THE bell rang. "This will be the reporters," said Lee.

"Don't let them in!" exclaimed Cynthia in horror.

Lee stopped Hillman on his way to the door. "Wait a minute." He said to
Cynthia: "We can't keep them out, my dear. I'll take care of them. You
go into the guest-room. You should stay here for the present, because
you can't protect yourself from intruders in your own place. I'll send
for Fanny Parran to be with you."

"I don't want anybody."

"Fanny is a woman in a thousand. She'll act as if nothing was the
matter."

"I wane to be with Dad," said Cynthia piteously.

Lee thought of the black stain under Gavin's head. "You shall be," he
promised. "When I get these people out of the house."

Lee took the precaution of locking the studio door and pocketing the
key. A swarm of reporters and photographers was then admitted. More were
arriving constantly. Lee told them a plain story of what had happened,
and let them copy Gavin's letter. He answered every question that he
considered a proper one, but nipped in the bud every attempt to make a
sensational mystery of the case. That section of the press which thrives
on sensation was disappointed. One or two of the men from the more
unscrupulous sheets edged to the door of the studio and tried it. Lee
said: "That's all now, boys. I've got a lot to do. I'll receive you
again at eleven o'clock to give you anything that may break in for the
later editions."

They left.

Fanny arrived, saddened and wondering. Lee said to her: "I rely on you.
Keep your ears open and your mouth shut. I want you to stay with Cynthia
for the present. Keep her occupied if you can. There must be family
letters to write and so on. She is under the delusion that her father
was murdered, and we must appear to humour it."

Fanny's eyes widened. "You don't think that . . ."

"Please God there's nothing in it!" said Lee. "One can face the fact
that Gavin left us because he wished to go, but if he was taken ... I
... Read that!" he said, handing her the letter. "What does it suggest
to a woman's intuition?"

Fanny read the letter, and considered. "It sounds," she said slowly,
"-what shall I say? Just a little highfalutin for a man so simple and
natural as Mr. Dordress."

Lee looked at her in surprise. "That's what Cynthia said. I hope you're
both wrong. Go to her."

Lee locked himself in the studio for an hour. When he came out his mild
face was stern and grey. Meeting Hillman drifting around the foyer like
a lost soul, he said: "You may telephone for the undertaker now. Let him
arrange the body suitably on a couch in there, and see that the floor is
washed, so that Miss Cynthia may see her father before he is taken
away."

"Yes, sir."

Lee went on to the two girls in the guest-room. When Cynthia saw his
face she cried out: "What have you discovered?"

He hesitated. "Tell me everything that is in your mind," she pleaded.
"Treat me like a man. It is the kindest thing you can do. What I cannot
bear is to be kept in the dark."

"I agree," said Lee. "What I have discovered raises a doubt in my mind
that Gavin killed himself."

"I knew he wouldn't leave me without a word," murmured Cynthia.

"What did you find?" asked Fanny.

Lee still had Gavin's letter in his hand. He said: "The yellow pad from
which this sheet was presumably torn was not lying on Gavin's desk when
we were in the room last night. The inference is that he got it out
later. If you run your finger lightly along the top of this paper you
can feel microscopic pieces of glue clinging to it. When I placed this
sheet on top of the pad and examined the edges under a strong glass, I
saw that these specks of glue do not fit with the glue that remains on
the pad. In other words, this is not the last sheet that was torn off
that pad. As a matter of fact, the pad was twice as thick as it is at
present when this sheet was torn off it."

The eyes of both girls widened when they took in the significance of
this. "Also," Lee went on, "Gavin's fountain pen was on his desk. I find
that he uses the sort of fluid that writes blue and darkens with time.
When I made tests with the ink I saw at once that this letter was not
written last night. It is several days old, possibly more than a week."

"What did I tell you?" said Cynthia.

"Wait! It is possible that Gavin may have written this several days ago
and have been keeping it."

Cynthia shook her head. "He could not have had any such idea when he was
talking to me last night."

"A forgery?" suggested Fanny.

"We may dismiss that possibility," said Lee. "Gavin certainly wrote this
letter."

"For some other purpose," said Cynthia obstinately.

"You may be right, but until we have further evidence, we must still
reckon on the possibility of suicide. . . . There is something else."

"Yes?" asked Cynthia anxiously.

"Six little marks on Gavin's forehead, as if he had struck against
something, not hard. I don't know yet what they signify. The police were
so sure it is suicide they paid no attention. I have made a sketch of
the marks."

"Anything else?" asked Cynthia.

"I found Gavin's address book, but the little book bound in green
Morocco which he entered ideas for plots, scenes and characters is
missing."

"It was always in Gavin's desk," said Cynthia.

"What happened last night after Fanny and I went home?" asked Lee.

Cynthia described what had taken place word by word, as closely as she
could remember. She cried out passionately: "It is easy to see who . .
."

Lee held up his hand. "Wait! My first rule is: Never be satisfied with
the obvious explanation. We must always have the unknown quantity in
mind. If there is a murderer it may be somebody we never heard of."

"If, if, if," murmured Cynthia. "You will drive me crazy with your ifs!"

Lee smiled at her. "Bless your heart! . . . We don't know all the
circumstances of Gavin's life."

"If you are implying that there is anything discreditable . . ."

"I'm not," said Lee; "but if there is, what difference would it make to
those who loved him?"

Tears gathered in Cynthia's eyes. "I noticed that there was a certain
coldness between you and Siebert last night," Lee hazarded.

Cynthia told him briefly what had happened.

There was a knock on the door. It was Hillman to say that Mr. Kinnaird
was asking for Mr. Mappin. Kinnaird was Gavin's attorney, a young man.
Lee went out to meet him. The two gripped hands. "Is there anything I
can do?" asked Kinnaird.

"Answer a question," said Lee. "You have his will?"

"Yes."

"Is it proper for you to tell me the provisions?"

"Surely. You and I are named as executors. It's a brief will. He leaves
everything to his daughter except for two bequests. Fifty thousand
dollars to the Authors' League Fund, and five thousand to his servant,
Robert Hillman."

"So," said Lee.

"You don't suspect that . . ."

"I suspect nothing," said Lee, "but I must look into everything."

The two men discussed the various measures that must be taken in respect
to Gavin's death. When the lawyer had gone, Lee addressed Hillman in his
mild way. "Hillman, tell me about Mr. Dordress' movements yesterday."

The gaunt man-servant was an abject figure. His hair was disordered, and
the neat black bow had crept around to the side of his collar without
his being aware of it. A natural grief for his master was hardly
sufficient to account for the frantic look in his eyes. Lee observed
that he had continually to pause and swallow his saliva. "Mr. Dordress
was working very hard on his play, sir. He was in the studio from
breakfast until lunch, and again after lunch. He went out for a little
while in the afternoon, but he was home by three and at work again. He
worked until it was time to dress for dinner."

"Did he say where he was going when he went out?"

"To the bank, sir."

"Any place else?"

"He didn't say, sir."

"Any visitors yesterday?"

"There are always callers, sir, but I had strict orders to say he was
out. He saw only one man. Mr. Alan Talbert."

"Who's he?"

"A young gentleman; a playwright, I believe. He addressed Mr. Dordress
as 'The Master.'"

"How long did he stay?"

"A few minutes only. The others who called were . . ."

"Never mind if they didn't see him . . . Now as to last night; as I
understand it, Mr and Mrs. Townley left together; shortly afterwards
Miss Garrett left; then Miss Cynthia."

"That's right, sir."

"What did you do then?"

"The hired servants had already gone, sir. I just looked around to see
that everything was all right, and I went home, too. Ten to eleven it
was when I left."

"How long was that after Miss Cynthia had gone?"

"Twenty minutes to half an hour, sir."

"Did you see Mr. Dordress before you left?"

"Yes, sir. Went into the studio to ask if there was anything he wanted."

"What was he doing?"

"Sitting in his big chair, sir, reading."

"Did he appear to be composed?"

"O, yes, sir. Spoke to me quiet and friendly. Said there was nothing he
wanted."

"Did you notice what he was reading?"

"No, sir. A little book with a green cover."

"He must have put it back on the shelf. It's not anywhere around now."

"Yes, sir."

"So you were the last person to see him alive," said Lee quietly.

Hillman's face broke up. He was squeezing his hands together to control
their trembling. "Don't say that, sir!" he stammered. "O, don't say
that!"

"Why not?" said Lee, affecting to be surprised.

"That's what they always say of a person when he is suspected of .. of
... Mr. Dordress was a good master. I have worked for him nine years . .
how could I . . .?"

"You are not suspected of anything," said Lee mildly. "Have you any
reason to believe that Mr. Dordress did not kill himself?"

"No . . yes . . how should I know?" stammered Hillman. "There was bad
talk here last night. You know about it."

"I know about it," said Lee dryly. "But everything points to suicide. I
suspect nobody. I am investigating merely to clear up any possible
doubt. Keep your mouth shut, Hillman. We must be careful not to start
anything that might sully Mr. Dordress' name."

"O, yes, sir! Did you know, sir, that Miss Garrett was overheard to
threaten Mr. Dordress' life?"

"Who overheard her?" asked Lee.

"One of the waiters from Millerand's, sir. It was when she first came.
Miss Garrett was the first to arrive."

"I hope the man will keep his mouth shut," said Lee.

"He said he would, sir."

Lee studied the butler. "Look at me, Hillman." The servant tried hard to
keep his eyes fixed on Lee's, but they would not obey him. "What are you
afraid of?" asked Lee.

Hillman began to tremble. "I . . . I'm not afraid, sir. Only distressed.
My master .. to go like this ..."

Lee cut him short. "Did you know you were down in his will for five
thousand dollars?"

Hillman made his face look glad and surprised, but it was not
convincing. "O, Mr. Mappin! No, sir. I didn't know! Five thousand
dollars! I can scarcely believe it!"

"It's true," said Lee, watching him.

"When will I get the money, Mr. Mappin?"

"I can't tell you exactly. In a week or two, I suppose. Have you a
special need of it?"

"Yes, sir. I'm buying a little restaurant, sir."

"If Mr. Dordress had not died where would you have got the money?"

"I suppose I would have gone to the loan sharks, sir."

Taking a new line, Lee asked: "What about the boy who was on the
elevator last night?"

Hillman was relieved. "Joe Dietz, sir."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"No, sir. Not to say a friend. I never took to the boy."

"Why?"

"He's too nosey. Always making up some excuse to get into the apartment.
He pesters the guests for autographs and sells them."

"Get him here if you can without arousing his suspicions. I don't want
to start anybody thinking there is a mystery about Mr. Dordress' death."

"Yes, sir."

Joe Dietz was hanging around in the lobby below and Hillman was able to
produce him in a few minutes. An under-sized young fellow with a mean
expression; sharp eyes darting in every direction. "Where is he?" he
asked.

Lee ignored the question. Hillman had his ears stretched, and Lee sent
him into the studio to tidy it up. To Joe he said: "Miss Dordress was
the last of the guests to leave last night, and after that Hillman went
home?"

"That's right, sir. Do you suspect that the boss was murdered?" he
asked, licking his lips.

"No," said Lee. "Mr. Dordress killed himself. I am merely trying to
establish a motive. Keep your mouth shut and I'll see that you are taken
care of."

"Yes, sir. You can depend upon me, sir," said Joe fawningly.

"After Miss Dordress went home, how long was it before Hillman left?"

"I couldn't tell you exactly, sir."

"Well was it a long time or a short time?"

"Shortish."

"An hour?"

"Not so long."

"Half an hour?"

"Maybe. I didn't take no particular notice."

Lee was unable to pin him down. He couldn't tell whether the boy was
trying to throw suspicion on Hillman, or was withholding the vital
answer to increase his own importance. Lee let it go for the moment.
"After Hillman had gone home did you take anybody else up to Mr.
Dordress' apartment?"

"No, sir."

"What were you doing at the time?"

"I took a sleep, sir."

"Where?"

"On the bench in the elevator. I left the door open."

"Where are the stairs in this building?"

"They run up in a fireproof shaft alongside the elevator."

"Is there a door to the stairs in the foyer?"

"Yes, sir. Right beside the elevator."

"While you were sleeping couldn't somebody have come up the stairs?"

"No, sir. The door's locked. It's a spring lock. If there was a fire and
the tenants run down the stairs they could open the door from the
inside. But on the outside you have to have a key."

"How did Hillman look when he came to work this morning? Distressed?
Excited?"

"No, sir. He looked the same as usual."

"Joe," said Lee very casually, "did you come up here to Mr. Dordress'
flat last night after Hillman had gone?"

Joe became very excited. "No, sir! No, sir I What for would I come up
here so late? I swear I never saw Mr. Dordress last night. May God
strike me dead if I ain't telling the truth!"

"Leave God out of it," said Lee dryly. He felt that the boy was lying
somewhere.

"Mr. Mappin, can I see him?" asked Joe with unpleasant eagerness. "No,"
said Lee.

After the boy had gone Lee called up Stan Oberry. Stan operated a small,
high-class detective agency, and Lee was accustomed to calling on him
for assistance. "Stan," he said, "there are two men that I want tailed.
The first is Joe Dietz, an elevator boy at-- Madison Avenue. He's
hanging around the lobby of the house off duty, if you can send a man
over. Joe is the rat-faced one. The other man is George Hillman, Mr.
Dordress' servant. He'll be busy in the house all day. While waiting for
him, your man might go up to 729 Calhoun Street, the Bronx, where he
lives, and pick up all he can about Hillman's family, his recent
movements, and his habits generally."

"Okay, Lee."

THE bell rang. When Hillman opened the door, the tall figure of Siebert
Ackroyd entered quickly. Siebert was terribly upset. "Is Miss Dordress
here?" he demanded of Hillman.

"I'll see, Sir."

"For God's sake, tell me plainly, is she here or isn't she?"

"I don't know if she can see anybody, sir."

"Well, go tell her I'm here."

Lee Mappin, hearing the voices, came out of the studio. He greeted
Siebert coolly, and Siebert, observing it, stiffened. Lee said to
Hillman: "Wait a moment."

"Are you giving the orders here?" said Siebert angrily.

"So it would appear," said Lee.

"By whose authority?"

"Cynthia's."

"And are you going to prevent me from seeing her?"

"Not at all. I merely wanted to have a few words with you first. Come in
here." He led Siebert into the gunroom out of the hearing of Hillman.

Siebert made an effort to overcome his angry manner. "Mr. Mappin, this
is a terrible blow to me," he said. "Please overlook it if I .. if I
..."

"Sure," said Lee equably. ". . . It is more terrible even than it
appears, Siebert ... I have reason to believe that Gavin did not kill
himself."

"What!" cried Siebert. "You mean you think "-his voice sunk-"murdered?"

"It is possible," said Lee. "I know I can rely on you to say nothing."

"But how? . . how?" stammered Siebert.

"I don't know. What did you do when you left here last night?"

Siebert's face flamed with anger. "By God!' are you suggesting that I .
. .!"

Lee betrayed impatience. "That's a foolish answer, Siebert. I am
'suggesting' nothing. I don't know what happened. I haven't any theory
as yet. It's my duty to follow up every line wherever it may lead. Where
did you go last night?"

"I don't have to answer you," muttered Siebert.

"Of course not. But a refusal to answer leads to a certain inference . .
."

A blank look come into Siebert's face. "I can tell you where I went," he
said slowly. "But I have no corroboration of it."

"Well, tell me anyhow."

"I walked the streets," said Siebert bleakly. "I was all upset. I had
quarrelled with Cynthia."

"I know that," said Lee.

This made Siebert freshly angry. "So she tells you all about me, eh?"

"What streets?" asked Lee.

"I couldn't tell you. I went over on the East side because I didn't want
to meet anybody. I went into different bars and drank. I couldn't point
them out to you."

"What time did you get home?"

"I don't know. It was after two. They could tell you at the Allingham,
where I live."

Lee nodded. "I'll tell Cynthia you're here," he said.

He found the two girls in the guest-room. Cynthia, with a quiet white
face, was dictating the necessary family letters to Fanny. Lee said:
"Siebert is here."

Cynthia sprang up. A little colour came into her face. "You want to see
him, then?"

"Siebert? Why of course!"

Lee took her hand. "My dear!" he said gravely.

"What is it, Lee?" she asked, anxiously searching his face.

"Keep a firm grip on yourself!"

Cynthia was very quick of apprehension. Every vestige of colour drained
out of her face. "Lee . . you don't suspect that Siebert could have . .
.?"

"I don't suspect him." he said. "I have no evidence. But he could have
done it."

"O, no! no!" she whispered. "Not Siebert! I couldn't bear it. Lee!"

"My dear," he said. "I believe you are brave enough to face anything."

Cynthia went quickly to the sunroom. Lee waited for her in the foyer.
When Siebert saw Cynthia coming, his angry, virile face turned imploring
and his hands went out to her. "Cynthia!"

She stopped short of him. He took a step towards her, but she fended him
off. "Has Mappin put that ugly suspicion into your mind?" he demanded.
"Have you turned against me?"

She shook her head. "I don't think there's anything in it."

"If I could only tell you how I felt when I heard what had happened!" he
said brokenly. "I mean, because I was angry at Gavin last night and
spoke against him. God help me! I felt as if it was my fault somehow. My
rage was only a flash in the pan, Cyn. I was sore because you kept me at
arm's length. I had nothing against Gavin, really. Nobody knows better
than me what a fine man he was!"

"Thank you, Siebert," she whispered.

His arms went out again. "Cynthia!"

She shook her head. "I can't! I am all empty inside ... I have no
feeling for anything or anybody now . . except him. . . . Thank you for
coming, Siebert."

He turned from her and strode out of the apartment without looking at
Lee. "He acted badly," Cynthia murmured to Lee; "he got angry. But that
doesn't mean anything. Whenever Siebert is distressed or upset he flies
in a temper and lashes out at whoever may be around him. It's just a
boyish trick."

"Very likely," said Lee.

"Lee, it couldn't have been Siebert!" she murmured, searching his eyes
for confirmation.

He pressed her hand. "Don't you believe me?"

"I neither believe nor disbelieve. I hope you're right. I'm waiting for
evidence."

"Then find it!" she cried. "Find it quickly! I must know the truth or
I'll go out of my mind!"

"Do you know Alan Talbert?" asked Lee.

"I've met him; a handsome young man, a playwright, a great admirer of
Dad's. Dad spoke of him as rather a silly fellow, but likeable."

"Is that all?"

"That's all I know."

AFTER Cynthia had been given an opportunity to be with her father,
Gavin's body was removed to a funeral establishment. Lee received the
reporters again, and answered their questions as far as he thought
proper. Lee was an old hand in dealing with the press, and
notwithstanding the reporters' cleverness, they were unable to extract
an admission from him that there was anything unexplained about the
death of Gavin Dordress. By this time the news was all over town, and a
long procession of callers began; Gavin's admirers, actors who had
appeared in his plays, playwrights he had encouraged. None of the other
guests at dinner the night before called or phoned, and Lee set out in
search of them.

First to the Townley Theatre where Mack maintained a luxurious suite of
offices. The outer room, where a line of playwrights and actors was
usually waiting, was empty now. Lee was told that Mr. Townley had
telephoned he would not come to the office. Lee could not go behind
that, though the frightened faces of elevator boy, receptionist and
secretary suggested that Mack was in fact in the building, probably in
one of the unbridled rages for which he was known. Lee left a note for
him, and proceeded to the Townley apartment on Park Avenue. Here a
wooden-faced man-servant told him that Mr. Townley had gone to his
office. "There's a lack of team-work," said Lee dryly. "Is Mrs. Townley
in?"

"No, sir."

"Can you tell me where she may be found?"

"I don't know, sir."

"When will she return?"

"She didn't say, sir."

While Lee was talking to the man a trunk was carried across the foyer
and out through a service door. "Has Mrs. Townley left the city?" he
asked at a venture.

"Well, yes, sir," admitted the servant.

"Why didn't you say so at once? Where has she gone?"

"I have not been informed, sir."

Lee could get no more out of him. Nor were the hallmen any more
communicative. From a booth in a drugstore he called Stan Oberry again.
"Stan, I have been informed that Bea Ellerman, that is, Mrs. Mack
Townley, has left town. Find out for me where she's gone. In the case of
so prominent a person it ought not to be difficult. If you have a
discreet man on call, let him try to find out what led to this sudden
departure. A woman might get it better."

"Okay, Lee."

Then to the Hotel Conradi-Windermere where Gail Garrett leased an
apartment. Lee did not send up his name but proceeded directly to Gail's
quarters in the tower. The door was opened by Gail's own maid,
Catherine, who was known to Lee. The elderly woman was pale and shaken.
Lee made believe not to notice anything out of the way. "Good morning,
Catherine. I'd like to see Miss Garrett for a moment."

"She's not in," muttered Catherine.

Lee could hear Gail's voice behind the closed door of the living-room.
He pushed past Catherine. After all, he had known Gail Garrett for
fifteen years.

"It won't do you no good!" complained Catherine. "She won't see you. She
won't see nobody!"

"She is seeing somebody now," said Lee.

"It's Mr. Bittner from the theatre."

Lee seated himself in the foyer. "I will wait until she is free."

Catherine, wringing her hands together, went away through a service
door.

Lee heard the rumble of a man's voice behind the living-room door. The
words were indistinguishable. Then Gail's voice, shrill and strident: "I
don't care! I won't appear. I won't! I won't! I won't, do you hear? All
right, put a notice in the paper; return the money. Don't you think I
have any feelings?"

Another rumble. "Get out!" screamed Gail with a startling addition of
profanity. "You're driving me mad! Get out! Get out, you fool! Close the
show. I will never act again! Never! Never! I'm through!"

Little Solon Bittner, Gail Garrett's producer, came out of the
living-room very red in the face. The door slammed behind him. The two
men nodded to each other; Bittner said to Lee with a desperate air: "She
refuses to go on to-night. She wants me to close the show. You are her
friend. Try to get her to listen to reason."

"Give her a little time, Bittner," said Lee. "She's had a terrible
shock."

"But if Miss Garrett is unable to go on because Gavin Dordress shoots
himself, it will make a scandal. It will injure her."

Lee shrugged.

The little man went on out waving his hands.

Lee knocked on the living-room door. "Gail, it's me. Lee Mappin."

"Go away!" answered a strangled voice.

"Sorry, I have to talk to you. It's imperative."

"Go away!"

Lee opened the door and walked in. The great beautiful room decorated in
the style of Louis Seize by a master, was all in disorder. One of the
gilt chairs was overthrown; clothes, pillows, torn papers were scattered
about. Gail, wearing an elaborate negligee, sat crouched in a chair bent
almost double as if in physical pain. In her hands she had a
handkerchief that she was slowly tearing into shreds. Her face was
ravaged-by grief, rage, fear; it was impossible to tell which; perhaps
all three. She looked terrible and she didn't care. "Get out!" she said
sullenly, with scarcely a glance at Lee. "I told you not to come in.
Have I no privacy in my own home? Can't I ever be left alone?"

"I'm sorry," said Lee, "but you must listen to me for a few moments." He
sat down.

She sprang up in a rage. "Must? Must? I'm not accustomed to that sort of
talk and I'm not going to take it from you! Leave my rooms or I'll
telephone to the office and have you put out!"

Lee faced her out. "You're only making a show of yourself," he said
calmly. "If you will stop to think, you must realise that I have always
been your friend, that I was Gavin's friend . . ."

She heard only one word of this. Clapping her hands to her head she
began to pace the long room with uneven steps. She had neglected to
fasten the negligee around her, and it streamed open revealing her
nightdress. "Gavin! Gavin! Gavin!" she wailed. "He's gone! Nothing can
bring him back to me. I shall never touch his hand again, nor hear the
sound of his dear voice! I cannot bear it! I will not bear it!"

Lee waited with a slightly cynical air for her to exhaust herself. She
turned on him suddenly. "You sit there as calmly as if you had come to
tea!" she cried. "You feel nothing! You are inhuman!"

"What I feel or do not feel has nothing to do with it," said Lee. "I
have work to do. There is reason to believe that Gavin did not kill
himself."

He noted that she was not surprised. She resumed her pacing. "What
difference does it make?" she mourned. "He is gone and nothing can bring
him, back to me."

"Last night you were overheard to threaten his life," said Lee.

That arrested her attention. She stopped, staring at him wildly,
pressing her face between her hands. "Overheard? By whom?"

"One of the waiters hired for the evening."

Gail sneered. "It's a lie! He can't prove it!"

"He can testify to it."

"Nobody would believe a waiter!"

"Unfortunately there were other unpleasant incidents. The scene when you
left."

"Who would dare to accuse me?" she demanded.

"My dear," said Lee dryly, "nobody is safe from an accusation."

She was intimidated by the quiet voice. She said, taking a lower tone:
"Would you accuse me of such a thing, Lee?"

He met her eyes squarely. "Certainly, if I had evidence that it was
true."

She became more conciliatory. "But Lee, everybody knows what an angry
woman is. She makes terrible threats without meaning a word of it. You
know I loved Gavin. I am shattered by his loss!" Lee said nothing. "What
did you come here for?" she asked sharply.

"To get you to tell me the truth as far as you know it. ... What did you
do when you left Gavin's last night?"

"I came home."

"Right away?"

"Just as quick as a taxi could bring me."

"Did you enter the hotel through the lobby?"

"I never use the lobby. I came in the private entrance for the tower
apartments."

"There are two elevators," said Lee. "Which one did you use? Right or
left as you face them?"

Gail's lip curled. "I suppose you are going to verify my statements by
questioning the elevator boys."

"Surely."

"All right. I came up in the left-hand elevator. And it was operated by
the one they call Vincent, one of the older employees. I hope you're
satisfied."

"Thank you," said Lee. "Did you go out again later?"

Gail bit her lip, hesitated, blurted out: "No!" Immediately she added:
"I suppose you'll question the boys about that, too."

"Naturally."

"All right," she said defiantly. "I'll save you the trouble. I did go
out again."

"Where did you go?"

"I won't tell you."

"That looks bad, Gail."

"I don't care how it looks. I was on my own private business."

"For your own sake I ask you to tell me," Lee said. "After all these
years you must know that you can trust me."

"You'll get no more out of me," she said with, tight lips.

Lee got up. "Then I'll have to find out through other sources."

"I wish you luck."

"I met Bittner outside," said Lee. "The poor fellow was in despair. Of
course, he stands to lose a fortune if you insist on his closing the
show."

"Closing the show?" said Gail sharply. "Whoever suggested such a thing?"

"You did."

"O, for God's sake!" she cried melodramatically, "why must you all take
me so literally! I'm not going to close the show. I'm a good trouper. I
shall go on as usual to-night though my heart is breaking!"

"Then you'd better telephone him," Lee suggested dryly.

Through one of the managers of the hotel who was an acquaintance. Lee
got in touch with Vincent, the elevator boy. Vincent told him that he
had taken up Miss Garrett about ten-thirty the previous night, and
almost immediately afterwards had carried her down again. She had taken
a taxi at the private door. It was a driver who regularly served the
hotel, and Vincent was able to give Lee his name. Later in the afternoon
the taxi-driver came to Lee's office and told the following story: "Miss
Gail Garrett hired me at the private door of the Conradi-Windermere
about twenty to eleven. I recognised her from pictures. She looked bad.
I thought she had been drinking. She told me to take her to-- Bayard
Street on the East Side. That's a bad neighbourhood. Near Chinatown. The
Nonpariel Social Club occupies two floors at that number. She sent me in
to ask tor a guy called "Cagey." He was there, playing pool, and I
brought him out to her ..."

"What sort of fellow?" interrupted Lee.

"He was well-named," said the taxi-driver. "Gangster, if I know
anything. A slick, smooth young guy with a wall eye. Swell dresser.
Eyetalian descent. A two-gun man by the look of him."

"Go on," said Lee.

"He leans in the back of the cab and talks to her. I can't hear much but
I makes out he's bawling her out for coming to him and leaving a
wide-open trail. Seemed funny a young East Side guy would have the face
to talk to Gail Garrett like that. I figures he must have something on
her. Well, she gets out and pays me, and I drive away leaving them
there, that's all."

"Damn!" muttered Lee. "Didn't you realise that you were on the track of
something? Didn't you watch them?"

The driver compressed his lips. "Sure, I thought it was funny, but it
was none of my business. Us hackies can't afford to get nosey. Mister.
The nosey ones just don't last." Lee gave him a tip and promised that
there would be more in it for him later if he kept his mouth shut.

Lee phoned to Stan Oberry for a report on the youth known as "Cagey "
who was a member of the Nonpariel Social Club in Bayard Street. Within a
couple of hours he was in possession of the following: "Francesco Chigi
(American pronunciation 'Cagey') known also as Frank Chigi, Cecco Chigi
and Cagey Frank. 23 years old; born at-- Mulberry Street where his
parents still live, but they have not seen him since he came out of
prison. Spent most of his boyhood in various Reform Schools and Houses
of Correction. Has served two years in Sing Sing for robbery and
assault. Is now credited with being one of Manny Peglar's 'torpedoes,'
ie., killers. Was arrested and tried last year for the murder of Goose
McAuley, member of a rival gang. Acquitted for lack of evidence. A
dangerous man. Is said to derive a good income from victimising wealthy
women. Several such are known to have fallen for his good looks. The
police say that it is useless trying to prosecute such cases. I have
verified your information that he was called out of the Nonpariel Social
Club at ten-fifty last night by a richly-dressed woman. They drove away
in a taxi. He has not been seen around his usual haunts to-day. I have
no information as to his present home. Additional report will follow."

WHEN Lee returned to the Dordress apartment the nervous Hillman said
that Mr. Mack Townley had not called on the phone. Mr. Emmett Gundy was
waiting in the sunroom. Lee went in to Emmett. No matter how poor Emmett
was he contrived to be well dressed. He would have gone without food
sooner than show himself otherwise. He was wearing the blue fur overcoat
which Lee thought silly. Lee had known him for twenty-five years, but
had not seen much of him lately. Out of doors with his hat on, Emmett
could still pass for a handsome young man. But of late his face had
taken on the sour look of one who feels that he is not appreciated. He
said the things that Lee had already listened to twenty times that day.
"What a terrible thing, Lee! Little did I think last night that I would
never see Gavin again! I can scarcely realise that he's gone. Every
moment I expect to see him come walking out of the studio. I didn't hear
of it until I went out at noon. Why didn't you send for me? Is there
anything I can do?"

Emmett had always been like that; self-centred. He couldn't get excited
about anything except what concerned himself. Lee sat down, suddenly
conscious of an immense weariness. He had had no time to indulge his own
grief. "There is nothing to do," he "aid. "It has all been taken care
of. ... But I'd like to ask you a question or two."

"Sure," said Emmett, "anything at all."

"You are one of Gavin's closest friends; first, I must tell you there is
a suspicion that he may not have killed himself."

"I'm not surprised," said Emmett. "There were ugly passions brewing here
last night . . . What evidence have you?"

"Practically none. It is chiefly Cynthia. She refuses to believe that
her father killed himself."

"That's natural enough," said Emmett. "Maybe when she gets over the
shock she'll forget her suspicions."

"Maybe."

"What did you want of me?"

"You and Louella Kip were the first ones to leave here after dinner last
night. Where did you go?"

Emmett smiled thinly. "You don't think that I . . .?"

"No! No!" said Lee wearily. "Gavin has been practically keeping me for
the last three months. It's not likely that I ..."

"Of course not. But answer the question."

"I told Gavin we were going on to another party," said Emmett. "That was
just an excuse to get away. As a matter of fact, Louella and I went
directly to my place. I had been discussing with her some changes I was
going to make in my novel, and we got out the script and went to work on
it. We got so interested in it we worked for three or four hours. It was
two o'clock before she went home."

"Where is your place?" asked Lee.

"It's a dump on East Thirty-fourth Street," said Emmett. "Number-- .
Just one room. I've been so broke lately I couldn't afford anything
better."

"Walk-up?"

"Sure."

"Did anybody see you come in, or see Louella leave?"

"I doubt it."

"Where does Louella live?"

"In a-boarding-house on Irving Place. Mrs, Cayley's."

"Thanks," said Lee.

He got up to indicate that he was finished, but Emmett lingered. "Have
you any theory as to what happened?" he asked.

"None whatever," said Lee. "I'm just working to satisfy Cynthia."

Still Emmett made no move to go. Finally he said: "I'm in a hell of a
hole, Lee. These circulating libraries are ruining us novelists. More
people are reading my novels than ever before, but my royalties are only
a third of what they were. Gavin had promised to lend me a hundred to
tide me over until I could collect my next advance. I was to see him at
five to-day. I don't know what I'll do now."

Lee thought: Always the same Emmett. He makes a touch with the air of
one conferring a favour. He drew out his cheque book. "Let me take his
place," he said.

"That certainly is good of you. Lee. I'll pay it back just as soon as I
place my novel."

When he had gone. Lee looked up Mrs. Cayley's number in the phone book.
In due course he heard Louella's gentle voice on the wire, and his face
softened; he liked Louella; everybody liked her. Her voice now was
shaken with distress. "O, Mr. Mappin, I can't tell you how dreadfully I
feel about Mr. Dordress! To have this happen so soon after we had seen
him! I didn't know him very well, but he was always so kind, so
warm-hearted, so generous, I felt as if he was one of my dearest
friends!"

There was no doubt of the genuineness of Louella's feelings. Lee said,
as if it were a matter of small concern: "There are various points in
connection with last night that I have to check up. You understand that
it's purely a formality. Where did you and Emmett go when you left
Gavin's?"

"We went direct to Emmett's place," she said quickly. "He wanted to read
me part of his new novel and ask my advice about changing it. We got
interested in it we worked over it for three hours more. It was nearly
two when I got home."

"Do you room alone?" asked Lee.

"Yes," she said in a surprised voice. "Why do you ask that?"

"Did anybody in the boarding-house see you come in?"

"O, no! At that hour it's like a house of the dead." An agitated note
came into her voice. "Why do you ask me these questions, Mr. Mappin. Is
there anything wrong? Is there .. ."

"No, indeed!" said Lee soothingly. "It's just a formality."

She did not sound altogether reassured. However, he bade her good-bye
and hung up.

Lee, looking for Mack Townley, called up his office, his home, the
Racquet Club, where he was accustomed to play handball in the afternoon;
the Federal League Club. He was said to be not at any of these places,
nor would any one tell Lee where he might be found. There could be no
doubt that Mack was deliberately keeping out of the way.

Before he was married, Mack had hung out for years at the Federal League
Club, and Lee had a hunch that he would fly back there like a homing
pigeon. He decided to take a chance on it. Putting on hat and coat
again, he had himself driven to the magnificent quarters of the Federal
League on Park Avenue.

To the boy at the desk he said off-handedly: "Mr. Townley phoned me to
come here for a conference. I'll go right up to his room."

Lee had the kind of front that impresses club servants, and the boy
never thought of questioning his statement. As he started up in the
elevator, Lee said suddenly. "There! I've forgotten the number they gave
me at the desk!"

"Whose room, sir?" asked the elevator man.

"Mr. Townley's."

"Number seventeen, sir."

Lee knocked on the door of seventeen and Mack's sullen voice answered:
"Who is it?"

Lee smiled to himself at the success of his ruse. "Lee Mappin," he said,
and went in without waiting to be bidden.

Mack Townley's heavy face was a study when he saw Lee. He was trying to
make out that he was glad to see him, but he could not control the flush
of anger. He sat relaxed and glooming in an easy chair by the window.
There was a whisky bottle on a stand within reach of his hand. "Hello!"
he growled. "I've been trying to get hold of you all day."

Lee's bland expression suggested: Not too hard. I think! He said: "I've
been trying to get hold of you, too."

Lee was shocked by the change that only eighteen hours had worked in
Mack. His face was ravaged as if by disease. The glass when he lifted it
to his lips trembled violently in his hand. "Have a drink," he growled.
"You'll find another glass in the bathroom."

"No thanks," said Lee. "You know me. I can't drink hard liquor before
dinner."

"God, Lee, this is a frightful blow to me! I can't face it!"

This sounded like something Lee had heard a short time before. These
mourners for Gavin's death thought first of themselves, it seemed. "I
got in a rage with Gavin last night," Mack went on. "I cursed him when I
left him. And then to hear that he was dead-God! It was as if I had
killed him by wishing him dead!" Mack, clenching his fist until the
knuckles whitened, pounded his knee. "God, Lee, I've been in hell all
day! I've been in hell!"

Lee regarded him speculatively. It was clear that the man was in hell,
but he wondered if Mack had given the true reason for it.

Mack squirmed under Lee's quiet gaze. "What did you want of me?" he
growled. "It seems we have been playing at cross purposes all day."

Lee's look said: The cross purposes were not mine! "I suppose everything
has come on you," muttered Mack.

"Do you want help? Is there plenty of money available?"

"O, plenty of money," said Lee.

"What is it, then?"

"Mack," said Lee, "there is a suspicion that Gavin did not kill
himself."

Mack's face flushed in a terrible manner that made it look blackish. "Is
there any evidence that he was put out of the way," he demanded harshly,
"or do you inspect me just because I cursed him last night?"

Lee faced him out. "Not much evidence," he said. "Did you read the
letter he left?"

"Yes. It was in the paper."

"It does not ring true," said Lee. "It is too general in its terms."

"Who's to say it doesn't ring true? Gavin was a queer fellow at heart."

"Certainly. Like all of us. But not queer in just that way."

"It it in his writing?"

"Yes."

"Then I don't see how you can go behind it."

"Mack," said Lee quietly, "what did you do when you left Gavin's
apartment last night?"

Mack's face turned black again. He half hoisted himself out of his
chair, then dropped back into it heavily. "I suppose you've got the
right to suspect me," he growled. ". . . After the way I talked. God
knows I had the will to kill Gavin last night . . but I didn't do it."

"Where did you go?" persisted Lee.

"Bea and I drove home to our apartment," Mack answered with a defiant
glare. "We went directly to bed. I read for a while and then I slept.
And that's that."

"What did you read?" asked Lee.

The seeming-simple question put Mack in a violent rage. "What the hell
is it to you what I read?" he shouted.

Lee shrugged.

Mack glanced at him almost with fear, and moderated his tone. "I don't
remember what I read. Some newspaper or magazine I picked up. ... I
admit I was upset. But gradually I quieted down."

"Where's Bea?" asked Lee.

Mack scowled at him. "Have you been looking for her?"

"Naturally."

Mack hesitated before he answered, drawing his hand down over his face.
It was apparent that he was almost at the limit of his endurance. When
he spoke he did not answer Lee directly. "People like us have no privacy
at all," he growled. "We live surrounded by a mob. Our so-called friends
force their way into our very bedrooms before we're up. We're spied upon
every moment by servants, reporters and God knows who all. When Bea
heard this morning what had happened she was in a state of collapse. I
have put her in a sanatorium to save her from prying eyes."

"Where?" asked Lee.

"I won't tell you that. Not even you. I promised her."

"You realise, of course, that Bea is the only one who can support the
alibi you have offered."

"All right," growled Mack, "if you want to bring a charge against me,
Bea will appear."

"I don't want to bring a charge against you," said Lee. "I want you to
give me the facts that will clear you once and for all."

"I'll satisfy you to-morrow," muttered Mack. "Just give me time to get
my grip."

Lee glanced at the whisky bottle but said nothing. "I'm not the only one
that had it in for Gavin," growled Mack.

"I'm following up every line," said Lee.

"Here's something you don't know," said Mack. "A week ago Gail Garrett
came to me to borrow a thousand dollars. I said: 'Good God, Gail!
Bittner is paying you fifteen hundred a week, and twenty-five per cent
of the net. The show is making money. Where has it all gone?' She said:
'It's my debts, Mack; they're keeping me poor.'"

"How do you figure that this connects Gail with what happened last
night?" asked Lee.

Mack said meaningly: "In this town there are guns tor hire, Lee. They
come high. Suppose Gail was getting the money together to hire a gun?"

"Did you let her have the thousand?"

"No. I have other uses for my money."

"I'll look into it," said Lee. "What day did she come to you?"

"Last Monday," said Mack, "the seventh."

Upon leaving Mack, Lee went to his office in Madison Avenue nearby, to
see if anything had come in. He found three reports waiting for him. The
first: "I picked up Joe Dietz at-- Madison Avenue and kept him under
observation until he started away at 2 pm. He took the subway to the
Bushwick section of Brooklyn where he lives. He entered a large poolroom
at-- Marcy Avenue and played pool. He was well known there. The place
was pretty full and I was able to mix among the watchers without
attracting attention to myself. The talk was all about the suicide of
Gavin Dordress. Everybody was asking Joe Dietz questions because they
knew he worked in the house. Joe was quite the hero of the hour. He
claimed to be a personal friend of Mr. Dordress' but it sounded phony to
me. He was acting mysterious, sort of letting on that it was no suicide
if the truth was known, and he, Joe, knew enough to bust the case wide
open if he wanted to speak. My opinion is, he was just running his lip,
as they say. He has the look of a loosemouth. He left the place at four
and I tailed him to his home at-- Bedford. He lives with his parents at
that address. I dropped him there and returned to the poolroom to see
what I could pick up It wasn't much. Joe is known simply as a young
waster who spends all his spare time playing pool with others of his
kind, and occasionally goes on the loose in the navy-yard section. The
only thing funny about him is, that he certainly has more money to spend
than the 18 or 20 a week he pulls down as an elevator man. "J.B."

The second report: "According to instructions I proceeded to 729 Calhoun
Street, the Bronx. It is a five-story walk-up apartment house for thirty
families. Pretty cheap rents. There is no family by the name of Hillman
living there now. The janitor told me they moved away about six weeks
ago. He didn't know their present address. I got some of their old
neighbours in talk. Hillman family consisted of father, mother and a boy
and girl of high school age. The father, a quiet man, worked long hours
and was rarely seen. His wife gave out that he was in the theatrical
business. Mrs. Hillman was not popular with the neighbours, being
considered too ritzy. Was always boasting about her rich friends. At the
time they moved she told her neighbours that they were in the money now,
and would be living in a much better style hereafter. She did not tell
anybody where they were going. On inquiring at the Post Office I found
they had left no forwarding address. When Hillman leaves his work
to-night I will tail him to his new home. "R.S."

The third report: "I ran down the driver of the taxi who carried Mr and
Mrs. Mack Townley from-- Madison Avenue to the Andorra Apartments last
night shortly before ten-thirty. His name is Dave Levine, of-- Scammell
Street. Levine told me that the couple quarrelled so loudly on the way
home that he could hear part of what they said. He was jealous; accused
his wife of being too friendly with Gavin Dordress. She threatened to
leave him. At the Andorra Mrs. Townley went straight in, but Townley,
when he had paid the driver, walked away down Park in a blind rage.
Tappan, night hallman at the Andorra, told me Townley returned at 3 am.
As Tappin put it, he looked as if he'd been through the mill. Townley,
still in a rage, left the house again about eight-forty. Two hours later
Mrs. Townley called a cab and had herself driven to Grand Central
Station. She bought a ticket to Reno, Nevada, and engaged space right
through. Her trunks were sent after her. I got next to Cobbett, the
butler at the Townley's, but he wouldn't talk. I'll try to get a line on
the other servants. "A.A."

Lee sat for a while, smoking and studying. Finally, he put the reports
in his pocket and went on to the Dordress apartment. His first thought
there was to consult the stubs in Gavin's current cheque book. He
discovered that on November 7th Gavin had issued a cheque to "G.G." for
a thousand dollars. Lee's face turned pretty grim.

LEE MAPPIN and Cynthia met in the sunroom. Under Cynthia's direction
Hillman was watering the rare ferns and tropical plants that had been
Gavin's pride. Cynthia was moving about pinching off a dead leaf here
and there, and tying up the plants that were too heavy for their stems.
At five o'clock she had insisted on letting Fanny go home. "Dad used to
do this every afternoon," she said, with a painful smile.

When Hillman had finished his job and departed, she wanted to know what
had happened. Lee hesitated. "You promised to tell me everything . .
everything!" she reminded him. "It is the only way I can have any peace
of mind."

Lee glanced into the foyer to make sure that the long-eared Hillman had
really gone, and closed the glass doors. "Various things have come to
light," he laid; "some with an ugly look, but nothing conclusive. At the
moment it is all at loose ends. None of them will tie together."

"Tell me," she said.

He did so.

Cynthia's pale face, refined by grief, turned hard. "It was Gail
Garrett," she murmured. "That's clear!"

"Keep an open mind!" Lee warned her, "until we turn up the final
positive proof."

Later, Lee said: "If you have no objections, I would like to send to my
place for a bag and sleep here for the next few nights."

"Objections? Of course not! But why. Lee?"

"I don't feel that I have got all the evidence that these rooms may
contain, and I don't like to leave the place unguarded. We can't trust
Hillman. I could pay him off and send him home, but how would I know
that he turned in all the keys? Or Joe Dietz may have secured a key to
the apartment. If I padlocked the outer door it would certainly start a
story that so