an ebook published by Project Gutenberg Australia
Title: The Umbrella Murder
Author: Carolyn Wells
eBook No.: 2400211h.html
Language: English
Date first posted: July 2024
Most recent update: July 2024
This eBook was produced by: Walter Moore
Chapter 1. - The Pajama Crowd
Chapter 2. - Under the Umbrella
Chapter 3. - Stone Makes a Suggestion
Chapter 4. - The Ha’ant of the Turrent
Chapter 5. - An Informed Inquest
Chapter 6. - Stacpoole Meade
Chapter 7. - The Disappearance of Jane
Chapter 8. - Strange Developments
Chapter 9. - Stone Investigates
Chapter 10. - Jed Cross’s Story
Chapter 11. - Stone Goes Calling
Chapter 12. - After a Golden Casket
Chapter 13. - Humphrey Holt
Chapter 14. - Holt is Kerflummoxed
Chapter 15. - Exit Holt
Chapter 16. - Another Murder
Chapter 17. - The Golden Urn
Chapter 18. - The Awful Truth
The state of New Jersey is probably at its best where it ceases to be. Which is to say that its sea beach is its most attractive feature.
Not at all like the stern and rockbound coast, where the breaking waves dash’d high, it is softly curving and undulating, and made of amenable and tractable brown sand. It is full of little inlets and outlets, little baylets and capelets, and it has a reliability that greatly endears it to those who know it well.
Therefore, when a company of wealthy and influential promoters wanted a site for a fashionable bathing resort, they wisely selected a long crescent of the Jersey coast, and set the fine Club Spindrift there.
It was a success from the first. Adopting and adapting the finest points of all known beach clubs, neither effort nor expense was spared to make the best and most elaborate beach resort in the country.
The Clubhouse was a gem in itself, and the Casino was another. It was all exclusive, and expensive.
Naturally, cottages and larger estates sprang up all round it, hotels were built and fine shops were established.
Not only from the nearby states, but from all over the Union, visitors flocked as soon as summer began.
The scene, one fair afternoon in July, was brilliant. In the background, the great Clubhouse, its awninged verandas filled with gay crowds; in the foreground, hundreds of beach chairs, some beneath startlingly patterned umbrellas, some bared to the sun’s rays, nearly all occupied by idling humanity, in the smartest of garb and the gayest of moods.
Some, to be sure, in chic summer costumes, but more in bathing suits or pajamas, or both.
Fleming Stone came down the Clubhouse steps.
He walked slowly, looking about him with a genuine appreciation of the scene. He reveled in color, and here, spread out before him, was perhaps the brightest, gaudiest coloring to be found in these United States. Other and more tropical countries could show greener foliage, bluer skies, more exotic humanity, but here was enough bright-hued, sunlit landscape to make the place look like a picture postcard.
Stone loved it all, and his eyes darted from one group to another, as he walked across the golden sands.
They weren’t particularly golden, except as the sun, still high above the Western horizon, gave them his Midas touch. But Stone liked phrases from old hymns, and “roll down their golden sands,” was a favorite line, however inappropriate.
He kept this little hobby quiet, however, for he well knew that a detective with an idiosyncrasy is a laughing stock, and he had already read of a Private Investigator who doted on hymn tunes.
Stone read all the detective stories that were fit to read. After a few pages he could judge of the fitness, and continue with the story or throw the book away. As he said, “You don’t have to eat a whole egg to know it’s bad,” and the number of discarded volumes in his waste basket would have shocked an economist.
Reveling in the color and movement that so appealed to his senses, Stone found for himself an unoccupied chair, shaded by one of the more decorously patterned umbrellas. He preferred this to sitting on the sand, golden though it was, and turning the chair around, settled himself with his back to the crashing, pounding waves, and facing the groups of chatting, laughing, rollicking pleasure seekers, he lighted a cigar and gave himself over to idle enjoyment.
A few casual acquaintances passed him, for he was staying at the great Inn near-by, but his half absent-minded nod gave them no invitation to join him, and they passed on.
And then, to his mild surprise, for whom might he not meet in this melting pot, an old time friend, Murray Enders came along, saw Stone, and stopped short in front of him.
“Hello, old top,” he cried, “why turn your back on the sea, the sea, the open sea, the blue, the fresh, the ever free?”
“What are you doing here, Enders,” Stone countered. “The last place I’d think of looking for you.”
“I don’t know why. I love all this hullabaloo. But I’d want to face the ocean, too.”
Enders corralled a chair and placed it to command a view of both the sea and also the gay parade, including Stone himself in his horizon.
“Just arrived?” Stone asked him.
“Shortly since. I suppose you’re at the Inn?”
“Yes.”
“I couldn’t get in there, crowded. I’m at a nearby cottage, not at all unattractive. Are you alone? Why are you here? On a case? Big one?”
“No case. And I’m alone. But I came, hoping to get a case.”
“Hoping somebody would be bumped off for your benefit?”
“No, but don’t you know the inviolable rule in all good story books? If the detective needs a holiday and goes off to take it, that’s the very time a great and important crime occurs at the place he has chosen to go to. So, I’m egging things on by being here when the crime comes off.”
“Grand idea. No signs of it yet, I suppose?”
“No; there seldom are signs. Such things usually come like a bolt from the blue. I’m glad you turned up; now if the crime doesn’t materialize, I’ll still have something to interest me. Staying long?”
“As long as I’m entertained by the show here. Looks all right, so far.”
“Yes, I suppose it’s as near the foreign watering places as one can get in this country. And our ocean, like Ben Adhem’s name, leads all the rest.”
“Yes. To him who admires that sort of thing there is nothing more beautiful than a smart bathing beach, complete with club house and casino and all that they contain.”
“And people, the right sort of people, don’t forget them.”
“What are the right sort of people?”
“Open your eyes and look around. These crowds are all right. That is they fit into this environment. They wouldn’t be right in a New England village or a Middle West town. But here they are perfect. I get immense entertainment from studying them. The costumes are a study in themselves.”
“They seem to me to be mostly pajamas.”
“They are. It’s the fashion this year. Look at the pajama progress. For women, they started as a sleeping garment. Then a boudoir lounging garment. Then a breakfast costume. Then, more elaborate, a luncheon garb. Now, they’ve dinner pajamas, and evening ones. These beach affairs are, of course, sports clothes.”
“I’d no idea you knew so much about women’s toggery.”
“I don’t, except as it touches on or appertains to my own lines of thought. You see, I can read character from a girl’s pajamas, more plainly than from her conventional costumes.”
“Well, look at this Queen of Sheba coming now. Read her for me.”
“Oh, that’s Janet Converse. She’s the big star of the whole firmament. Too well known to need reading. Belle, heiress, society leader, daughter of a hundred earls.”
But Enders scarcely heard the words so engrossed was he in the picture.
Seated in a red wheelbarrow, Miss Converse was propelled by a laughing young man, who ran the barrow smoothly along the damp hard sand, and paused before one of the largest and gaudiest umbrellas. He tipped the absurd conveyance and the occupant jumped lightly out, revealing a slender shape, garbed in pajamas showing horizontal Roman stripes, in exquisite colors. Beach clogs with cork soles protected her feet, and her laughing face was shaded by a flapping wide brimmed hat.
She threw herself on a rug under the umbrella, and made room beside her for her charioteer.
“Get your breath, Henry, and then go and get me some cigarettes, and anything else you can find you think I’d like.”
She stretched herself luxuriously on the rug already spread there, and as she threw off her hat the two men casually watching had opportunity to see her face.
Stone, having seen the famous beauty before, looked at Enders, and was not surprised to see that he was gazing at her, spellbound.
“Look out, old man,” he warned, “don’t, stare too openly.”
“Who can help it?” said Enders, under his breath. “She’s wonderful!”
“Lots like her down here.”
“No, no, there can’t be. I don’t believe it.”
“Well, her goblin’ll get you if you don’t watch out. He’s young Betterton, son of the big grape juice man.”
“I don’t care if he’s the big juice himself. Who could keep his eyes off that girl?”
Janet Converse fully merited all Enders said about her.
A perfect brunette, of the olive-skinned, bronze-haired type, she had regular features and rich coloring, but her chief charm was her great dark eyes, that, half hid by long, curling lashes, seemed to express every emotion known to humanity. Merriment and gayety were in the ascendant now, but those eyes could widen with a throbbing sympathy, or— yes, could narrow with instant understanding of an insult or a slight cast upon her.
For the leader of the younger set at Yellow Sands must of necessity now and then meet with petty annoyances, and they must be dealt with as only a leader could deal.
The pair under the umbrella were near enough for Stone and his friend to hear their conversation if the men chose to listen.
They did not, however, for first, the chatter was of no interest and second, the passers-by made a continual interruption.
“Well, what do you read from the Roman striped pajamas?” asked Enders, at last, wrenching his eyes away from the enthralling face.
“Only that her taste in clothes is worthy of her beauty and dignity.”
“I didn’t know the younger generation possessed the old-fashioned grace of dignity.”
“Then you know little about them. Your knowledge is probably gained from a comic strip or a trashy novel.”
“And you think they are worthwhile?”
“Don’t generalize. There are as many types of the younger generation as there are of the older; our own, for instance. But Miss Converse is unique. She has the poise and wisdom of a dowager duchess, with the madcap ways of the latest and up-to-date set.”
“You know her?”
“Oh, no. Except as I observe her in this way. They never notice me. No one sees anyone on the beach. And they have a crowd. ’Twill gather soon, and then you’ll see the cream of the smart set. They always flock round Miss Converse, and I’ve come to know them,—in my way. This one coming now is the Vamp. I don’t know many of their real names. I’ve named them as I see them.”
The new arrival was a long, thin girl, whose legs and arms dangled rather like those of a marionette. She wore jade green pajamas, whose slashed sides showed well tanned legs and a hint of a bathing suit.
With her came a fat, jolly looking chap, who, Stone informed, was Roger Pennell.
“I know the men, seeing them about the club,” he explained, “but the girls I’ve slight chance to meet. Pennell is a good sort, given to obvious jests and second-hand slang. The Vamp I don’t know at all, except that she is about the limit in that direction. Watch her and you’ll see for yourself. Oh, no, she won’t see you. Use a little discretion. They’re all accustomed to being stared at. Ah, here comes the blonde.”
A vision of pink and yellow loveliness came scampering along the sand. Though somewhat tanned, her exquisite face had kept its pearly sheen and her great violet eyes flashed smiles.
“Give me a place out of the sun,” she cried, looking about for the most desirable seat.
Two men had come with her, Adrian Payson and Doctor Cutler, Stone named them and the girl, he said, was Eunice Church, chum of Miss Converse.
“Wonderful pair,” said Enders. “Tempest and sunshine, darkness and daylight, all that sort of thing. Are they rivals?”
“They don’t have to be. They’re both first favorites, and about equally popular.”
“I like the blonde one best,” Enders decided. “She has more character.”
“Oh, come now, you can’t read character from beach togs. Don’t pretend it.”
Miss Church was in black pajamas of some thin material, which showed a white satin bathing singlet beneath. She threw herself down on the rug that was spread beneath Janet, and held out her hand for a cigarette.
The two made a wonderful picture, and probably knew it, and as probably scorned to think of it, being all too used to admiring stares from the passing throngs.
“Of course, they’re not the only interesting bunch on the sands,” Stone said. “There’s a bunch of gayer ones, but I think they’re wrong uns.”
“Here? Why are they allowed?”
“Not known. And I may be wrong myself. Probably am. But they don’t look good to me. We’ll sit where we can see them to-morrow. You don’t want to take in all the shows at once. Then there’s a crowd who look like gypsies, but that may be just their sun tan. And a group of Sunday school teachers or librarians from Fall River way. They’re adorable! Oh, there’s enough to look at beside the ocean. And one can always see that from the Inn.”
“Will all these be at the Inn to-night? Will there be dancing?”
“Nay, nay. Don’t get up any false hopes. The girls in this crowd are exclusive. They foregather at one another’s homes, I’m told. Oh, there’s the freak. Isn’t she perfect?”
She was. A somewhat dumpy little girl, enveloped in a voluminous beach cape that might cover any sort of costume. A flapping sun hat, and clumsy red clogs made up a figure more grotesque than picturesque. She stumbled into the crowd, spilling herself against the nearest man, who picked her up and placed her properly.
“There, Maisie, set still now, and behave like a lady,” Roger Pennell told her. “You’re just in time. This place is getting too full for one umbrella. It’ll bust.”
“I’m going into the deep,” announced Eunice. “Anybody of a same mind?”
“Whither thou goest, and all that,” Doctor Cutler declared. “Ready?”
“Wait a little bit,” said Janet, indolently, “the sun is on the wane. Let it wane a few minutes longer.”
One or two men joined the party, and as they crowded together under the inelastic umbrella, the girls were pretty well screened from the two men that had been watching them.
“There’s a better crowd,” said Stone, looking toward a group of what were unmistakably captains of industry or financial magnates, or promoters of some sort. “But you can’t scan them so closely. They’d spot you. The youngsters don’t care, but these fellows have eyes and ears alert.”
“You like that younger generation, Stone, don’t you”?”
“In spots, yes. But that lot is a choice collection. They’re not the slangy smarty-cat sort. They’ve brains and education. I don’t have to know them personally to get their status. There are more here like that, but not many.”
“I thought the flapper type was all alike.”
“They’re not flappers. They’re older, probably twenty-two or three on the average. Flappers are in their teens. Then these girls and their men, too, are clever. They’ve traveled and read and they really know things.”
“You in love with one of them?”
“Don’t know any of them to speak to and don’t want to. Can’t you understand a disinterested interest? To my mind the whole younger generation is misunderstood. I approve of their having their own way. Why shouldn’t they?”
“Whether their way is good or not?”
“We have our way whether it’s good or not.”
“Oh, all right, only I’m surprised at all this from you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a detective, or supposed to be one.”
“I am one. That’s why I detect the good and worth-whileness in these much-maligned young people. Let them express themselves. If they’re right, so much the better. If they’re wrong, it will teach them a lesson.”
“All right, I’ll look into what you say. Can’t judge it off hand. Your friends the young people are getting up. Going to bathe, I suppose.”
“Probably. They slip off those pajama things and emerge like Aphrodite, or nearly, ready for the crested waves. The freak and young Payson are going first.”
“Is he the rich son of his father?”
“Lord, no; he’s a poor artist. I suppose he thinks the freak is modernistic.”
“They’re all going. They’re tumbling out in a hurry.”
“And we must go, too; anyway, I must. Dine with me to-night, Enders. Glad to have you.”
“All right, thanks. I will. Shall I come over to the Inn or meet you at the Clubhouse?”
“Come to the Inn. Maybe I can wangle a room for you there, if you want it.”
‘‘I do. And I’d like a picture of that freak, as you call her. It would make a wonderful comic valentine!”
The two men strolled off, and two other men dropped quickly into their vacated chairs. Club Spindrift had lots of chairs, but never quite enough.
“Turn your chair around,” one said to the other. “Why would anybody sit backwards, I wonder?”
“Not a bad idea. You get a fine view of the crowds.”
The young people who had been with Janet Converse had left her, all but one or two. The last, Clementina Fair, the one Stone called the Vamp, and Henry Betterton came out laughing, from under the umbrella, though Betterton turned to look back at Janet.
“What’s the matter?” he said, incuriously.
“Nothing. The wasp stung me. Run along.”
“Guess we’d better,” for Janet was rubbing her hip and seemed about to investigate the wasp’s sting.
The pair ran off, and Janet sat alone, waiting for someone else she expected.
Patting her lovely costume into place, and leaning back against the upright of the big umbrella, she closed her eyes and waited.
Nick Morton she was waiting for, and Nick Morton came.
The two men sitting in the beach chairs became suddenly interested. For Morton leaned closely over the girl, and put an arm round her.
“Janet,” he said, “Janet, wake up!”
Many people looked at the pair.
Not that it was unusual to see a man’s arm round a girl, but there was something in Morton’s attitude that made for alarm, or, at least, concern.
“Something doing,” murmured one of the watching men.
He rose and went over to the umbrella.
But as he bent down and looked under the rim, Morton gave him such a look of angry reproof, that he concluded his well meant offer of help was ill-timed, and went back to his chair.
“Queer tricks,” he said to his companion. “That girl has fainted or something; but he gave me the icy stare, and I thought I’d better clear out.”
“Yes, better so. One too many, probably.”
“Didn’t look like that— Hello, there is something up!”
Morton hastily came out from the umbrella and hurried away.
And then, another young man came, apparently a friend, for he called out, “Hullo, Janet, where are you?”
Getting no answer, he stooped and peered under the umbrella, and then he hurried off.
“I can’t stand this,” the interested observer declared. “I’m going to investigate.”
“Better let it alone. You get mixed up in it and you’ll be sorry. Let it alone, Jack.”
“I’m going to tell the beach-master, anyhow. I tell you there’s something wrong.”
The young man, Belden his name was, sought out a beach guard and brought him to the spot.
The guard peered under the scalloped edge of the umbrella, then lifting the scallops, looked closely at the girl.
“It’s Miss Converse,” he said. “What’s the matter with her?”
“I don’t know that anything is. But she seems ill.”
“Where’s her folks? She’s gen’ally with a bunch of swells.”
“I don’t know. I just came here myself.”
“Who are you? What’s your name?”
“Belden,—John Belden. I belong to the Club.”
“Well, you stick around. I’ll scoot up and get the house detective. There’s something the matter. You stay right here, now, mind.”
“I told you you’d get into a mess,” said his friend, as the guard hurried away.
“Well, it had to be done.”
“You didn’t have to do it. Now you’re in for a lot of bother.”
“Guess I can stand it. Here comes the house detective from the Casino.”
“What’s all this about?” was the familiar greeting, as Detective Taylor stooped down to the umbrella. “My, my, Miss Converse,—and all alone! Why, she’s— Here, Sam, go down to the surf, see, right down there, and bring Doctor Cutler back with you. Fly, now!”
Sam flew, and returned quickly, Doctor Cutler with him.
“What’s happened?” cried the doctor. “What’s happened to Miss Converse?”
“That’s what we want to know. Is she ill?”
“She’s dead,” said Cutler, in a choked, gasping voice. “Keep back the crowd, somehow; give me room.”
He bent over Janet, made several tests and rose, dripping as he was, to shake his head and say, quietly, “Yes, dead. We must get her home,—”
“The coroner—” timidly put in the detective. “Oh, my Lord! Who is he? Where is he?”
“Littell. His house isn’t far away. Shall I get him?”
“Yes, of course, as quickly as you can. Can you get me a coat or something? Can you send to my house for my man? I don’t want to leave here. Janet Converse! Oh, my God!”
A crowd of peeping Toms began to gather round the big umbrella. The Club Spindrift was exclusive and select, but that did not preclude its members from exercising the very human trait of curiosity, and even the surf was deserted for the more interesting spectacle on the beach.
But the Club’s administrative department was of the best, and policemen and beach guards were already roping off the area of the tragedy, and pushing back the oncoming hordes.
Belden, unable to sit still in his chair, was as near as he could get to the rope, and Fred Layton, his friend, was close beside him. They saw the coroner had arrived, and so looked for developments.
“Who is she?” asked Coroner Littell, looking curiously at the beautiful face.
“Miss Converse,” answered the Club detective. “She’s the top of the heap and the belle of the ball, and everything you can say about her.”
“Don’t tell me that way. Who is she?”
“She’s an heiress in her own right. Parents killed in a motor accident about three years ago. She lives in Twin Turrets, that big stone house up on the ledge. The place they call haunted, you know.”
“I know,” the coroner nodded. “Who lives with her?”
“Only an old aunt, Miss Winthrop. A termagant sort, but quite capable of taking care of her niece, who, by the way, was quite capable of taking care of herself.”
“Nobody else in the family?”
“No. Hordes of servants, but no more family. Who’ll go and break the news to the aunt person?”
“Perhaps I’d better,” offered Doctor Cutler. “I’m a friend of the family and their doctor, though they’ve seldom had occasion for my services.”
“Well, Littell, what’s your verdict?” the detective asked.
“Haven’t any. I can’t see a thing the matter with the girl. I hate to fall back on ‘heart failure,’ but what else can I do?”
“That’s the way it looked to me,” said Cutler. “There’ll have to be an autopsy, of course?”
“Yes. Now, shall we take the body to her home or to the mortuary? Seems to me those are the only proper places.”
He was interrupted by two girls who came flying into the little group.
Under the ropes, pushing aside the men, they paid no attention, to orders or reproofs, but flung themselves down beside the body of Janet and sobbed and cried as they caressed the cold form and kissed the waxen face.
“This won’t do, young ladies,” said the coroner, mildly.
But the detective was more brusque, and he even went so far as to grasp the girls by the arms and order them out of the enclosure.
Doctor Cutler seemed to side with the latter, and said sternly, “No, it won’t do, girls. Clem, Eunice, you know better than to act like this. Get away now. Go home, and I’ll see you this evening and tell you all there is to tell.”
“But what happened? Is it a stroke? You tell me, Mr. Detective.”
It was Clementina Fair talking, the one Stone had called the Vamp, and she was trying her charms on the burly official.
But it didn’t work, and he gruffly ordered them away.
“Come on, then, Clem,” said Eunice Church. “If they won’t let us stay, they won’t. Who’s going to tell Miss Jane, or does she know?”
“I said I would,” Cutler told them, “but I must go home to dress. Can’t you girls look after that? It might come better from you, anyway.”
“Yes, we will, if you want us to,” Eunice said, “we have to dress, too, but we can go up to the Turrets first. Miss Jane will probably have a stroke, though. It might be better for you to go, Doctor.”
“No, she won’t have a stroke. She’ll have hysterics, maybe, but you and Mrs. Mulvaney can pull her through. I’ve a lot to tend to.”
“Can we help? What can we do?”
“Not much. After you settle Miss Jane, go home and stay there. You’ll probably have a whirl of reporters to see you.”
“Why to see us?” asked Eunice.
“Only because you’re Janet’s nearest friends, and belong to her set.”
“All right, we’ll take care of the reporters.”
The two girls walked away, and a silence fell upon them.
“What did she die of?” asked Eunice. “I don’t understand it.”
“I don’t either,” Clementina returned. “She had nothing the matter with her, of that I’m sure.”
“Sometimes people have ailments and don’t know it.”
“But not Janet! She was a perfectly wonderful specimen of health and strength. I don’t much fancy this job of telling Miss Jane.”
“Nor I. You begin it. I’m not good at that sort of thing. I’ll help after you start it. What a horrendous looking house!”
They had reached the old stone house that was Janet’s home. A somewhat dark and gloomy walk led from the street to the front door, and the girls traversed it slowly, as they delayed their errand as much as possible.
The house itself was modeled in general on a mediaeval castle, though with no pretensions to exactitude.
In the middle was a large and high tower, in which was the front entrance. Either side of the tower was a turret, joined only to the upper stories, with a sharp, pointed roof.
Then the two wings of the house came out at right angles to the tower and the turrets, giving no front facade but a right angled frontage that was both picturesque and effective.
The rest of the house had more turrets and many gables and dormers, and though the whole was fantastic and odd, it was interesting, and in its way, beautiful.
Yet it had a gloomy aspect, partly because of its old dark stone walls with here and there a clambering ivy or woodbine, and partly because of its desolate surroundings.
Away from the gay beach, away from all sight, though not away from the sound of the ocean, Twin Turrets stood on a bleak, wind-swept plateau, with only a few soughing pines to relieve the blank monotony.
At the rear of the house attempts had been made to brighten the effect. But these only served to make an incongruous innovation. Bright-hued flower beds were out of place in this atmosphere of majestic gloom. But the flower beds were there, also tennis courts and croquet grounds and an archery range.
Janet’s father had left no stone unturned to make the place pleasant and happy for his idolized daughter. Stretching off to a wide distance was one of the best golf courses in the state, and a beautiful lake added to the general charm. Yet, withal, the great pile of stone and masonry dominated it all, and no amount of modernity could make Twin Turrets anything but dour and menacing. Inside it was much the same.
The girls were used to it, but even so, a sinister chill struck to the hearts of Eunice and Clem as they rang the old-fashioned, jangling doorbell.
A medley of old and new was Twin Turrets. Electric conveniences of the most modern rubbed shoulders with ancient contrivances that ought to be relegated to the junk heap. But this was all Mr. Converse’s will, and since his death, Janet had kept as far as possible to his laws and wishes.
The great hall, as well as many other parts of the house, was dark and full of shadows. Enormous fireplaces, rather frequently used, because of the thick stone walls, often cast flickering lights from their dying embers. Long, deep-set windows gave little daylight, and though there was electric light in abundance it was seldom turned on, save for frolics or wild parties of the young people.
Janet had come to like the semi-gloom of the old torcheres and candelabra, and her aunt liked whatever Janet liked.
For absolute devotion and even idolatry, it would be hard to parallel that of Jane Winthrop for her niece. Not only did she think everything the girl was and did was absolute perfection, but she fairly reverenced her as a superhuman being, an angel, a seraph.
Janet was a lovely character, there could be no two opinions as to that, but she also had a high temper, though not a quick one. Never did she flare up suddenly, but if offended, she had a deep and implacable wrath that was hard to overcome. This trait, however, Miss Jane ignored, and would have denied had anyone dared mention it to her, which no one ever did.
Jane Winthrop herself was a New England spinster, and ran true to form.
With the exception, however, that she allowed herself to be influenced by Janet’s ways and wishes, and bowed to her niece’s dicta without a murmur.
She shortened her skirts, bobbed her hair, and made up her face in obedience to orders, and as Janet’s orders were well-advised, Miss Winthrop was by no means ridiculous.
Her soft gray hair was duly curled in gentle, broken ringlets, her make-up was appropriate and not overdone, and her costumes were triumphs of the best dressmaking skill.
Aunt and niece were congenial and affectionate and Janet often wondered what she would have done without Aunt Jane.
Miss Winthrop didn’t like Twin Turrets, couldn’t abide it, in fact, but Janet did like it, so that was all there was about that.
Jane could never forget the legends and traditions about the old place.
Two suicides and a murder were vouched for, and other tragedies hinted at. Janet laughed at these; said they were forgeries anyhow, and at any rate had no bearing on the present day. But the turret room, the highest room of the Eastern Turret, was carefully avoided by Miss Jane; and even Janet herself didn’t go past it at dusk.
Terror Turret it had come to be called, and nobody knew just how the name had originated. Timid servants told of groans and moans coming from its darkened recesses, but Janet’s youthful outlook on life paid small attention to these things. Sometimes at Hallowe’en the crowd would venture a journey up there, but nothing ever really happened, though the mischievous ones pretended it did.
Still, both Janet and Jane had heard strange noises from its direction, but, with a strange reserve, never mentioned these things to one another.
An awful legend decreed that anyone seeing the ghost that lived in Terror Turret was doomed to die within the year.
Janet had seen the ghost, and this experience she had told her aunt about.
Miss Jane begged and besought her to move to another home, but Janet only laughed and said, what was good enough for her father was good enough for her. She had no fear of legend or tradition, she set down the ghost she thought she saw to her imagination, and she dismissed the whole affair from her busy mind.
Of a happy disposition, with everything in the world to give her pleasure, Janet Converse accepted the gifts the gods provided, with no thought of fear or trouble.
And now, Janet was dead, and two of her friends were deputed to tell Miss Jane.
The girls were let into the great hall by Betts, the dignified butler.
There was a large staff of servants at the towers, all of whom Betts, and his wife, the cook, ruled with a rod of iron, they themselves being ruled in turn by the housekeeper, one Molly Mulvaney. Mrs. Mulvaney was a personage, made so by her own peculiar and powerful personality. To a degree, she ruled both Janet and Jane, but there was a limit to this, when they took the reins themselves.
The transition from the shadowy hall to the cheery reception room adjoining was a welcome change. The girls breathed a bit more easily when they seated themselves on the flowered chintz sofa, clinging together for mutual support. Miss Winthrop came into the room.
Her face was rather commonplace, but her gray eyes, under bushy eyebrows, scanned her visitors piercingly.
She was tall, and thin. Gaunt was not quite the word, but a certain awkwardness of stride precluded all hint of grace.
Her hands and feet were large, her flat chest a trifle hollow, and her manner far from gracious.
She stared at the girls, wondering why they had come when they must know Janet was down at the beach.
“What’s it all about?” she asked, curtly. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” Eunice answered, feeling that the sooner they plunged into the matter the better.
“Janet?” Miss Jane gasped now. She gripped the chair arms with both hands, and even planted her feet more firmly before her, as if to brace herself for the shock.
The two girls nodded, unable to speak.
“Tell me! Tell me all, quick!”
But they couldn’t. Eunice looked pleadingly at Clementina, who gave her an equally distressed glance, and both burst into uncontrollable sobbing.
This told Miss Jane the story.
“So she’s dead, is she?” she said, in an icy voice quite unlike her own. “Who killed her?”
“We don’t know that anybody did,” Eunice began, but Miss Jane snapped her up short.
“Well, I know. I know she was killed and I know who did it. Now, tell me about it.”
As Eunice said afterward, she thought Miss Jane must be out of her mind. She looked so white, her eyes glittered, and her lips parted themselves over her teeth as a mad woman’s might.
Clem tried to help along.
“We have no reason to think,” she began—
“We? Who’s we? Who’s doing this thinking?”
“Well, all our crowd were there; at least, we weren’t there when—when—”
“When she died,” said Jane, calmly. “Go on, tell me of her death. What do I care where your precious crowd were?”
“She was alone—”
“She couldn’t have been! Where was the murderer?”
“Let me tell it,” said Eunice, “Please listen, Miss Jane. We were in the ocean, most of us. Janet didn’t go in, she was expecting a boy friend or somebody and told us to run along. Well, first thing we knew, somebody came racing for Doctor Cutler, and he went in a hurry to Janet’s umbrella, but when he got there she was—gone. It was some sort of stroke—”
“Stroke!” Jane snorted. “Girls of twenty-two don’t have strokes!”
“Well, that’s what they said. Then the coroner came—”
“The coroner! Oh, my God!”
Eunice decided it was better to finish it up at once.
“Yes. And the police and all. It has to be done, you know. Now, they’re taking her—”
“Where? Where?” Miss Jane almost screamed.
“I don’t know; probably they’ll come and ask you that. We just came to tell you before those strange men arrived. They’ll be here, I suppose, any minute.”
Miss Jane straightened up, pulled herself together and rang a bell. Molly Mulvaney answered it.
“Tell Mrs. Mulvaney,” Jane said.
The girls told the housekeeper the story.
Jane Winthrop watched them and listened, as if fearing they’d tell it differently this time.
But they poured it out, both talking at once, in practically the same words they had used before.
Molly Mulvaney was a comfortable looking person, as placid and phlegmatic as Jane was nervous and excitable.
Being housekeeper, she was, of course, garbed in black silk, but it was of a cut and finish seldom seen in housekeeper’s costumes. Whatever Janet Converse had about her had to be good to look at.
Mrs. Mulvaney, at a nod from Jane, had taken a chair, and sat with her big blue eyes fastened on the two chattering girls. Irish, with an American gloss, she showed her birthright in the gaze of those deep Irish eyes. Few could brave her steady gaze and tell anything but the truth.
“Mercifulation!” she exclaimed as they concluded the tale, for Molly Mulvaney had her own expletives, “what a coil! Not only that the poor darling is dead, but all the kickooin’ there’ll be straightenin’ of it all out.”
“Oh, Molly,” wailed Jane.
“And you say you know who did it?” Molly went on, turning to Jane.
“I didn’t say it to you.”
“I heard you. I was listenin’ at the door. If you know, tell.”
“No. If I’m right, it’ll come out of itself—”
“Shoo, shoo! We all know, of course. It was, it must have been the Turret Ghost.”
Molly’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, and the girls clung closer to one another, not daring to shriek, with Miss Jane glaring at them.
But Mrs. Mulvaney sat calmly rocking in her easy chair, and save for the drawn brows and agonized look in her eyes, one might have thought her callously indifferent.
The girls knew better, though, for Molly Mulvaney was a close second to Jane Winthrop herself in her love for Janet.
“And when are the pests comin’ to do their inquirations?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Eunice told her, “but soon, probably. They’re not ugly; you know, they have to ask everything, of course, but they can’t help that. And we want to find out the truth. If anybody did kill Janet, we want him punished—”
“Oh, yes, oh, of course. You know, I suppose she had her diamond necklace with her.”
“No!” came in three varying notes of amazement. “Her necklace! With her bathing togs!” Eunice exclaimed.
“Yep,” Molly asserted. “She was going to have it rejuvenated or something. Some of the settin’s was comin’ unset, and she slipped it in her pajama breast pocket, last thing as she left the house. She was goin’ to give it to Mr. Payson to see to. Like’s not she did.”
“Oh, then it’ll be all right,” and Eunice gave a little sigh of relief. “But what’s a necklace when Janet is—is gone! Maybe it was the reason, though.”
“Of course it was the reason,” Jane declared. “If she hadn’t had that cursed trinket on her, she’d be here now!”
“Oh, come now,” Molly said, “you can’t make such declamations unless you know more about the circumstances. Goin’ to get a detective, Miss Jane?”
“By no means. You say the police are looking up things, Eunice?”
“Yes, Miss Jane.”
“They’ll do it then. They’re better than those cockylorum Private Investigators.”
“My, you know a lot about it!” said Molly, and then Betts announced Doctor Cutler and Inspector Hambidge.
“Shall we go?” whispered Clem, but the Inspector heard her.
“No, miss,” he said. “Remain, if you please.”
The Inspector was a big, burly man, uncultured, but not at all self-conscious. He had a rather pleasant address and a really winning smile. But something in the corners of his firm set mouth indicated an ability to gain his point, whatever it might be.
Doctor Cutler made the necessary introductions, and Molly Mulvaney remained in the room, without asking permission.
“Just tell me all you know of your niece’s doings to-day,” Hambidge said to Miss Jane.
And with no show of emotion, no hesitation of any sort, she did so.
“Janet didn’t come downstairs till lunch time,” she said. “She was up, I heard her about in her rooms, but I didn’t see her till we met in the dining room.”
“Did she seem about as usual?”
“Exactly the same as always, so far as I could judge.”
“Well, she didn’t,” put in Molly Mulvaney. “She had been fussing around the turret rooms, and that always makes her a bit hitchety-potchety.”
“How do you know?” Hambidge asked. “Did she say so?”
“She didn’t have to. I saw some white chalky dust on her upper sleeve, the sort of dust that is nowhere else but in that damned turret.”
“You have the detective instinct, Mrs. Mulvaney?”
“Of course; everybody has, only not everybody knows how to use it.”
“You didn’t notice the chalk marks, Miss Winthrop, nor the fact that Miss Converse was nervously upset?”
“No, I didn’t, and Mulvaney didn’t either. She’s making that all up.”
Molly said no word, but rocked placidly to and fro.
“And after lunch,” the Inspector continued, “what did she do then?”
“The crowd were running in and out, as usual,” Miss Jane stated. “They were mostly out on the rear terrace, and they didn’t do anything special. Just sat around and jabbered, in that foolish way they have. Then about three or so, they drifted off and Janet dressed for the beach.”
“In her striped Roman pajamas?”
“Yes. That’s her newest beach rig. Then she went to the beach. Young Betterton called for her, and took her over in a wheelbarrow.”
“A wheelbarrow?”
“Yes, that’s one of their fads. And, I think you ought to know, Inspector, that she had with her a very valuable diamond necklace.”
“What? what? A valuable necklace? Why did she have that?”
“She was going to send it to be repaired. I don’t know whether she did or not.”
“I told you it was a moil!” moaned Molly. “Now, you’ll go off half cocked, thinking it was a robbery business, and it wasn’t.”
Hambidge looked at her curiously.
“Do you know anything more than you’re telling us, Mrs. Mulvaney?”
“I haven’t told you anything yet. You haven’t asked me anything. But, no, I don’t know anything. I wish I did. I’d tell quick enough.”
“Did Miss Converse say what time she would come home?”
“No, she never does. She comes when she likes. Oh, tell me,” Miss Jane broke down now, “are you bringing her here?”
“Yes,” the Inspector said, gently, “and very soon, I think. I must go now. This necklace matter puts a different face on the affair. Describe the jewel, will you?”
“You tell him, Eunice,” Jane begged.
“It was a beautiful necklace,” Eunice said. “Not a fancy setting, but just a string of diamonds of finest grade and graduated size. The setting was platinum and almost invisible. It looked like a string of large pure dewdrops. I don’t know what was the matter with it. I didn’t know it needed repairing, but Mr. Payson can tell you that. He has a cousin who is a jeweler, and doubtless he was going to take it to him to be fixed.”
“We’ll see Mr. Payson at once. As Mrs. Mulvaney truly says, the case is a complicated one.”
He hurried away, leaving the others to bombard Cutler with questions for which he had no reply.
In the spacious lounge of the Yellow Sands Inn, Fleming Stone and Enders sat talking.
“You said,” Enders smiled, “if you came down here for a holiday something would turn up. You couldn’t ask for a more sensational case.”
“I don’t care for sensational cases, and I’m not in on it, anyway. You don’t think, do you, that I can walk in and take hold of a case without being invited? I’m not a gate crasher.”
“Who would ask you? The police?”
“Not they. They’re nice enough to me, and always willing to work alongside. But if my services are engaged in this instance it would have to be by one of the family.”
“There seems to be so little family,” Enders said, musingly. “The old aunt person is all there is to it, so far as I can see.”
“There must be other relatives. But I don’t know. Anyway my hands are tied. And I admit I should like to get into it. It’s a more complicated matter, I take it, than appears on the surface.”
“You think it’s murder, then?”
“So far as I can see, yes. Anyway, when somebody dies from no known cause, there must be an investigation. And the investigation of this thing calls for delicate handling. I’m not fancying myself over much, but I’ve had experience in ways that these policemen haven’t. And I’m pretty sure they’re going to muddle it.”
“You’ve heard about the diamond necklace?”
“Yes. And that messes it all up still more. She was so young, you see.”
“And had such a lot of young friends.”
“I don’t think the young friends are necessarily the guilty ones. Yet they may be. Young people are equal to anything nowadays. But seldom murder, unless there’s homicidal mania somewhere. That’s why I say there’s such a lot to be done. Enough routine work for a whole force, and enough psychoanalysis for two or three doctors.”
“Oh, if you’re going to lug in psychoanalysis—”
“I’m not. But it may lug itself in. Then, nobody’s looking for clues, that I know of. The sand is probably full of them. But I’m losing interest if it’s a mere diamond robbery. The chief charm of the case was its apparent lack of motive.”
“You know a lot about it. Who told you?”
“I mostly overheard it. You can’t sit here alone half an hour, as I did before you came, and not hear talk. My hearing is acute, and without trying to listen, lots of information comes my way. Here’s Pennell, I’ll introduce you.”
Stone made the two men acquainted and a few commonplaces ensued. But Roger Pennell, usually so breezy and full of fun, was silent and subdued.
“I can’t talk about the tragedy,” he blurted out, finally, “and—I can’t talk about anything else. Have you seen Cutler come in?”
“Not to-night, no.”
“He’ll know something when he comes. God! What an awful thing! Janet, of all people in the world, Janet! There can’t be any foul play, Mr. Stone! There just can’t. Who could want to harm Janet?”
“It may have been sudden illness,” suggested Stone.
“But that’s unlikely, too. A blooming, healthy girl like that!”
“Were you there?”
“Sure I was there. We were all there, all our crowd, I mean.”
“How many?”
“Oh, about eight or nine, I suppose.”
“All under one umbrella?”
“Yep. We spilled over, of course, we were tumbling about, and then several of us ran down into the surf. Janet didn’t, but she shooed the rest of us away, said she expected a boy friend. I don’t believe she did, though.”
“Then why did she want to get rid of you?”
“Dunno. But when Janet says go, we goeth, and when she says come, we cometh.”
“She’s an autocrat, then?”
“Rath-er! But we all loved her, oh, better’n anybody in the world!”
“Was young Payson there?”
“Adrian? Oh, yes. He kept asking Janet for her necklace, but she didn’t give it to him, at least I didn’t see her do so.”
“Who were the last to come out from the umbrella?”
“Lemme see. Why, Betterton and Clem Fair. I was outside, and I saw them scrambling out. Janet was all right then.”
“You’re sure?”
“Why, yes. I mean she looked all right. She was pawing at her rigging, said a bee had stung her or something, but I don’t think she meant it.”
“Had she been natural—normal all afternoon?”
“So far as I noticed, yes. But Janet was moody, always. She’d be gay as a lark and then suddenly go broody. Of course, I wasn’t one of her favorites.”
“No? Why not?”
“She thought me a buffoon. I am, I suppose. But some of ’em like me, so I worry along.”
“You admired Miss Converse?”
“Who could help it? I would have been anything she wanted me to, if it would have done any good. But there were too many in the field. I had no showing.”
“Who was the likeliest winner?”
“Betterton, I suppose. Or Cutler. But she didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve. Seldom having a sleeve. Anyway, she was the loveliest thing God ever made, and now she’s gone.”
Pennell got up hastily and walked away.
Shortly after, Cutler came in and dropped into a chair near Stone and Enders.
“I wish you were in on this deal, Mr. Stone,” he said, looking hot and bothered. “The police down here are stout fellows, but they’ve no imagination, and what this case needs is certainly imagination.”
“They’ll probably take care of it all right,” Stone said, “and anyway they can get help from Trenton or from New York.”
“Not likely. They’re the sort who want to do it all themselves. Well, I’ve just come from the Coroner’s office, and he can’t find a single thing wrong with the body. There’s absolutely no sign of any illness, or anything like a stroke or heart attack, nothing wrong with the stomach or other organs; in fact, no explanation of the death.”
“Looks like one of those rare poisons from the tropics—” began Enders but Cutler interrupted.
“That’s an exploded theory. Those rare and undiscoverable poisons are non est. Don’t bank on ’em.”
“Be careful,” Stone advised. “They’ve roused that sleeping dog again. They say now such poisons do exist, but after all it may be only a newspaper yarn. That’s where I read about it. What is Doctor Littell’s final decision then?”
“He doesn’t seem to have any. He’s just flabbergasted. He sits and thinks, and then he sighs and goes back to thinking again. I say, Mr. Stone, have you any idea? You know about the rare poison, do you know of any other possibility?”
“Doctor Cutler, you must take into consideration the laws of professional ethics. I’m not employed on this case, I have no right to comment on it or advise about it. I wish I had. I don’t mind owning up I’d like to plunge right into the mystery. But it can’t be done. If Miss Winthrop asked me to, or if the police invited me to help, I could get into the game, but as it is, I can’t.”
“All right, I’m going to ask Jane Winthrop to call you in. She wants to know what happened to Janet, and—”
“No,” said Fleming Stone, sternly, “you mustn’t do that. The invitation, if it comes must be voluntary.”
“Well, look here, then, Mr. Stone, if you do know anything definite, anything that might help, won’t you tell it? Don’t you think it’s your duty to tell it? If not, why not?”
Stone sat very still, apparently thinking deeply. Enders, who knew him better than Cutler did, could see that he was uncertainly pondering on an important decision.
At last he said, “Where is Littell’s office? Is it far?”
“No, quite near,” said Cutler, eagerly. “I’ll take you round there. Will you go now?”
“Yes. I’m not sure I’m doing right. The coroner would have good reason to be very annoyed with me. But if it should be a point that he has overlooked, it might give a new turn to the whole problem.”
Almost in silence the trio walked to the office of the coroner.
It was a modest cottage, off the main road, and set well back from the surrounding hedge.
They were admitted, and Littell looked at his visitors in more or less amazement.
“You want to see me?” he said. “Mr. Stone, isn’t it? How do you do, Doctor Cutler?”
Enders was introduced, and a somewhat awkward silence ensued, broken by Stone’s calm, clear voice.
“Doctor Littell,” he said, “I have no right to come on the errand that brings me here. I want to make a suggestion to you, a suggestion regarding this Converse case. You have a perfect right to resent my remarks as interference, and if you do so, I shall have no choice but to withdraw them.”
The coroner did not look at all encouraging, and Cutler concluded the jig was up.
But whether Stone’s purposeful look or his sudden half movement to rise, gave Littell a feeling that he would never get this chance again, he decided to make the most of it.
“It is not my custom, Mr. Stone, to discuss these matters with a layman and a stranger,” he said, a trifle haughtily, but with a wistful look in his eyes. “But I’m willing to admit that I’m at the end of my rope. Certainly something is to blame for this girl’s death. Doctor Cutler and I have endeavored vainly to find out what it is. Now, if you can give us a hint, I shall frankly be glad of it.”
“Is the body still here?” asked Stone.
“Oh, yes, in my laboratory.”
“Then let us go there, you, Cutler and I. And I don’t suppose you’d object to the presence of my friend Enders.”
“Not at all,” and the quartet went to their gruesome job.
A few bits of explanation told Stone all he needed to know about the results so far of the autopsy.
“My information,” Stone said, slowly, “is based entirely on hearsay, even gossip. I gathered, quite incidentally, that Miss Converse said a wasp had stung her.”
“Yes, I heard that said, too,” Littell rejoined, “but I paid small attention to it. There is no swelling, or inflammation, no sign of a sting, and if there was, it couldn’t cause death so quickly. It might bring on blood poisoning, but—”
“Are you willing to look?” Stone asked, mildly.
“Why, yes, if you like.”
“Pennell said it was on her hip,” vouchsafed Doctor Cutler.
A careful examination was made, but it was Fleming Stone’s sharp eyes that at last found a minute puncture on the left hip.
“There we are,” he exclaimed, and Littell brought a lens to examine it.
“That’s no wasp sting,” declared the coroner.
“No,” Stone agreed with him. “Now, if one of you doctors will cut into the heart, the upper part, and be quick to note any odor—”
“My God!” exclaimed Cutler, “you don’t mean—” Enders left the room, the gruesome spectacle proving too much for his nerves.
But the coroner made the incision advised by Stone, and immediately both he and Cutler were conscious of a faint smell of bitter almonds.
“Prussic acid!” Cutler cried, at the moment Littell said, “Hydrocyanic acid!”
“That’s it,” said Stone. “Inserted with a hypodermic needle. That’s the only way it could not be discovered. Now who did it?”
“Poisoned!” murmured Littell in awed tones. “That puts a different face on things. It couldn’t have been any of those rollicking youngsters! You can’t believe it of them!”
“We must be prepared to believe anything of anybody,” Stone said, soberly. “There is the fact, poisoning by hypodermic injection. Now it’s up to you people to find out who did it. I wish I was on the force, but I’ve no right nor reason to interfere.”
“No,” the coroner said, with rather a relieved air, “you can’t take part in this thing unless you’re asked.”
Stone gave him a whimsical smile, greatly amused that the coroner proposed to adopt his advice and follow up his hints taking all the credit to himself.
Stone didn’t care a rap, but he made up his mind to give no more assistance unless invited to do so.
“Have you any suspects, beside the crowd of young people who were with Miss Converse at the time of the tragedy?”
“But,” Littell returned, “you can scarcely say they were there at the time of the tragedy. We have decided that death occurred some fifteen or twenty minutes after the young people left her. So that lets them out.”
“Not necessarily,” argued Stone. “You know it would take that poison about that long to become fatal in its effects.”
He began to think Coroner Littell had but slight experience with deadly poisons. But that was not his affair, so he rose to go, feeling his errand was accomplished.
“You hold your inquest to-morrow morning, Doctor Littell?” he asked, affably.
“Yes, at ten.”
“Can you be ready? There seems to be so many sources of information that must be investigated.”
“Oh, a lot of the routine work is already done,” returned Littell, airily. “We’ve sent officers to search the rooms of all those youngsters, looking for the diamond necklace.”
“Didn’t find it, did you?”
“Well, no. Not yet. But it must be tracked down.”
“The younger generation is pretty clever, you know. Perhaps they can hide it successfully.”
“Don’t think for a moment, Mr. Stone,” broke in Cutler, “that any of our crowd stole Janet’s necklace, or—or committed this awful deed.”
“But you’ll question them?” asked Stone.
“Yes, indeed,” Littell declared. “And there are one or two that may easily be the ones we’re after.”
“It’s almost impossible to suspect a beautiful girl or a fine upstanding young man, but everybody must fall under suspicion until the right one is found.”
And then Stone collected his friend Enders, and the two went back to the Yellow Sands Inn.
“Some dub, old Littell,” remarked Enders, scornfully.
“Not a genius,” Stone agreed. “It’s going to be a tricky case. But they’re not going at it with any degree of system or method. You can see it’s all new to them, they’ve never had a murder case before, and they’re so set up with the glory and honor it’s bringing them, they can’t think of the real work to be done.”
Hambidge was waiting for them when they reached the Inn.
“I say, Mr. Stone,” he began, sitting down beside them, “Do give us a leg up won’t you?”
Stone laughed. “How can I? I’ve no official standing and no way to get any.”
“Well, listen to this. My men went to all the homes of those youngsters and searched for that diamond necklace.”
“And didn’t find it?”
“Of course not. Rubbishy performance, I say. But the girls and the young men were very nice and quite willing we should mess around their belongings all we liked. Me, I went to Miss Church’s home, and by golly, it’s a fine place. Why her bathroom has what they call a sunken tub or pool or whatever, and lilies growing up in it. Not real flowers, you know, but glass ones, with lights inside ’em.”
“All those grand houses are like that,” Stone smiled at the enthusiastic face.
“Well, I didn’t know it. All new to me. And in the bathroom was a little refrigerator—just a tiny one.”
“A nursery refrigerator they call it,” Stone told him, “but I fancy it’s used for an occasional cocktail party. This case will be a liberal education for you, Hambidge. Here comes that Belden person. Now what does he want?”
“Hullo, friends,” Mr. Belden said, jovially. “Can I chin in with you a little bit?”
“Not very long,” Stone replied, as the remark had been addressed to him. “I’m going to tuck in early to-night.”
“Oh, now, now,” chaffed Mr. Belden, “that won’t do. Stay around and see the dancing, even if you don’t participate. Don’t s’pose you feel just like it with this tragedy hangin’ over your heads. You know, Mr. Stone, a friend of mine and me, we took the seats you and your friend vacated, on the beach. So, while you could see and did see all the first part of the performance, we saw the last of it.”
“What did you see?” asked Hambidge, showing only a slight interest. “Or are you saving your story for the inquest to-morrow morning?”
“Oh, no, no. Not much to tell,—only what I saw.”
“Well, what did you see?”
“You know, all the bunch ran off and left Miss Converse there alone. Now, I know she sent ’em off, ’cause she was lookin’ for another beau. Well, he came.”
“Did you know him? Miss Converse had innumerable beaux.”
“Yes, I knew him. It was Nick Morton.”
“Nick Morton! Man, you’re crazy, it couldn’t have been Morton.”
“All the same it was. And he knows her pretty well, for he called her Janet, and put his arm round her.”
“Morton did! Why, the chap’s a bounder! A— well, he’s no sort of person to be with Janet Converse. Are you sure you know him?”
“I know everybody. I know all those youngsters, and I don’t give every one a clean bill of health, but I’d rather suspect Morton. He came along, you see, Miss Converse was quite evidently expecting him, and he sat down beside her, sort of snuggled up, the way those young folks do. ‘Janet,’ he says, puttin’ his arm round her. ‘Janet—’ Well, that’s all I heard.”
“Hmph. You didn’t hear much. But what I can’t understand is Morton being there at all. He doesn’t belong to their crowd, does he? You say you know everybody.”
“No, of course he doesn’t belong to their crowd! What he was doing calling on Miss Converse, I can’t imagine. Well, anyway, he was there as I say, and sittin’ up close to her, then the next thing I know there was something queer going on.”
“That’s what we want to know about. What did you see of the queer goings on?”
“Well, instead of holding the lady like a fella would, he seemed all of a sudden to be holding her up because she needed support. I sensed something was wrong and I left my chair and went over to see. But Morton gave me a fierce look, as much as to say get outa here! so I got. My friend who was with me advised me to keep out of it—”
“Well, you didn’t get in it very deeply, did you?”
“No. No, Mr. Hambidge, but I thought you’d be glad to get this side light on the matter. If not, I’m sorry I bothered you with it.”
“Who came out from under the umbrella last, before Morton arrived?” asked Stone, quietly.
“Lemme see. Why, it was that young Betterton and Miss Fair. They ran down to the beach, laughing and waving their hands to Miss Converse.”
“Did she wave back at them?”
“I dunno. I was lookin’ at various things and I didn’t notice.”
“I wish I’d stayed a little longer,” Stone said, regretfully.
“Why for? I can tell you exactly what happened. Well, you see, as I was saying, Morton must have thought Miss Converse was upset, or—must have done something to upset her, for he got up and ran away.”
“Ran away?”
“Yep. Like he was goin’ to get help or something to give her, you know. And, while he was gone, another man came along and stooped down to peek under the umbrella.
“‘Hello, Janet,’ he said. ‘How’s everything?’”
“Who was this man?”
“That I don’t know. I mighta known him, you see, but his back was to me, and I couldn’t be sure. Anyway, he looked scared—”
“How do you know, since you didn’t see his face?”
“That’s so. How do I know?” Mr. Belden seemed nonplussed. “Well, I expect I just sorta gathered it from his manner. He was shakin’ as if he was plumb scared outa his wits, and he backed away from that umbrella, like it had the plague. Then, he turned and mixed with the crowd and I lost sight of him.”
“And you’ve no idea who he was?”
“Nope. A stranger to me, and mighty few folks is strangers to me, I can tell you.”
“Well, then, Morton came back?”
“No, Morton never did come back. I went and told the beach-master there was something wrong, and he came along and he saw it was Miss Converse, and he got busy. He sent for Doctor Cutler,—but you know all that. No, sir, Morton never came back, as far’s I know.”
“Queer. Where does Morton live?”
“At Twin Pines Cottage. Oh, I s’pose he’ll say, when he came round again, other people had it in charge and all that.”
“His getting into the case at all is fishy,” declared Hambidge.
A page brought a message just then that Mr. Stone was wanted on the telephone.
“Hello,” said Stone’s pleasant voice, to be answered by slow, drawling tones: “This Mr. Fleming Stone?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I’m Molly Mulvaney. I’m housekeeper for Miss Jane Winthrop—you know?”
“Yes, I know. What is it, Mrs. Mulvaney?”
“Well, Miss Winthrop, she wants you should take up this case,—her niece, you know—”
“I know.”
“She wants you should come to see her about it to-morrow morning at nine o’clock.”
“I’ll be there, Mrs. Mulvaney. Tell her so, please. Good-night.”
The Atlantic coast, especially in the cove known as Yellow Sands, was usually of a gentle, serene temperament, with just enough rollicking waves and boisterous breakers to make the surf exciting for the bathers.
But often at night, as if knowing that there was no reason for restraint, the sea broke bounds and lashed and roared with real fury.
It did so on this night, the night that Janet Converse lay dead in the coroner’s laboratory, and in the old stone house Jane Winthrop and Molly Mulvaney sat vainly striving to comfort one another.
“I can’t believe it,” Janet said for the dozenth time, and Molly responded, “Jest don’t try to believe it. Now, Miss Jane, ’scuse me for speakin’ out like, but you know yourself you got your work cut out for you. Here you are, all of a suddent made the custardian of a big fortune. You got to be careful about that. Careful and dignified. You can’t just pitch it all over to them lawyers and say, ‘Look after that for me.’ You got to watch your step.”
“Why can’t I? Of course I shall leave all business matters to the Randall firm. They are the lawyers for this family and I don’t know a thing about such matters. Janet didn’t either. Her parents had full faith in the Randalls and I have, too. Don’t be silly, Molly.”
Miss Jane was an austere, rather pompous scion of an old New England family, and, ordinarily, would not have thought of discussing matters with her housekeeper.
But with Janet gone, and no one to talk to, she threw Heaven’s first law to the winds and made a crony of the faithful and sensible woman at her side.
Nor did she make a mistake in so doing. Molly Mulvaney had more good common sense than many women of higher education and better breeding. She now, however, thought only of some comforting words or diverting thoughts to ease Jane Winthrop’s aching heart.
The two sat in a small cosy sitting room, much liked by Jane when alone.
Like all the rooms, it had the deep mullioned windows, with their small diamond panes, the thick stone walls, and as always in a wind storm, the branches of the trees blew against the windows with a mournful tattoo, and now and then a crash, that made the two women jump.
Bold and gray the great house stood facing the tumbling, towering waves, and for the first time in her life, Jane Winthrop felt a fear of the place.
“I don’t like this house, Molly, I don’t like to live here.”
“Well, Miss Jane, you don’t have to live here now, not if you don’t see fit to. You can do what you please, bein’ your own mistress, and as you well know, Janet would want you to do whatever you calklate is best.”
“Oh, hush! I can’t think of making any changes yet—”
“Well, you don’t have to,—yet. Take it easy. Lord knows Miss Jane I ain’t belittlin’ your grief, far from it. But I do say as how if you’ve got to meet a thing, why, just buckle right down to it. Now, you’re goin’ to see that detective gentleman to-morrow, you know, — oh, my land, what’s that?”
A loud noise in the room above startled them both. They stared at one another.
“Got goin’ again,” said Molly, succinctly. “Now I do beg and pray of you, don’t go rampoosin’ upstairs.”
“Of course I’m going upstairs, and you can come with me, or stay behind, as you choose.”
“Small choice in rotten apples,” Molly sighed deeply. “If you go up, you well know I’ll go up. Pile ahead, let’s get it over.”
“That noise was in Janet’s room,” Miss Jane stated, “probably a picture fell—”
“Probably it didn’t,” responded the less optimistic Molly. “It’s the Ha’nt of the Turret, that’s who it is.”
“Well, then let’s drive him out.”
“Drive him out, is it? Drive out the Son of Belial, the Kin of Satan!”
But for all her fear, and she was shaking with it, Molly went ahead, and Jane followed her closely.
Janet had chosen to room in this turret, the next to the top floor being her bedroom.
It would have been a grim, austere place, but that she had decorated and embellished it until it was beautiful, if perhaps a trifle over ornate.
Many rooms opened out from the turret room, and several of these were part of Janet’s suite. None was as forbidding as the turret room, and the dressing rooms and bathroom were gems of modern beauty.
Molly opened the door, with a fine show of bravery, and the two women stepped inside.
They went in quietly, switching on a dim light as they entered.
In the quietness of the night, for it was quiet between the wind blasts, they stood still, listening.
A faint moan could be heard, seeming to come from the walls.
Jane grasped Molly by the arm.
“We never heard anything like that before,” she whispered.
“It’s the wind,” said Molly.
But another stillness came, and the listening pair heard again the sad wailing moan, as of a dying soul.
And as they still listened, a word was faintly breathed:
“Beware,” they heard, though so low was it spoken it was scarce audible. Then followed:
“The treasure,—give up the treasure.”
Then again the sighing, moaning wail, and all was still.
“What did it say?” asked Molly, who was a bit deaf.
Jane told her, and added, “It doesn’t mean anything. There isn’t any treasure.”
“Plenty of jewelry in the house—”
“They don’t mean that.”
“What do they mean, then?”
“Oh, I don’t know what they mean. How should I know? But they needn’t think I’m afraid—”
A deep, sepulchral groan interrupted her speech. It was not like a voice, but more like a hollow dreadful inhuman sound.
It made Miss Jane Winthrop eat her words, and clutching Molly by the arm, they ran down the stairs to the light, cheery sitting room.
“Now, look here, Miss Jane,” Molly said, speaking very seriously, “if so be’s you know the meanin’ of them strange noises, I say you ought to tell me. If you don’t, well and good. But if you do, I say it’s my right, the way things are, to be told a few knowledgeable bits. How about it?”
“You’re right, Molly, and if I knew who is responsible for that horrible performance, I’d tell you in a minute. You don’t imagine it’s spooks, do you?”
“Yes, I do, and you do, too. You can’t fool me with your pretendin’ it’s human bein’s, for I know you don’t think that any more’n I do. And who could it be? Who’d have any wish or want to scare two poor lone women into fits? No, sir. If ever there was any sperrits walkin’ this mortal earth, this is the time and them is the sperrits. Deny it if you can, Jane Winthrop!”
“I don’t know what to think, Molly. But I must go to bed now. I’m ill,—really ill, and I can’t face the day before me to-morrow unless I get some rest.”
“Now that’s good common sense talk. Come right along, Miss Jane, and I’ll tuck you up and give you a nightcap, and by morning you’ll feel better able to face the music.”
“Yes. That man’s coming to-morrow, and they’re bringing Janet home to-morrow,—oh, my little darling. Molly, who did that awful thing to her?”
“There, there, now, leave it all go for to-night. If you don’t, you’ll be down sick abed to-morrow. And for the land’s sake what would I do then?”
“All right, I’ll go to bed, and you fix me a posset, will you?”
“That I will, and a good one, too. You’ll forget your troubles for a few hours anyhow.”
Molly was as good as her word and in less than an hour she had Miss Jane quietly asleep under her silken coverlets.
But not for long did that quiet sleep last. A high strung nature like Jane Winthrop’s couldn’t rest with a mind full of grief and anxiety.
In the small hours she awoke to a realization of it all, and the rest of the night she spent in feverish tossing and intermittent spells of silent weeping.
So that when Molly entered her room at eight in the morning she found a woman who was really ill, and threatened to become worse.
“I’m going to call Doctor Cutler over,” Molly said, and Jane raised no objection. “And you can’t see that Mr. Stone,” she went on.
“No, I can’t,” Jane said, weakly. “Call him up right away and tell him to come to-morrow morning instead. Tell him I’m sorry, but I’m really ill from shock and grief, and I’ll be better to-morrow. He’ll understand.”
“Of course he will.”
Doctor Cutler came, and was not at all surprised at his patient’s condition. Even though he knew nothing of the excitement of the turret room, he knew Miss Winthrop had had enough to worry her to cause a nervous breakdown, and he was surprised that it was not worse than it was.
“Now don’t make a fool of me, Doctor Cutler,” Jane said, bluntly. “Just prescribe a day of rest and quiet for me. Give me a sedative, if you like, which I will throw out of the window, or give me a tonic, which I will take.”
“That’s the talk,” Cutler said. “You’re worth a dozen of those young people, Miss Jane. They’re going all to pieces with their nerves and all that, while you, who have the greatest grief are bearing it bravely.”
“Will it matter if I don’t go to the inquest to-day?”
“It doesn’t matter whether it matters or not, you’re to stay in bed all day to-day. Those are my orders.”
“Until they bring Janet home,” said she, softly.
“That’s up to you,” he replied, understandingly, “but don’t go in to see her with anyone else, unless it’s Mrs. Mulvaney. I mean don’t let those youngsters get hold of you and drive you crazy with their chatter.”
“I certainly shan’t, you may depend on that. Call in again this evening, won’t you, Doctor, and tell me how things go at the inquest. I dread to hear about it, and yet I feel I must.”
“That’s a natural feeling. Yes, I’ll run in to-night. Dear little Janet, she looks so beautiful. Now, be brave, Miss Jane, as Janet would have you.”
Cutler went away, wondering how she would take it when they did bring Janet home. Calmly, most likely. She was a remarkable woman, he knew, and he looked for no real illness.
He hurried along to the inquest, knowing he would be one of the first witnesses. Turning to look back at the old stone house, he wondered, first, why anyone ever built such a monstrosity, and second, why anyone ever bought it to live in.
Though it purported to be copied from a mediaeval castle, it was a poor copy. To be sure, it had its good points, the towers and turrets were well done and the windows were fine. But the great pile itself was illy proportioned and it had no appropriate setting. It should have stood on a craggy height, looking down over a rocky promontory rising boldly from the sea.
That thing on the Jersey coast! Utterly absurd.
He wondered what would happen to it now. For some unaccountable reason Janet had chosen to live there after her parents’ death, but surely now, Miss Jane would desert the place.
He went on his way and met Fleming Stone also bound for the inquest.
Stone had said nothing of his call to come to see Miss Jane, so had to make no explanations.
The two went along together, silent, save for a few commonplaces.
The inquest was to be held in one of the big assembly rooms of the Casino, and already the smart people of the club were flocking there.
Coroner Littell was secretly elated at the position of prominence in which he found himself. Not without due sympathy and grief at the tragedy, but exultant that he should be the one to take care of the matter, he filled his role well, and with a dignified, if rather important manner he presided over the ceremonies.
Fleming Stone chose for himself a seat which commanded a view of the witness box, and though he had as yet no official connection with the case, he expected to have on the morrow, and determined to learn all he could by way of preparation.
The preliminaries of the inquest were rather dull, as is so often the way with them, and Stone was glad when the identification was over, and Doctor Cutler was called on for medical evidence.
Charles Cutler was deeply moved as he told of the dastardly wound which had ended the young life.
“It was,” he said, “a death from the effects of a hypodermic injection of hydrocyanic acid, one of the most deadly of poisons. The hypodermic needle had been thrust into the victim’s left hip, and death had doubtless ensued after an interval of not more than half an hour or less than twenty minutes.”
“Was the victim probably conscious during this interval?” asked the coroner.
“We have every reason to think she was conscious for five or ten minutes, and then gradually became unconscious and fell into a stupor ending in death. This conclusion is based on the histories of similar cases, not on individual knowledge of this case.” Now the coroner fully understood that the inquest was to be adjourned, and he knew that this was the point at which he could, if he chose, adjourn it.
But he hated to give up his chair so soon, and he decided to call a few further witnesses.
He glanced at the crowd of young people, Janet’s closest friends, and felt it was a pity to give them no chance to talk, when they were so evidently aching to do so.
“Who was the last, so far as known, to see Miss Converse alive?” Littell asked, looking sternly at the group.
“Perhaps I was,” said Henry Betterton, bravely. “That is, we all left Miss Converse at the same time, but I think I was the last to go out from under her umbrella.”
“You were with him, Clem,” said Maisie Ames, who thought an inquest was like an afternoon tea, where everyone talked at once.
The coroner reproved her, but not too strongly, and Maisie sulked a little, but soon recovered her poise.
“I was with Mr. Betterton,” Clem Fair said, in a low voice, scarcely audible to those in seats half way back. “We left Janet at the same time.”
“Was she all right then?” the coroner spoke more gravely. “Think well, Miss Fair. Did she show no signs of illness?”
“Not of illness,—no.” Clem choked, burst into tears and fell back in her seat next her father, who put a protecting arm about her.
Mr. Fair was a big, red-faced man, who looked as if he deeply resented this intrusion on his daughter’s natural grief.
Betterton took up the tale.
“Janet didn’t seem ill,” he said, slowly, as if choosing his words with the greatest care, “but she seemed to have been stung by some insect. She cried out that it was a wasp, but it may be surmised that it was the puncture by the hypodermic needle.”
“In that case, Mr. Betterton,” the coroner said, distinctly, “must it not have been one of your group of friends who was responsible for the deed?”
“Not necessarily,” Betterton said. “Granting that some outsider crept up and committed the crime, he could have entered from the other side of the umbrella and not have been noticed by us.”
“Is that likely?”
“Not very, but far more likely than that Janet Converse was killed by one of the group with whom she was on the friendliest terms.”
“You went away, directly she made the remark about the wasp’s sting?”
“We did. She began to rub her hip, and I felt sure she was only awaiting our departure, or mine, anyway, before investigating the supposed sting.”
“May she not have been stung by a wasp also, as well as poisoned?”
“That, I should say, is a matter for medical opinion. Were there two apparent punctures?”
Betterton scored over Littell, who bit his lip and hastened on:
“You went down to the surf, then? You and Miss Fair?”
“We did.”
“Did you look back to note Miss Converse’s position?”
“By no means. We had no thought of anything really wrong, and, too, we raced one another to the surf and dashed in.”
“You were in bathing suits?”
“Yes. Miss Fair had left her pajamas under the umbrella.”
“Who left Miss Converse just before you two did?”
“I don’t know. Who did, Clem?”
“Oh, either Maisie or Eunice. I don’t remember.”
“We went out together,” Eunice said. The coroner gave up trying to examine them separately. “I was right back of Maisie and three or four of the boys were back of me. We came out helter skelter and all made for the beach.”
“And when did you get the first tidings of any trouble?”
“Why, when somebody came running, and yelling for Doctor Cutler. I thought there had been a drowning accident or something.”
Eunice looked very lovely as she sat there, a ray of sunlight burnishing her blonde hair to deeper gold, and her violet eyes, glistening through unshed tears.
She was that rare thing, a perfect blonde without the simpering prettiness of the average yellow-haired girl. Her face was delicate with the soft curves of a Greuze pastel, and even beneath her tan, the rose-leaf beauty of her skin showed itself. Truly, she and Janet had been a wonderful pair. Janet, dark, witching, almost eerie in her mischievous gayety; Eunice, calm, smiling, full of charm and quite evidently not lacking in brains.
Blondes are often said to be deficient in mentality, but not so Eunice Church. If ever a brow and chin betokened a fine mind and a strong character, hers did.
Fleming Stone watched her with a real joy in the contemplation of such a flawless piece of humanity. For Eunice was one of those who were always the last word in style or fashion, yet wore it as a thing accustomed. Her gown now, of soft beige crepe, hung in rippling plaits never entirely motionless, yet never out of place, was perfect in line and finish. Her matching hat sat on the glowing gold of her hair like a small halo. No sports clothes for Eunice on this day. Not that she strove to dress the part, she was always perfectly dressed, she couldn’t help being. It was part of her nature.
Her mother sat beside her, looking, poor woman, as if she would rather be anywhere else in the wide world. For Mrs. Church was a society leader, a popular hostess, a delightful week-end guest or dinner partner, but quite out of place at a coroner’s inquest. She hadn’t her daughter’s calm, and she almost fidgeted as Eunice spoke, seeming to think anything she might say in this atmosphere was fraught with danger.
Reassured a little by Eunice’s quiet, even complaisant demeanor, Mrs. Church sat back and looked at her child admiringly. Not for the first time she wondered how it came about that she had mothered this paragon of girls.
She adored her daughter. She was secretly a trifle afraid of her, but mostly she admired her. As a girl she had been pretty herself, but nothing like Eunice. Her beauty was phenomenal, unbelievable.
Only the merest touch of make-up she used, just the slightest accenting of already perfect coloring.
And her voice was in harmony with the rest.
“You went right into the surf,” the coroner proceeded. “You left your er—wrap with Miss Converse?”
“I had my bathing suit on under my pajamas. I flung them on the sand under Janet’s umbrella; there was quite a pile there already, and ran along.”
“Getting them again,—afterward?”
“Yes—yes,” Eunice said, hesitatingly. “I must have, of course. But I was so upset I don’t remember getting them at all—”
“I handed them to you,” Betterton said, “you just flung them over your arm. Later you put them on.”
“It’s like a dream,” Eunice said, “it all seems vague —unreal.”
“Do you think, Miss Church,” said the coroner, with directness, “that an intruder could have crept under that umbrella without any of you people knowing it?”
“It doesn’t seem possible, and yet, what else can we think? Not one of us would have used that thing on Janet! Yet it was used. Somebody did it. Therefore we have to believe in an intruder.”
Her thoughtful face held no trace of a smile, only a grave wondering look as she balanced the possibilities.
“Or someone may have come after your crowd all left.”
“But that would be after Janet felt what she thought was a wasp’s sting,” said Maisie Ames, quickly.
Maisie always spoke quickly. Having a reputation for being freakish, she played up to it, and said or tried to say odd or bizarre things. “Your intruder person must have been someone Janet knew pretty darn well, or she would have screeched out!”
“Perhaps another of your own crowd, then, or one already inside who simply moved about.”
“You couldn’t move about much,” Maisie told him. “You may not be accustomed to eight or ten people under one umbrella, but I can tell you it’s a tight fit! We were piled up like white bait on a platter!”
Fleming Stone watched this girl. She interested him as a type he was not accustomed to. Good looking, of course, all the girls were that, but odd.
She was of dumpy build, but wore her clothes well. Odd clothes, too, as they suited her. This morning she had chosen an Egyptian looking garment of crude, bright coloring, but with a certain beauty of its own. Topped by a huge plain Panama hat, she was a not unpleasing picture.
“With whom were you?”
“Hard to say. Nobody was with anybody exactly, but everybody was with everybody else. Sort of olla podrida mix.”
“Not difficult then, I should say, for any one of you to use the hypodermic needle on Miss Converse.”
“Don’t be silly!” exclaimed Maisie, giving the coroner what was meant to be a withering look, but which somehow boomeranged and left her a bit withered.
Deciding he had given his audience enough of this show, Coroner Littell concluded to announce his adjournment.
But the man Belden refused to be overlooked.
“Don’t you want to hear from me, Mr. Coroner?” he drawled. “I saw the whole performance.”
So the adjournment was postponed and Mr. John Belden was called to the box.
Of course the whole proceeding was irregular, partly because of the coroner’s sublime ignorance of what he ought to do, an ignorance more or less shared by the police officials, with the exception of Hambidge, who looked on in mild amusement.
And partly, too, because of Littell’s absurd desire to remain in the limelight as long as possible, and bask in the glory of his sudden rise to prominence.
Belden came forward nonchalantly, and taking the chair, gazed round on the audience with a genial, almost patronizing, smile.
He was a big man, with an easy-going manner and a lazy drawl.
He had dark hair, was a little bald and possessed of the slightly protruding eyeballs that are so annoying to look at.
Beneath his imperturbable air of good nature, Stone thought he perceived now and then a slight wariness, even apprehension, but it came and went so swiftly it was scarcely noticeable.
Preliminaries being at length settled, the coroner asked Mr. Belden to tell the whole story as it had been revealed to him on the beach.
It came as a distinct disappointment when the witness had to admit that his view of “the whole performance” really only dated from the time when Fleming Stone and his friend had vacated the chairs that Belden and his friend appropriated.
“Then you only saw the last of the crowd leaving the umbrella?” Littell said, reproachfully.
“Well, I saw Nick Morton come along, and go away again, and that other man—”
“Tell it in your own way,” advised Littell, and Belden did.
“Morton had no more’n gone when the other man came—”
“Oh, come now, Morton had been gone quite a spell,” Layton jogged his memory.
He was sitting near Belden, apparently for the purpose of checking up on his story.
“Oh, all right, say, some several minutes.”
“Where had Morton gone?” Littell inquired.
“How do I know?” Belden snapped out. “I thought he had gone to get a restorative, or somethin’ like that for the lady, but as he didn’t come back, I’ve no means of knowing where he went.”
Fleming Stone made a mental note and Coroner Littell made an elaborate paragraph on his new memorandum pad, but both had to do with the immediate inquiry into Morton’s whereabouts at present.
“Now, this other man. Did you know him?”
“No, sir, I didn’t. But I saw him again this morning.”
“You’re not sure you did,” came plaintively from Layton.
“Oh, shut up,” bawled the exasperated Belden. “I am sure, too! I saw him early this morning going down for a sunrise dip.”
“At sunrise?”
“Well, no,” Belden smiled. “But we call a before breakfast bath that. ’Long about eight o’clock I’d say—”
“More like eight-thirty,” supplemented Layton.
“Eight-thirty, then.”
“Were you bathing then?”
“No, I was in my room at the club—”
“You were in my room,” Layton corrected him.
“All the same. They’re next to each other. I saw this chap from the window, and as he was acting queer like, I, being all dressed and ready for breakfast, ran down and went out on the beach to have a look-see.”
“Did you see anything?”
“I’ll say I did.”
“You sure did!” declared Layton, solemnly, for once agreeing.
“What did you see?”
“The chap was scuffing around on the beach, for all the world like he was buryin’ somethin’ in the sand. And by golly, he was!”
“What was it?” the coroner kept a fine command over his features and waited for the answer.
“Well, I just hung around till he stopped kickin’ and pawin’ the sand, and then, as he went back to the clubhouse, I sauntered to the spot, and with a little pokin’ around on my own account, I hiked up this.” He stepped forward, and laid a glistening necklace on the table in front of Littell.
Gingerly he took it up. It was evidently the empty setting of what had been a string of gems of some sort.
“Have you any reason to think this is the setting of the missing necklace?” Littell said, wonderingly.
“I can tell you,” Eunice’s clear calm voice cut the silence. “Janet’s necklace had her initials and the date on the inside of the clasp. The date her father gave it to her, about four years ago.”
“It is here,” Littell said, slowly, scrutinizing the clasp of the necklace. “It is imperative that we find the man in question. Do you not see him in this room, Mr. Belden?”
“I do not. I’ve been lookin’ round all mornin’ and he ain’t here. But he’ll turn up sooner or later.”
“Maybe and maybe not.”
“I don’t think it was the same man, anyway,” Layton said, slowly, but with conviction. “Didn’t look at all the same to me.”
“Hush your noise, Fred,” Belden said. “You drive me crazy. Anyway, Mr. Coroner, there’s your setting, but where the diamonds are I dunno.”
The coroner gave him such a concentrated gaze as to make Mr. Belden’s eyes still more protuberant, if that were possible.
“Hey, look out there,” he cried, shrilly; “don’t you insinuate I know anything about ’em!”
“I make no insinuations,” said the coroner with a sudden access of dignity. “Your story is a remarkable one, and needs corroboration. Also, it is positively necessary that we identify the young man you speak of. Can you describe him?”
“No,” said Belden, sulkily, “I can’t.”
“We’ll hope you can, later on,” said Littell placatingly. “Will you look at this more closely, Miss Church, and see if you can identify it as the setting of Miss Converse’s necklace?”
An attendant carried the platinum crowns to Eunice, who, after a brief but careful look at it, replied;
“It is assuredly her clasp, and so far as I can tell, it is the identical setting of her diamonds.”
She gave back the chain, handling it gingerly, for the prongs were sharp and harsh on the delicate fingers.
Her lip quivered at the sight of the rudely torn links, from which the valuable stones had evidently been pried.
“Do you know who made this necklace?” asked the coroner of her. It was a joy to talk to Eunice after that crude, lawless Belden.
“Oh, yes,” said the soft, sweet voice, and she named the great New York firm who had so carefully matched the stones. “Mr. Converse always had the best workmanship possible.”
“Was it insured, do you know?”
“Why, no, I don’t know,” Eunice said. “I never thought of it. Most likely it was, though, Janet’s affairs were always kept in order.”
“She was a business woman, then?”
“Oh, not at all!” Eunice smiled sadly. “She knew nothing of business and hated it. But her lawyers, the Randall Brothers, looked after everything for her. They will know about the insurance.”
“Yes, of course, — of course. My, there is so much to be done! This is a very complicated case. So many angles to it.”
It was all irregular, or at least, informal, but Fleming Stone was gleaning much information, and was glad indeed, that Miss Winthrop had not required his presence that day. He would be better equipped to take up her work after hearing this jumble of testimony, uncertain though the Belden witness seemed to be.
The young man who buried the necklace setting in the sand could of course be found. That would be routine work. And the thief of the necklace, when found, ought to be helpful toward finding the murderer.
Stone was by no means certain that the thief and murderer were one and the same person. As he understood it, the necklace had been carelessly housed in the breast pocket of Janet’s pajama jacket, and could easily have slipped out as the girl fell over in the stupor that ended in her death. There were no sharp prongs then to catch into the fabric and it could have been picked up by anybody, even a passing stranger. Doubtless the man Belden saw was a stranger, for the witness was familiar enough with the Club habitues.
The coroner was talking again.
Though he scorned the man’s inefficiency, Stone had to admire the highhandedness with which he carried off his job.
Littell had not been chosen because of his knowledge or experience, but for quite other reasons. These reasons were shrouded in the secret archives of political affairs and had no connection with the coroner’s ability or fitness for the place.
Yet few men can be good coroners without experience, and few can gain experience in the ordinary walks of life.
The jury, to Stone’s mind, was even funnier than the coroner. Composed of influential men, men whose names carried weight, they looked as bewildered and quite as much at sea as the castaways on a desert island. Many of them had known Janet personally, and all knew the beautiful girl by sight.
They were quite ready to condemn the dastardly villain who had murdered her, if they could be given a chance at him. But as for this inquest, which was getting nowhere, they were tired of it.
Littell saw this, and knowing his cue, he called his adjournment.
He declared that it was impossible to proceed further until they could make important investigations, and a fortnight’s delay was imperative.
He gave various and sundry warnings as to secrecy and discretion, and the audience was dismissed.
The crowd of Janet’s friends naturally fell together, and Maisie proposed:
“Let’s go up to the Turrets and see Janet. They’ll have her ready by now.”
“Yes,” Eunice agreed, and Clem, though seeming a bit unwilling, consented also.
Several of the young men joined them, and the group moved slowly along the path to Janet’s home.
The great, forbidding pile of stone looked even more grim and depressing in the face of the noonday sunlight, and the shower of blossoms that hung from its old-fashioned bell-pull was a welcome spot of color and beauty.
Eunice had stopped at a shop en route, and carried a small paper parcel.
They all stood silent, after someone had rung the bell, and soon heard the measured tread of Betts coming to admit them.
The door stood slightly ajar, or he could not have been heard.
He bowed deeply, and stood aside for them to enter.
The house had the fragrance of massed flowers, so inseparable from a scene of death, and in the center of the great hall, robed in white, lying in a white and silver casket, was all they had left of their beloved friend.
The emotional Maisie broke into tumultuous sobbing, but Betterton, who was always doing the right thing, drew her to him, wiped her eyes, and whispered a few words that somehow calmed her.
Eunice, her face pale and her lips quivering, stepped near the casket and stood gazing down on Janet.
“She looks almost as if she could speak,” Eunice whispered, and then she unwrapped her little parcel and took out a small bunch of valley lilies.
These she gently placed in Janet’s hand, closing the waxen fingers round the flowers.
“I hope no one minds,” she said, glancing about. “I just wanted to do it.”
“Of course no one minds,” Henry said, “you two were inseparable. You have a perfect right to bring her flowers.”
“Shall we send flowers for the funeral separately?” asked Maisie, in her abrupt way, “or join together,— you know—”
“We’ll talk that over later,” Henry said. He was always spokesman and general manager, because of his peculiar efficiency and tact.
Clem Fair didn’t come very near to the casket, she seemed almost afraid of it.
With awed eyes she stared at Janet, seeming to note her gown and letting her gaze roam over the flowers that were banked round.
“It’s all so strange,” Clem said, “so strange. I can’t think we’ll never have her with us again. Never hear her speak, or see her lovely eyes flash when she got mad—”
“She didn’t get mad,” said Eunice, softly, as if resentful of the merest hint of criticism.
“Oh, yes, she did,” Clem asserted. “Just annoyed, you know, over it in a minute.”
Clementina’s own dark eyes flashed, for she was at a nervous tension and a few more words of disagreement might have precipitated a scene.
Nor was it strange. These sheltered, carefully nurtured young people had never before been in contact with crime, and seldom indeed with death in any form.
Clem, too, was a beautiful girl. Her short, dark hair was naturally wavy and brushed back from her broad, low brow framed her heart-shaped, piquant face.
She had flung off her hat, and was pacing the floor with quick, irregular steps.
“Do sit down, Clem, you drive me frantic,” Eunice said, at last, unable to stand it.
“Well, so do you drive me frantic, with your eternal calm. Don’t you ever feel any emotion?”
“I don’t show it by marching round the room.”
“Come, girls,” Betterton broke in, “I think we’d better be going. When is the funeral to be, Betts?” he added, seeing no one to inquire of but the stolid butler.
“I’m not sure it’s decided on, sir. Shall I go and find out?”
“Oh, no, no. Don’t disturb Miss Winthrop. Please remember us all to her and when she is feeling better, some of us will come to see her.”
The other men present, Payson and Roger Pennell, had said almost nothing. They were only too glad to leave that part to Betterton and the girls.
And so, silently, as they had entered, the crowd filed out and felt immediate relief in the fresh air and sunshine.
“Gosh!” Pennell exclaimed, “how could Janet want to live in that mausoleum of a place! Will Miss Jane carry on, do you think?”
“Probably not,” Eunice said. “She never liked it, but for some unaccountable reason Janet did. I think it’s something fearful! And they say it’s haunted.”
“Yes, I know, that East Turret,” volunteered Payson.
“What do you think about the necklace, Adrian?” interrupted Maisie, mainly to get away from the subject of hauntings.
“What do you mean, what do I think about it?”
“My, don’t be so snappish! But we’re all snappish. The whole situation gets on our nerves,” Maisie sighed. “It would be bad enough if Janet had died of typhoid or flu, but to be—”
“Oh, do hush!” cried Clem. “Can’t you talk of something else?”
“What are you doing this afternoon, Eunice?” Betterton asked. “Shall you be on the beach?”
“Yes, late. Say, between five and six. I’m not going in.”
“Going in!” Maisie almost screamed. “Who could go in, after yesterday! Say, Adrian, didn’t Janet say anything to you about taking her necklace to be fixed? She said she intended to.”
“No,” returned Payson, shortly, “she didn’t say a word about it. I mean yesterday. She—she told me last week, or some time, that she wanted me to see to it.”
“Pity she hadn’t given it to you, then it would have been safe.”
“Do stop talking about the necklace,” begged Clementina, her eyes now filled with tears and her voice quivering.
“Poor Clem, you’re all in,” and Eunice took her by the arm and walked along by her side. “Don’t you want to stop in at our house and I’ll mix you a weeney little cocktail. Come on all of you. Do us all good.”
“Where’s Stack Meade?” Payson asked, as they all turned the corner to the street where Eunice lived,
“He’s off on one of his trips, I think,” Clem volunteered, as she struggled to regain her composure.
“No, unless he went last night,” Maisie declared. “I saw him yesterday afternoon—”
“Saw Stacpoole Meade!” cried Eunice. “Then why hasn’t he been with our crowd? Why wasn’t he at the inquest? You must be mistaken, Maisie.”
“Maybe I am. Like’s not.”
“Gracious, Maisie, you’d agree with whatever anyone said, wouldn’t you?” and Henry tweaked her curls for, as usual she was swinging her hat in her hand.
“It’s a lot easier,” Maisie rejoined, “and saves a heap of trouble.”
“Or makes it,” said Pennell.
Fleming Stone, who was sitting on the Clubhouse verandah, saw the crowd of young people go by, and waved a greeting hand.
“Picturesque lot,” he said to Enders, who was with him.
“They’re more than that, they’re a bunch of beauties,” Enders said, enthusiastically. “Those girls are as handsome as any I ever saw, and the boys are thoroughbreds.”
“Well, come along, old man, if you’re going with me. I’m for the home of the elusive and redoubtable Morton.”
Stone was making the most of the time that was at his disposal, for he expected next day to be at the beck and call of Miss Winthrop, and he had a notion that she would prove a strenuous taskmaster.
He planned a friendly call on Nick Morton, hoping by that means to find out more than the official inquiry agents might do.
Twin Pines Cottage was much like the average summer resort boarding house, though of a better grade than those outside the charmed circle of Yellow Sands influence.
Morton was at home, and while not effusive in his greeting, was decently polite, and asked them to a pleasant shaded corner of the verandah, where they seated themselves in hammock chairs.
“Get down to brass tacks,” Morton said, with a queer little smile. “You want to quiz me?”
“Unless you’d rather tell your own story,” Stone told him. “I judge you’ve no reason to fear a quiz, but you may like the other way better.”
“No, go ahead, and I’ll answer questions.”
“You acknowledge then, my right to ask questions?”
Stone smiled so pleasantly that Morton was disarmed at once.
“I don’t care a rap about rights, but I’d like decent treatment and not the rasping old Hambidge subjected me to.”
“He means well,” Stone defended, “his bark is worse than his bite. Well, all I want to know is why you deserted Miss Converse when she was ill?”
Nick Morton looked decidedly embarrassed and even squirmed in his chair as he slowly replied:
“I didn’t exactly desert her—I went to get some aromatic ammonia or whatever they give to a fainting girl, for that’s what I thought ailed her—”
Morton had a way of coming to a dead stop in the middle of a sentence as if he had finished a statement. Stone found it annoying.
“Go on,” he said, “did you get the ammonia?”
“Get the ammonia? Oh, yes, yes, I got it, and I hurried back to Janet.”
“But I’m told you didn’t go back to her at all.”
“That’s it, I didn’t. You see—”
“What must I see?”
“Well, as I came through the crowds to Janet’s umbrella, and I had a time to find it, they all looked alike to me—”
“Go on!”
“Well, just as I came to it, Stacpoole Meade came along and leaned down to look in. I knew he could make better work of it than I could, so I just moseyed off, leaving him to look after Janet.”
“Stacpoole Meade,” said Stone, thoughtfully. “That’s a chap I don’t know. Is he one of Miss Converse’s crowd?”
“Well, rather! He’s the biggest thing in it!”
“Who is he?”
“One of the idle rich, but a good fellow at that. Here’s what he looks like.”
Morton drew a small folder from his pocket and showed a snapshot of a handsome, well set-up young man, faultlessly garbed in beach togs.
“Oh, yes, I’ve seen him,” Stone said, remembering. “I say, mind if I borrow this little picture? I’ll return it.”
“I mind very much.” Morton held out his hand for the photograph and Stone had to give it up.
“Well, then,” he went on, “you left the whole matter for Meade to see to.”
“I did, and I had every right to. You see, Meade is —was engaged to Janet.”
“First I’ve heard of that. You’re sure, I suppose?”
“Janet told me herself.”
“Good enough authority, I’d say. And what were your relations with Miss Converse? Casual friend?”
“Not exactly, no. I’m a Rare Book Expert, and I’ve been going over her father’s library with her. She wanted to weed out the worthless trash and keep only the valuable volumes. I may say I’ve been of real help to her in the matter.”
“Doubtless. I take it a young girl like that would have little practical knowledge of most books, though she might be well up in what they call the ‘high spots.’ Is it a large library?”
“Not now. It was full of junk, which I advised her to sell for what it would bring. This she did, and the natural result is quite a few empty shelves, which I proposed to help her fill.”
Morton had assumed an air of importance and Stone dropped the subject of rare books, to be gone into some other time.
“And was young Meade interested in this library business?” he asked.
“I dunno, I’m sure. When I’ve been up to the house, he hasn’t ever been present. The library is in the haunted Tower, and lots of people steer clear of the Tower rooms.”
“How absurd! But a clever idea to ward off book thieves.”
“They say that’s the reason old Mr. Converse put it there. Though there’s little thievery around here.”
Now, having unostentatiously achieved his principal wish, Stone was ready to depart, and giving the signal to Enders they soon took their leave.
Fleming Stone betook himself to one of the popular photographers, of which Yellow Sands boasted many, and by tactful and judicious argument, succeeded in obtaining a small photograph of Stacpoole Meade.
Then he wandered down to the beach with Enders, who was always ready to watch the pageant there.
Stone hoped to run up against Belden, and he was not disappointed.
That jovial citizen came along shortly, and paused in front of Stone’s chair.
“How’s everything going?” he asked.
“Look at this picture,” Stone said, a little abruptly. “No, don’t let it be seen. Do you know the man?”
“Well, I can certify this is the chap who came and peeked in under Miss Janet’s umbrella yesterday, when Morton disappeared. Also, he’s the young feller who buried that platinum chain in the sand early this morning.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Belden? Much depends on your positive identification of this man.”
“ ’Course I’m sure! Who is the lad?”
“Well, it’s Mr. Meade, Stacpoole Meade—”
“Golly! You don’t say so! Well, he looks to me like an upright citizen. You don’t accuse him of anything, do you?”
“Only what you’ve told us, Mr. Belden. You said he buried the necklace,—surely that is queer business. And if he looked in at Miss Converse, and saw her looking ill, or fainting, it was certainly queer to walk off and leave her alone.”
“Yes,—I s’pose so.”
“What’s up, Jack?” called out a cheery voice, and Mr. Layton joined the group. “You swearing to a lot of fairy tales again?”
“Oh, confound you, Layton, what are you doing here?”
“Just what everybody else is, looking at the crowds. What are you doing?”
“I’m minding my own business, and I wish you’d do the same.”
“Well, guess I’d better check up on you, when you get goin’ you sorta take the bit in your teeth.”
“Well, Fred, I told you all about the young feller burying the necklace thing in the sand, didn’t I?”
“Sure you did, Jack. But I didn’t more’n half believe it.”
“Why didn’t you, Mr. Layton?” asked Stone, amused at this passage at arms.
“Well, sir, you see Belden, here, has one of those fancy imaginations that lets him believe just about anything he wants to. Now tell me his story, and I’ll pass on it.”
“But why should I take your word ahead of his?” Stone asked.
“That’s the talk!” exclaimed Belden. “You know a thing or two, Mr. Stone! Now, I bet you can tell just on the face of things that I’m telling you the truth and Layton, here, doesn’t know an earthly thing about the whole business!”
“Go slow, Mr. Belden. I do believe you saw a man burying that necklace in the sand, but I want corroboration that it was Mr. Meade that did it. You see you’re not personally acquainted with Meade, and you could easily make a mistake. The young men look a lot alike, nowadays.”
“Well, it was certainly the original of that picture you have, anyhow,” and Belden nodded his head determinedly.
“Lessee the picture,” asked Layton, and Stone gave it to him.
He studied it intently a few moments, and then handed it back, saying: “Nothing doing! That may be the chap that buried the necklace, I don’t know, but I do know it wasn’t that man who peeked in at Miss Converse when Morton left her.”
“Why, it was, too!” cried Belden, angrily. “I guess I saw him—”
“Yeah, you saw him, but only for a minute’s glance, and sideways at that.”
“Bah, you make me tired!” and Belden relapsed into a fit of sulks and would say no more.
Layton, having achieved his design, which was always to anger or annoy his friend, chuckled to himself, and settled down to watch the bathers.
Stone and Enders, finding themselves ignored, and not minding it at all, sauntered away up the beach, in a sociable silence.
At last Stone said;
“To whatever extent Belden spoke the truth, the matter must be looked into. If I thought Hambidge would be nice and cosy with me, I’d go to see him about it.”
“Oh, chuck it for to-day,” Enders urged. “You have to get into it to-morrow, I know, but have a bit of a holiday to-day.”
“You may,” Stone told him, “but I can’t settle to anything. You stay here and I’ll take a run over to the station, and then I’ll rejoin you. Don’t get far away from this point.”
Enders agreed, because he had to, and Stone went briskly off to see Hambidge. He found that worthy up to his ears in work, but willing to spare a few moments.
“Stack Meade!” he said, in a tone of utter scorn. “Why I’d as soon suspect Calvin Coolidge of queer doings. Young Meade is one of the finest specimens of young America I know. He’s a model in every way, and I don’t mean a sissy boy or a Sunday-school paragon, I just mean a fine upstanding youth, and you’ll have to try again for a suspect.”
“But that Belden person vows it was Meade who buried the necklace in the sand. You must admit that looks queer.”
“If Belden is correct. But his friend says he’s usually wrong in his statements.”
“Can’t you find out for certain?” Stone persisted. “Sure I can. I can ask Meade himself.”
Hambidge touched a bell, and when his messenger appeared, he told him to go out and bring in young Meade and be quick about it.
“Suppose he won’t come?” Stone demurred.
“He’ll come all right. Why wouldn’t he?”
And come he did. In an incredibly short time the messenger turned up and Stacpoole Meade with him.
“Well, young man,” Hambidge began, after he had named his two guests to one another, “you are an elusive individual.”
“How do you make that out?” Meade said, taking a cigarette from the offered box.
“You don’t seem to chum with your own crowd so much. Why didn’t you come to the inquest this morning?”
“Why should I?”
A spasm of pain crossed the pleasant face and clouded the brown eyes.
Meade was a wholesome, capable looking sort, without being really handsome. His dark hair was swept back from a broad, low forehead, and his strongly cut features argued a firmness of character, that might even develop into obstinacy.
He was of easy manners, quiet poise and quickly alert to any veiled hint or hidden meaning.
“I had not been summoned by anyone,” he went on, “and I assuredly would not go from a feeling of idle curiosity.”
“No,” Hambidge said, slowly, “but interest, now. Interest in the whole matter. Tell me, Meade, who do you think killed Miss Converse?”
“You are aware, I suppose, that this questioning is exceedingly painful to me? Am I obliged to answer?”
“It would be best for yourself to do so.”
“Go on, then. But your first question is easily answered. I haven’t the slightest idea who poisoned Miss Converse, nor can I imagine anyone wanting to do so. Are you making no progress in finding out?”
“Nothing definite as yet. Would you mind telling all you know about yesterday afternoon? Your own movements, I mean.”
“From what time?” Meade’s fine eyes began to look a little rebellious.
“Say ’long about four or so.”
“I came in from New York on the 3.15 train. I went to my room at the Club, where I bathed and dressed, then came out to the beach.”
“At what time?”
“I don’t know exactly. Probably about four or so. I was looking for Miss Converse.”
“Did you know she would be on the beach?”
“Yes, she had told me so. I was looking for a crowd, but I didn’t see our own particular bunch. So I assumed they had all gone into the surf, and after a further look around, I concluded to take a chair and wait for their return.”
“You didn’t see any of your particular friends?” asked Stone, speaking for the first time.
Meade looked him calmly over. It was in no way a rude stare, but merely an appraising one.
“No,” he replied, “not one of them. As a rule they pretty much stick together, so of course, I thought they were together somewhere. But Janet had said she’d wait for me, so I looked around a bit more.”
“And then?” Hambidge prompted.
“Then I saw Mr. Morton come out from under a big umbrella. He came rather hastily, and I wondered at his quick action. I drew nearer, and stooping, I looked in and I saw Miss Converse there, leaning against the upright of the umbrella, with her eyes closed. I admit I was angry. I never thought of her being ill, I assumed she was having a social interview with Morton, and that he had left her for a moment to get cigarettes or something, and would at once return. So I just decided to leave them, and ask Janet about it some other time.”
“You and Miss Converse are—were engaged, I understand.”
Meade looked astounded.
“We were,” he said, frankly, “but I don’t know how you know it. It was not yet announced, and I don’t know who told you.”
“I think you ought to know, Meade, so I’ll tell you that Morton told me the news and said that Miss Converse told him.”
“Then, if she told it, of course it’s all right.”
But the young man’s face didn’t betoken an attitude of “all right.”
“Your engagement was of recent date, then?” Stone’s expression of interest disarmed all hint of curiosity.
“Yes, very. So you see, I was angry that she should be entertaining that bounder there alone! I just went back to the Clubhouse and stayed there, until I heard the commotion on the beach, that was roused by the discovery of the tragedy.”
“And then?”
“Then I did nothing. I went to my room, not feeling that I wanted to face anybody. I knew I could do nothing to help, and the whole thing was so fearful, so awful, I couldn’t stand it.”
“We won’t dwell on it,” Hambidge said, quietly. “Now, just one more thing. As to that necklace, or rather the setting of the necklace. Did you bury it in the sand this morning—early this morning?”
“Who says I did?”
“I’m asking you if you did.”
“And I refuse to answer. Look here, Mr. Hambidge,—and Mr. Stone, have you a right to quiz me like this? I doubt it. At any rate, I’m not answering any more of your questions.”
“All right, Mr. Meade, no offense meant. Good afternoon.”
Meade rose, and with a murmured word or two, flung himself out of the office.
“That chap never did anything criminal, but he’s as obstinate as a mule, and it’s going to be mighty hard to get anything out of him,” said Hambidge, musingly, and added, “that is, if he knows anything.”
“Oh, he knows things,” Stone declared. “I think he could be a mine of information if he wanted to.”
“Well, he doesn’t want to. He’s a chip of the old block. His father, Stuyvesant Meade, is called Silent Stuy. He never gives anything away.”
“As a family, they run to fancy Christian names, don’t they? Well, here we have young Meade admitting that he looked in at Miss Converse, and that Layton person insists that it was some other man who did the peeking.”
“Might have been three or four of ’em, at that. But everybody who did peep in at Miss Converse while she was alone under that death umbrella, is automatically a suspect. You see that?”
“I see that, but where does it get us?”
“Where does anything get us? Now, Mr. Stone, to get down to brass tacks, we’ve these directions in which to look.” Hambidge drew a scratch pad toward him, “There’s the young crowd; for the moment we’ll consider them as a lump sum. There’s about eight or ten of ’em, and they’ve all got to be carefully investigated. Thank you, sir, for not saying, ‘Oh, those nice young people couldn’t have done this awful thing!’ And I don’t say they did do it, but they’ve got to be turned inside out to prove it. Well, there’s that bunch, and then, there’s the bunch of servants of the house. There’s a squad of helpers at Twin Turrets, and if the diamond necklace was the motive, then any one of those servants could have managed the killing.”
“Not very easily—”
“Why not? It was Thursday, you know. Most servants have that afternoon off. Well, they’ve got to be hounded down.”
“Go on, who else?”
“Then there’s the old aunt. You know she’s heir to the whole fortune, and stranger things than that have happened.”
“I’ve never seen her,” Stone said. “What’s she like?”
“Oh, she’s more or less of a Tartar, except to Janet. She adored her, and thought everything she did was perfection.”
“Then, how can you suspect—”
“No accounting for a woman’s vagaries. Jane may have lost her temper, or concluded she wanted to step out, or—”
“But, man, how could she do it? How could the old lady get under the umbrella without being seen? There were busy watchers, you know.”
“Yes, I know. But, look here, Mr. Stone, somebody did get under that umbrella and commit that murder. Now, maybe that person was seen, and maybe not. Anyway, we can’t take any chances. Well, then, there’s Morton, of course—”
“And Belden and Layton,” added Stone, with mild sarcasm.
“Yes, and you and Mr. Enders,” Hambidge wound up. “Now, sir, I’m going over to Twin Turrets to have a little chat with that imposing staff of servants, upper and lower. Want to go ’long?”
“Yes, I’d like to. Shall we see Miss Winthrop?”
“Oh, no. She’s pretty ill, I take it. Cutler says she’s prostrated by the shock, and I’m not surprised at that. Come along, then.”
So once again Stone approached the grim, dour old pile of gray stone.
But in the bright afternoon sunlight, it looked far less forbidding than at dusk or at midnight.
“They do say,” Hambidge told him, “that the ghost walked last night.”
“Who says? Outsiders or the family?”
“Oh, outsiders. You see Yellow Sands Inn is only a stone’s throw from The Turrets, and the Inn folks are more or less on the watch.”
“What do they see?”
“Always the same thing. A dim light showing from the upper windows of that haunted turret.”
“Can’t a rumor like that be tracked down and quashed?”
“Not so easily. I, myself, have hunted that turret thing, inside and out, upstairs and down, and divil a bit of secret entrance or anything of that sort can I find.”
“What’s the big idea of haunting the turret? For, of course, some villain or mischief-maker is at the bottom of it?”
“Lord, man, I don’t know. You see, the case has only just now become concrete. Until the murder, we had no right or reason to chase around hunting for haunts. And now, there’s so much to do—you’ve no idea, Stone, how the thing is branching out!”
“Yes, I have an idea, but to me the interest concentrates in the actual crime itself.”
“We can’t work that way. We must do the routine stunts, and hope to turn up some hint or clue as we go along. Queer old pile, eh?”
They were nearing the massive front entrance, and as they walked up the gravel path, Stone’s eyes took in, as a whole, the strange old building.
“A horror!” he said, shaking his head. “A mass of mistakes.”
“So I’m told. But I can’t help thinking it’s picturesque.”
“You would!” Stone said to himself, but aloud, he assented, “Oh, yes, in spots. The whole mass is not so bad, but the details are horrible.”
The grave-faced Betts admitted them, and Hambidge told him at once of their errand.
“Give me a good sized room,” he said, “that I can have for myself as long as may be necessary. Several days, perhaps.”
“Yes, sir,” and Betts led the two men to a reception room off the main hall.
There were several of these rooms, and Stone liked this one. Modern in its appointments, cheerful in its outlook on the gardens, and bright with the afternoon sunshine, it was an attractive place.
Hambidge quickly appropriated a small table, laid out a few papers and pencils, and then asked Betts for a list of the servants and asked that they be sent in to him, singly.
“You wish to question me, sir?” asked Betts, courteously enough, but with an odd look of apprehension fn his eyes.
“Not now, Betts, thank you. You go on with your duties, as usual. Ask Mrs. Betts to come first, please.”
The cook arrived duly, a fat, rosy-faced woman, of pleasant countenance, but wary of eye.
It seemed to Stone that all the servants were on their guard, but, he reflected, that was only natural in the circumstances.
“Now, Mrs. Betts,” said Hambidge, urbanely, “I just want a little information as to Miss Janet’s doings yesterday before she went down to the beach. I daresay, however, you know nothing of this matter, unless, that is, someone has told you something.”
“Nobody told me anything, and I know nothing at all of Miss Janet’s doings. You see, sir, I’m cook, and my duties are all in the kitchen department. I’ve no call to come into the dining room, or even into the butler’s pantry, during meal times. My husband, Betts, he’s a strict one for rules and regulations, and we all have to obey him.”
“And where were you during the afternoon, Mrs. Betts?”
“At home here, sir, in my little sitting room. Me and Betts we have our afternoon off on Tuesdays. Most of ’em have Thursdays.”
It seemed futile to question this woman further. Hambidge dismissed her and sent for the so-called second man, one Peter, who was an alert young chap, and seemingly willing to divulge any information he possessed.
“Yes sir, I waited at table yesterday, for luncheon. Me and Betts, we always does that. Well, no, sir, I didn’t notice anything pecooliar about Miss Janet. She hadn’t much appetite, but then she never did eat enough to keep a bird alive.”
“But she seemed in her usual good spirits, eh?”
“Oh, yes, sir. She was full of her fun, jollying her aunt and telling about the noo costoom she had to wear to the beach. Oh, yes, Miss Janet, she was just as usual—just as usual, I’d say.”
“What are your duties, Peter, beside waiting at table?” This from Stone.
“Me? Oh, I have lots to do. I look after the whole house, pretty much. I see to it that the maids dust properly and I do more or less cleaning and clearing up. I arrange the flowers, and well, I’m a general handy man, in case anything breaks down, as you may say.”
“And do you look after the bedrooms, more or less?” Stone pursued.
“Yes, sir. The chambermaids has their work, of course, but I look after the lights and the heat and the ventilation,—oh, yes, I’m in and out of all the rooms, I am.”
“A very useful help, I’d say,” and Stone gave him a kindly nod.
The questioning of the list of servants went on.
To Stone it finally became a decided bore. There seemed to be no real information achieved, no points learned.
Only one interested Fleming Stone.
That was Eileen, the ladies’ maid. She, it seemed, looked after Miss Janet and Miss Jane both. Though, to be sure, Miss Jane required little assistance, being the kind that liked to look after herself. But Miss Janet, now. Well, there she had her work cut out for her!
Not that Miss Janet meant to be difficult, she was the loveliest lady in the world, but she was a bit trying at times.
“As how?” asked Hambidge, willing to learn a bit about these things.
“Well, sir,” Eileen smoothed her organdie apron, “maybe she’d get all dressed, and then, like a whirlwind, she’d fling off her whole costume and bid me bring her another one. Like as not this meant changing stockings, shoes, and lingerie, but what did Miss Janet care? Not a rap. She just gave her orders, and I obeyed.”
“You were fond of her?” asked Hambidge.
“Oh, yes, sir, I had to be fond of her, she was so beautiful! But she was trying, I’ll allow.”
After a short time more of this sort of thing, Stone decided he was fed up, and with a whispered word to Hambidge he quietly made his way out and went back to his rooms.
He knew there would be full notes of all these servants’ interviews, and he didn’t think they amounted to much anyway.
He devoted his time to a few preparations for his early call on Miss Winthrop next morning, and then gave himself up to a smoke and a season of deep thought.
And so, when next morning finally dawned, clear and golden, Fleming Stone arrayed himself with care, went down and ate a hearty breakfast, and then started forth just in time to reach Twin Turrets at nine o’clock.
He had been half afraid a telephone message would come heading him off again, but that didn’t happen, so he walked slowly through the open gates of the stone house, and along the flower-bordered paths.
He rang the bell at nine precisely, having gathered that Miss Jane being a Tartar, would most likely be a stickler for promptness.
Betts opened the door, and it seemed to Stone that the always solemn face of the butler had an added shade of gloom on it this morning.
“I’m here to see Miss Winthrop,” Stone said, “by appointment.”
“Y—yes, sir,—of course, sir. P—please step inside.”
The butler ushered him into the room Hambidge had used last night, and closed the door. Just as Stone was beginning to feel a bit uneasy, the door opened slowly, and Molly Mulvaney came in.
“Mr. Stone,” she said, bursting into uncontrollable tears, “Miss Winthrop has disappeared! We can’t find her,—we don’t know where she is!”
Fleming Stone’s face expressed blank amazement.
“Gone!” he said, “disappeared? Are you sure, Mrs. Mulvaney?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve hunted the house and the grounds. We can’t imagine—”
“Wait a moment. Now, tell me the whole thing from the very start. Who first discovered this?”
“Eileen, that’s the ladies’ maid. She went to Miss Winthrop’s room at eight o’clock, as usual, and she saw at once the bed had not been slept in. It was tossed and rumpled a bit, but it was plain to be seen it hadn’t been really used. … Well, that Eileen, she’s only about three-quarter witted, anyhow, came flyin’ downstairs, yellin’ that Miss Jane was murdered too. Betts, he gave it to her good and plenty for raisin’ such a hullabaloodle, and she turned sulky and hasn’t hardly opened her mouth since.”
“Then what?”
“Then, of course, I went up and I saw at once that Miss Winthrop was really gone. I looked in her bathroom and her dressing room, but there was no sign of her wheresoever. So I says to myself, what should I do? I was in a perdickerment, you see, for after all, I’m only the housekeeper, Mr. Stone, and I have no special authority round about here.”
“Is Betts in a position above yours?”
“Well, he is and he isn’t. It’s hard to know how to put it. You see, me and Betts we’ve never had a word of disagreeability, and yet, I suppose in a way, he is over me. But, on the other hand, I’ve been more or less a personable friend of Miss Jane, these many years. Often she’d say to me, ‘Molly,’ she’d say, ‘you’re a great help and comfort to me. I’d trust you with anything and everything I’ve got.’ Well, of course, that pleased me mightily, and I just did all and sundry I could to please that dear lady. And then, when Miss Janet died,—well, Miss Jane she just made a real friend of me. I’m takin’ no extry praise to myself but I tell you truly, Miss Jane sorta depended on me, and I didn’t fail her.”
“No, I’ve no doubt you were indeed a help to her. Now, go on, Mrs. Mulvaney, tell me everything.”
“Well, sir, you see, that was eight o’clock, gettin’ on for eight-thirty, and I said to myself, ‘my heavens and earth,’ I says, ‘that there Mr. Stone is a comin’ at nine a. m., whatever shall I do about that?’ And as I thought it over I said, to myself, ‘Well, just let him come. He’ll know what to do, and here’s me a poor ignorant gooney who don’t know what to do.’ So, there it is, Mr. Stone, and I hope as how you’ll tell us all what to do, and if not, then we’ll have to call the policers, I s’pose.”
“I think the police must be notified, Mrs. Mulvaney, but I’m quite sure Inspector Hambidge will not be at his office yet. Now, I’d like to take a look around the house, if you’ve no objection.”
“Who’m I to make objections, sir? Don’t you see, I’ve no authority. Nobody here has. That’s the strange part. Coupla days ago, there was Miss Jane, likewise Miss Janet, both of them rulers of this house and home. Now, they’re both gone, and who is in authority?”
“I see your point, and it is indeed a problem. But it seems to me that you and the others must carry on, for the immediate present at least. As housekeeper and as a personal friend of Miss Winthrop, you must take the helm, there is no doubt about that. You cannot, of course, decide important questions, but somebody will soon be put in charge. The lawyers of Miss Winthrop will be called in, the police must be notified, and through it all, you must do as you are told, or, on occasion, use your own judgment. Now, is Miss Janet’s casket still in the great hall?”
“No, sir, it was moved last night to the small chapel.”
“Who had it in charge through the night?”
“Peter, the second man. But—well, a queer thing happened.”
“Yes, what was it?”
“Why, that Peter, he fell asleep. Never was he known to do such a thing before! Badnesses he has, a-plenty, but to drop asleep on duty never was one of ’em. It’s my bounden belief that his coffee,—he always has a thermostat of coffee—was drugged—”
“What! Mrs. Mulvaney, are you hinting at foul play of some sort?”
“What else?” said Molly, gravely. “You don’t suppose Jane went away of her own accord, leaving no word for anybody, and Janet dead in the house! And that’s another awful thing. Miss Janet’s body was disturbed, sir.”
“Disturbed! How?”
“Will you step across the hall and look at it, Mr. Stone?”
Feeling really bewildered, Stone followed her to the small chapel, where among clustered flowers and lighted candles lay the remains of Janet Converse.
At a glance Stone saw the disturbance. On the floor lay a handful of white blossoms, wilted and dead, but quite apparently cast down by some alien hand.
Also, he noticed the curls on Janet’s forehead were tangled a bit, instead of the careful arrangement one would expect to see.
Outside of these things he noticed no disturbance.
But Molly did.
“Her little pin is gone,” she said, slowly.
“What sort of pin? Valuable?”
“Not very, but it was a small pearl pin Janet always wore, and Miss Jane pinned it on her herself yesterday morning.”
“Let us go up to Miss Winthrop’s room,” Stone said. “Put Betts in charge of this room, and stay, I’ll call the police now.”
He telephoned Hambidge, and then hastened up the stairs in Molly’s wake.
The room was not much disordered, but it was plain to be seen there had been a quick departure. Whether of her own accord, or perforce, Jane Winthrop had hurried or been hurried away from her home.
The implements on the toilet table were tossed about, one dresser drawer was partly open and its contents in a muddle, and the small desk was open and several bundles of letters strewn about.
Stone pounced on the letters, as Molly said,
“I can’t understand that. Those are all Janet’s letters, sir; Miss Jane never destroyed one of them. Some are from her when she was in Europe, some when she was away at school, or visiting friends, but they’re all Janet’s letters. Now, who would want to go bamboozlin’ among old letters thataway?”
“Perhaps Miss Jane looked them over herself.”
“Not her. She was the tidiest of mortals. If so be’s she’d wanted to go over Janet’s letters, she’d done so, but they’d all been tied up neatly again. No, Miss Jane, she was sperrited away, that she was.”
“Tell me, Molly, what about these haunted tower rumors. Is there a ghost?”
“That there is, and it was round here night before last, and now, I make bold to believe, last night, too. Else, how could all this happened?”
“Come, come, now, you don’t really believe in ghosts.”
“That’s as may be, sir. But something or somebody of evil intent is at work in this pestiferous place. Can’t we go out of it, Mr. Stone? Can’t we shut it up?”
“Suppose Miss Jane comes back—”
“She’ll never come back,” Molly spoke with the solemnity of a Cassandra, and slowly shook her head.
“Well, come now, let’s see what Miss Jane took with her. I’m not at all sure she didn’t just go off on some sudden errand and will return shortly.”
“I can’t exactly tell you what she took, I don’t see anything missing. But that Eileen, she’ll know. Shall I call her?”
“Wait a few minutes. Tell me just what you think about this business.”
“I think the—the evil thing that haunts this place, be he man or demon, took Miss Jane off. Maybe by force, maybe he lured her, maybe she was drugged, too, but she never went of her own accordings. That’s positive.”
“Who disturbed Janet’s body? Would Miss Jane do that?”
“Oh, no, sir!” Molly looked shocked. “She loved the child like it was her own. No mother was ever more devoted. Would she muss up the darling’s lovely curls? No, a thousand times, no! And the flowers thrown on the floor! Why those were the valley lilies Miss Eunice put in her hand. Miss Eunice and Janet were the dearest friends. They were inseparatable. Never a jar or jolt between ’em. Always the lovin’est of friends. And Miss Jane loved Eunice just next to Janet. Miss Jane loved all the crowd, ’cause they were Janet’s friends, and nothing was too much trouble if Janet wanted it.”
“Call Eileen, then, and let’s see what she knows.” But Eileen, it seemed, knew nothing helpful.
She looked dubiously over the wardrobe of clothing.
“She must have worn the gown she had on last night,” the maid vouchsafed, at last. “That’s the only one that isn’t here.”
“What sort was it?” asked Stone.
“A very plain black one. She put it on when they brought Miss Janet in, it being really the only plain black one she had.”
“Did you help her to bed last night?”
“No, sir. She dismissed me, saying she had some writing to do, and would look after herself. Quite often she did that. Not much for being waited on, was Miss Jane. Well, here’s her nightdress, just as I laid it out, and here’s her bedroom slippers, and here’s her thermos jug of ice water, I see the glass hasn’t been used.”
Stone flashed a glance at her,—this was a noticing miss.
“Go on,” he said, “what about a coat and hat?” Eileen dived into another wardrobe.
“None missing,” she said, as she emerged. “So far’s I can see, all her coats and hats are right there, where they belong. There’s her heavy brown coat and her light weight beige, and her—”
“No matter, if you’re sure they’re all there. Now as to hats?”
“All here,” and Eileen made a swift survey of the hat cupboard. “She hadn’t many hats, hadn’t Miss Jane. She liked best to go about without a hat on, same’s the young people did. Anyway, every one of her hats is in place.”
“Well, look around well. See if you can’t notice something missing. It might be of enormous help. How about an overnight bag?”
“She don’t own one, sir. She has different sized suitcases, and hatboxes and so on, but if you mean a fitted bag, she never fancied ’em. She said they held everything you didn’t want and nothing you did. Not far out, neither.”
“Very well, Eileen, you may go now. Now, tell me quickly, Molly, what’s this about the ghost walking night before last. Did you see it?”
“No, sir, we didn’t see it, but we heard it. It— it talked, sir!”
“Oh, it talked. Well, then don’t feel frightened of it. Ghosts that talk don’t amount to much. It’s the kind that groan and clank their chains who are the real trouble-makers.”
“But this one did groan, somethin’ awful! And it said, in a low holler voice, ‘Give up the treasure,’ or somethin’ like that.”
“Is there a treasure?”
“I don’t rightly know. I believe there is. Miss Janet, she knew more about it than Miss Jane. But, —yes, there is some question of a treasure,—a gold box, or somethin’ like that.”
“This thing is surely complex. Go on, Molly, tell me more about the treasure.”
“That’s all I know. But I think, mind you, I only think, it was here before Mr. Converse died. That’s Janet’s father, you know. I think the treasure had to do with him.”
The bell rang loudly, then, and feeling sure the police had arrived, Stone hastened down the stairs. Not, however, before he had locked Miss Jane’s room door and pocketed the key.
He was right. Inspector Hambidge, Sergeant Meeker, and one or two others were gathered in the room Hambidge had appropriated for his own.
“Well, well, Mr. Stone, what’s this I hear?” the Inspector asked, in his abrupt way. “Miss Winthrop disappeared, eh?”
“So it seems, Inspector. Now, I’ll tell you all I know and then you can get busy. It’s a strange story, however you look at it.”
As concisely as possible, Stone told all that he had learned since coming into the Converse home that morning. He did not try to make a dramatic tale but simply gave a straightforward recital of events as they had happened.
“And now,” he wound up, “I don’t know what to do. I was asked by Miss Winthrop, through the medium of Mrs. Mulvaney, to take over the case and consider my services engaged. To be sure, she postponed my appearance on the scene for twenty-four hours, but that was in no way her fault. The servants tell me she was really prostrated yesterday, and could see no one. The doctor says the same, so naturally, when this morning came, and brought no further postponement, I kept the appointment in good faith.”
“And quite right, it seems to me,” Hambidge said, but he spoke absent-mindedly, for his thoughts were in a whirl at the new developments. “What do you think, Stone? May it not be that Miss Winthrop has gone on some perhaps erratic but perfectly plausible errand, and will be back in due time?”
“Of course, it may be so, but dare we assume that? Does it not seem to you that there is crooked work going on, and that it ought to be looked into?”
“Yes, oh, yes. But who is to give me authority to go ahead with an investigation?”
“I don’t think the police need authority. I do, as a private investigator, but surely, if there is the least reason to assume that anything untoward has happened to Miss Jane, is it not your duty to look into the matter? And at once?”
“It certainly seems so.” Hambidge sighed. It seemed to him his responsibilities were greater than he could bear.
He summoned the butler first, and asked him bluntly what he knew of the so-called ghost that haunted the Turret rooms.
“I don’t know anything,” Betts replied, “but I’ve heard a great deal, and I’m prepared to affirm that there is some sort of evil influence about the house—”
“Meaning supernatural influence?”
“That’s what it seems to me, sir. How can it seem otherwise, when there’s moanings and groanings and mysterious lights that come and go and—”
“There, there, Betts, that will do. You say you’re quoting from hearsay. Now which of you have seen or heard any of these strange demonstrations?”
“Well, my wife has.”
“Send her in.”
Mrs. Betts appeared, and it was plain to be seen she was on the verge of hysterics. She trembled all over, her lip quivered so she could scarcely speak, and without waiting to be told, she fairly fell into a chair.
“I can’t stand it, sir,” she wailed, “I’m just all of the creeps. Oh, please, can’t you shut up this place,—what’s the use of keeping it going, now Miss Jane is gone? The demons! They carried her off—”
“Now, Mrs. Betts,” and Hambidge smiled at her, “you don’t really believe in ghosts? A sensible woman like you!”
“Well, I just do then! And so would you, or anybody who lived in this place! All night, sounds of somebody movin’ about, slow and soft like, sounds of voices where voices have no right to be—”
“Wait a minute, Mrs. Betts, tell me only of the sounds and voices you have heard yourself. Not stories someone else has told you.”
“Me? Oh, laws, sir, I never heard anything! How could I? I never go into the Turret rooms, I’ve no call to. Also, if I’d heard these things myself I’d have fallen dead in my tracks, that I would!”
“And you’re only telling me what you’ve heard?”
“Well, yes, sir. But it’s gospel truth, so it is.”
“I don’t care how true it is. Now, who, if anybody, actually saw or heard mysterious noises? Who?”
“Well, Peter did and Eileen did, and of course, Mrs. Mulvaney.”
“Then you are dismissed, Mrs. Betts, and send Peter here at once.”
Peter came duly, and seemed ready to tell anything he knew.
“About this ghost business, Peter. Now don’t tell me anything somebody else has told you, but have you had any experience yourself?”
“Well, yes, sir, once.”
“Once! And I suppose you magnified and exaggerated it every time you told it over. Well, tell me about it, but tell the exact truth.”
“It was one evening, about a month ago, sir. I was in Miss Janet’s room, drawing the curtains and turning on some low lights, when I heard what seemed like a wailing voice—”
“Where?”
“It seemed to be in the wall, in the Turret wall. I stood still and listened and I heard it again, low, but clear, like a sad moan.”
“You’re sure of this, Peter?”
“Positive, sir. I was frightened, of course, but not as scared as if it had been late at night. It was only about dusk, and I thought first off somebody was putting it over on me.”
“Don’t you think that now?”
“No, sir, ’cause there’s been so much more of it.”
“Who heard this ‘more of it’? You say you didn’t.”
“Well, no. That Eileen, now, she did, and oh, Mrs. Mulvaney, and Miss Winthrop herself.”
“I’ll get Mrs. Mulvaney’s story from her. Go now, Peter, and send Eileen here.”
The maid tripped in, with her customary air of importance.
“You want to question me?” she said, a little pertly, but with an eye on the Inspector’s countenance.
Seeing he looked kindly rather than stern, she gave him a coy smile and settled down comfortably in her chair waiting for questions.
To her surprise, the inquiries did not refer to the ghost, as she had hoped and expected.
“You are sure, Eileen, that Miss Jane went away from this house, if she did go away, in the gown she was wearing last evening and that she took none of her other clothes with her?”
“Well, Mr. Inspector, to that I can only say that it looks that way. I don’t miss any of her gowns or hats or coats. Of course, she might have taken little things, handkerchiefs, stockings, and such things, without my missing them, she had great store of such things. But as to gowns or coats, no.”
“I can’t see the lady packing small things in a bag, but going off without hat or coat. How about her brushes and combs and such things, Eileen?”
“They are all on her dressing table, where they belong.”
“It would seem then, that she did not go away voluntarily, on some sudden but quite rational errand. That leaves only a theory of a forced departure. She had not retired, you’re sure of that, Eileen?”
“Oh, yes, sir. If she had gone to bed and then had got up again and dressed, her nightgown would have been tumbled. But it lies folded, just as I laid it out for her.”
“Yes. Now, granting that pressure was brought to bear, and Miss Winthrop was forced to leave this house, how could she get out?”
“In many ways, sir,” Eileen nodded wisely. “The great doors are locked with care every night, but this strange old house has half a dozen small doors and odd little slip-outs, that are never really fastened up.”
“No wonder you are infested with ‘ghosts’. That explains how they get in and out.”
“Oh, no, sir. Ghosts don’t come in that way. They come through the wall.”
“Yes, I know. Now aside from these little slipout doors, and the great hall doors, is there any other exit?”
“Two. Both of the side doors have snap latches. I mean one can easily get out from the inside, and pull the door shut behind them; but no one could get in from outside, without a key.”
“I see. Then, whoever carried Miss Jane off, had several exits to choose from.”
“Oh, Lord, sir, you don’t say as she was carried off?”
“Yes, by these ghosts of yours. Now, tell me of the times you actually saw or heard these mysterious noises.”
“Several times, sir, when I’ve taken Miss Jane or Miss Janet to their rooms late at night, to assist them in undressing, I’ve heard—”
“Heard what? Be careful, now!”
“Heard low sighs or moans, in the wall, seemin’ly.”
“Probably the wind in the trees or in the ivy on the turrets.”
“Belike that was it, sir,” and Eileen’s mutinous face took on an expression that belied her words.
“Go on,” said Hambidge, “is that all you heard?”
“Yes, and it’s enough! I guess if you heard a long, low wail, like a soul in torment, you’d think it was enough!”
“And weren’t Miss Janet or Miss Jane frightened of this awful wail?”
“They didn’t seem to be,—leastwise, not Miss Janet. She just laughed and said, ‘At it again, eh’?’ or something like that.”
“But Miss Jane was more scared?”
“Well, yes, if she heard it, she always ran to Miss Janet, for comfort like.”
“Strange doings. Now, Eileen, did Miss Jane ever take sleeping powders?”
“She did, sir, of late. She fair had to. She couldn’t sleep, and the doctor gave her a box of harmless tablets, that she took on occasion.”
“Go up and get them, will you?”
Eileen was back in a moment with the drug. “Why, they’re half gone,” she said, in astonishment. “There was a full box day before yesterday, and as you see, lots of them are gone!”
“Then the intruder used them to stupefy Miss Jane, and also to drug Peter, so he could get the lady away unknown to anyone.”
“Carried her off bodily?” asked Fleming Stone, who had listened to all the inquiries.
“That’s how I see it,” said Hambidge. “Can’t see any other way out. Meeker, you go back now, and start the routine search. Quiz all train despatchers and ask the traffic policemen about cars and motor cycles. You may run up against something useful and again you may not. The trail is getting cold, but we must spread the nets as fast as we can. Go now, Eileen, and send in Mrs. Mulvaney.”
When the housekeeper came, Hambidge asked her curtly if she knew at what time Peter would be likely to drink his coffee.
“About midnight, I should think,” clearly Molly was guessing at it.
“In that case, Miss Jane left the house after midnight. There are no trains as late as that. They must have taken her away in a car. Look for tire tracks and all that, Meeker, and search the garage and grounds for clues of any sort.”
The Sergeant departed, and then a new arrival appeared.
This was Mr. Randall, of the law firm of Randall Brothers, and he strode into the room with an air of authority that was not to be daunted even by the police.
“I am James Randall,” he said, with a pompous air. “Junior partner of Randall Brothers. Now, Inspector Hambidge, you will address yourself to me.”
“Yes, sir,” Hambidge returned, with what Stone knew to be suspicious meekness, “and what is it you want to be addressed about?”
Randall gave him a quick glance, and said, more leniently, “Well, just tell me all about this—er— disappearance affair.”
Whereupon Inspector Hambidge endeavored, honestly and earnestly to tell Mr. James Randall all about the disappearance.
But it proved a difficult and well-nigh impossible enterprise. For Mr. Randall continually interrupted the story, and from his irrelevant remarks it was plain to be seen he was not paying really strict attention.
Yet he seemed, after all, to miss no important points, and when Hambidge finished the lawyer proceeded to instruct him.
“From what you tell me, Inspector, and from what I otherwise gather, I think we have no real reason to assume something in the nature of a misfortune has happened to Miss Winthrop. It seems to me it may well be that she merely went away on some sudden and to her mind, necessary errand.”
“Without telling anyone, and without wearing any hat or coat?” asked Hambidge, raising his bushy eyebrows.
“Certainly without telling anyone, for there was really no one to tell. As to her hat and coat, you can’t be sure. Those flighty ladies’ maids often overlook the most obvious facts.”
“But what errand could call her off in the middle of the night?”
“It might be some matter of seeing her dressmakers. Say, she wanted a certain garment or costume to wear to the funeral, and could only achieve it by a hasty trip to the city.”
“Not like her,” and the Inspector shook his head.
“Hard to say what’s like her and what isn’t,” insisted Randall. “Miss Winthrop is erratic, as no one knows better than I do. I’ve attended to her affairs for many years, and I know she is quite capable of rushing off at a moment’s notice if the impulse takes her. At any rate, we can’t assume her death, or her permanent disappearance, so we have to work on the principle that she will return. If she doesn’t return, we can’t help it, but if she does, she must find everything as she left it.”
“Then you don’t advise closing this house?”
“Assuredly not. It must remain open and all go on as if Miss Winthrop were here.”
“But somebody must be put in charge.”
“Of course. I’ve thought that all out. Mr. Stone, if you will accept the engagement, I would like you to take on the investigation, as Miss Winthrop asked you to do. I feel justified in this course of action, knowing that my client had already asked you to do this. I am assuming, having gathered it largely from your friendly attitude, that you and the police have no difficulty in working together.”
“Not so far as I am concerned,” Stone replied, glancing at Hambidge, who merely nodded his acquiescence.
“Furthermore, Mr. Stone,” Randall continued, “I should be glad to have you stay here in this house, if it suits your convenience. If not, pray don’t hesitate to say so.”
“I’ll think that over for a few moments,” Stone rejoined.
“Very well. Then, I propose to put Mrs. Mulvaney at the head of the household management.” He looked inquiringly at Molly.
“Whatever you say, sir,” she returned, without enthusiasm. “I make out that means I keep my own place as housekeeper, and that Betts and his wife and the others all remain as is.”
“That’s nearly right,” Randall agreed, “but you will have rather more authority in Miss Winthrop’s absence than you did when she was at home. So long as she remains away, you will be, to a degree, the head of the house, and I trust to your common sense and your loyalty to your employers that you will carry on this important duty to the best of your ability.”
“That I shall, sir. If Mr. Stone is to be an inmate here, I presoom I can ask his advice in any complexity.”
“Have you decided, Mr. Stone, whether you will take up your abode here or not?”
“I have, Mr. Randall, and I propose to stay here for a time at least. Since you engage me,—for the estate, I assume,—to investigate these matters, I suppose you mean both the murder mystery and the perhaps mysterious disappearance, I feel I can work better here on the spot than from outside. But of course, I must be free to go and come as I choose.”
“Of course, Mr. Stone, that goes without saying. Keep your expense account and turn it over to me at your convenience.”
“You are staying in Yellow Sands?”
“For a time. I came up here yesterday, on hearing of Janet’s death. This morning I was again shocked at the news of Miss Jane’s absence from home. I need not tell you that the two shocks have made my work here exceedingly arduous and difficult. I had intended to go through Janet’s papers to-day, but I apprehended only a mass of notes or society letters. Her financial affairs have always been in our hands. Now, I shall have to take up the question of Miss Winthrop’s papers, and that, too, is a grave uncertainty. If she is alive and well, I’ve no business intruding on her private papers. If she is not, then no time should be lost in investigating her affairs.”
“You don’t want any advice, I take it, Mr. Randall, from us or from Mr. Stone, as to your procedure?”
Hambidge’s words were polite but his tone was icy. He had never liked this bumptious lawyer, and he hoped he would refuse all assistance and come a cropper in consequence.
“I’m always glad of advice, Inspector,—whether I take it or not is another thing.”
“You’ll be takin’ Mr. Stone’s advice, I’ll warrant,” Molly broke in. “For why, you’re payin’ him for it; and too, Miss Jane, she wanted him.”
“Oh, I don’t think Mr. Stone is the sort of man to offer unasked advice,” and Mr. Randall smiled at Molly.
He really liked the woman. He had seen her often with Jane, and he recognized her sterling worth beneath her uncultured exterior.
“Miss Jane had planned to have the funeral on Sunday, I believe,” Randall said.
“Yes, sir,” Molly answered him, “at two o’clock.”
“Then carry out that plan,” Randall told her. “You know all about the arrangements, and with the funeral director, you can have everything go off smoothly.”
“Have it here at the house?” asked Molly, looking a little nervous.
“Did Miss Jane intend that?”
“She did, sir. She never liked church funerals.”
“Well, carry on, then, just as she would have done. She may be home for the services herself.”
“Oh, if she only would!” Molly breathed.
“May I take it, Mr. Randall,” broke in Hambidge, “if Miss Winthrop does not come home for the funeral, and if nothing is heard from or of her in the mean time, may I take it you will then begin to think something untoward has happened to her?”
“If she fails to appear for the funeral, yes, I shall certainly think she is being—er—forcibly detained, or something of the sort.”
“Well, we will go ahead with our inquiries and investigations—’ ’
“Certainly, Inspector. Why not? Don’t mistake me. I am greatly concerned about Miss Winthrop’s welfare, but it is not in my province to make any effort to find her. That is the work of you and of Mr. Stone. Having engaged Mr. Stone’s services, because I know that to be my client’s wish, I also approve of anything your organization may do. But enter into the matter myself, I cannot. I have neither the time nor the inclination for such work.”
“All right, Mr. Randall, you have cleared the situation considerably. I take it, I may have full liberty in this house, to make search as I deem right and proper?”
“Of course, Inspector. Go right ahead. I hope you will track down the ghost.”
“I surely hope so, too. What do you think about that phase of the matter, Mr. Randall?”
“I think there is some rational explanation. I believe the servants who say they have heard these noises, but I am sure they are made by human agency.”
“You wouldn’t be so sure if you heard ’em once,” Molly declared, her plump frame trembling with her fearful recollections. “Such sounds was never made by mortial man! I know the difference between a human voice and a ha’nt! That I do! Why, Mr. Randall,—”
She was interrupted by the entrance of Betts, who obviously brought news.
“What is it, Betts?” asked Hambidge, bent on keeping his authority as long as possible.
“The money’s gone, sir.”
“What money?”
“Miss Janet’s hoard. You know what I mean, Mrs. Mulvaney?”
“That I do! Gone, you say?”
“Suppose you explain yourself,” cut in Randall’s chilly tones. “Mulvaney, tell the story simply.”
Thus adjured, Molly, more flustered than ever, tried to do as she was bid.
“You see, gentlemen, Miss Janet she always kept a large sum of money in the house. She said, if so be’s she wanted to go on a visit or a trip, suddent like, she wanted to be ready to start off without hikin’ to the bank for cash at the last minute.”
“What do you call a large sum of money?” asked Randall.
“Some several thousand dollars, sir.”
“God bless my soul, you don’t mean that!” Money was James Randall’s god, and to have it carelessly left about was almost more than he could bear.
“Where was this cash kept?” he said hollowly.
“In a strong box, under Miss Janet’s bed.”
“You servants all knew about it?”
“Yes, sir,” and Betts stiffened considerably.
“Is the box there?”
“Yes, sir, but empty.”
“Did it contain anything but the money?”
“That I don’t know, sir.”
“I know,” Molly said, calmly, “it also contained a lot of bearer bonds, whatever they may be.”
Randall said no word, being apparently too overcome even to call upon his Maker.
“Well, well,” Hambidge was waking up, “now we have something to work on. Bearer bonds and cash! Then the matter resolves itself into a first class burglary. Not easy to trace, though. Was the cash in large denominations, Mrs. Mulvaney?”
“No, sir. Miss Janet said she wanted it right handy and convemient for her use. So it was smallish bills, I believe. I know this from hearing Miss Jane exposterlate with Miss Janet on the subject. Miss Jane thought the whole projick absurd. But laws, you might as well tell the wind to stop blowing as to advise Miss Janet. She’d only laugh and say, ‘Never mind, Auntie. If it should be stolen, we’ve plenty left.’ Which of course she had.”
“You may go, Betts,” said Randall. “A most absurd performance!” he said, after the door had closed behind the butler. “Why, it was an ever present temptation to those servants! It should not have been allowed.”
“It was allowed,” said Molly, serenely. “Nobody could stand up to Miss Janet.”
“No,” and Randall shook his head. “I well know her headstrong ways. Even as her legal adviser, she would often refuse to follow my advice and go her own way in spite of all I could do.”
“Do you s’pose,” Molly asked, in a scared whisper, “the burgulars tortured Miss Jane or killed her, because she wouldn’t tell where the money was?”
“No,” Randall said, “I don’t believe anything of the sort. Beside, they got the money, didn’t they?”
“Well, then what did become of Miss Jane?”
“That’s for the police to tell us,” Randall said, looking hard at Hambidge. “I am a sticker for every man attending to his own field of business. I have my work in attending to the family fortunes. The police must track down the murderer and the burglar. Mr. Stone, I trust you will live up to your usual reputation and solve the mysteries of the case.”
“One more thing, Mr. Randall,” said the Inspector, “what about the wills of the two ladies? I assume that’s no secret.”
“No secret about the will of Miss Converse,” the lawyer replied, “she left her whole fortune to her aunt, with the exception of some minor bequests to friends and to the servants. But as to the will of Miss Winthrop, I’ve no right to say anything. We have no real reason to think she is dead. For my part I don’t know why you all seem to think she must be.”
“Because she’s gone,” Molly said, in a doleful voice. “She ain’t one to go off easy at the beck and call of a burgular! No, sir, she ain’t. If Jane Winthrop went out of that door, she was carried out, dead or unconscious. She never walked out without putting up a row.”
“Call that footman back, will you?” asked Randall, suddenly.
Peter was summoned and the lawyer put him through a rapid fire of questions.
“What time did you drink your coffee, Peter?”
“A bit earlier than usual, sir. ’Long about eleven, maybe.”
“And soon fell asleep?”
“I suppose so, sir. I knew nothing more till early this morning, when Betts shook me awake.”
“Strange. Now, who came into the room before you fell asleep?”
“Betts, once. Mrs. Mulvaney, once or twice, and Miss Jane once. That’s all.”
“What did Miss Jane come in for?”
“To look at Miss Janet.”
“Did she touch her?”
“No, sir, she just clasped her hands and stood gazing at Miss Janet, looking as if her heart was breaking. Then she gave a deep sort of sob, and went quickly out of the room. She didn’t come back.”
“You went in the room later, Mrs. Mulvaney?”
“Yes. I looked in to make sure everything was all right. That was nearly eleven. Peter had not yet drunk his coffee. I looked at Janet’s sweet face and then I went up to my room.”
“At that time Miss Converse was still holding the flowers and her curls were in proper place, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes, or I’d have noticed something wrong.”
“Did you notice whether she had on her little pearl pin?”
“Yes, I did. It was in place, just as Miss Jane had pinned it on her.”
“Then we have to conclude that the disturbance of the body was done by the intruder, who stole the money, and who drugged Peter’s coffee. Inspector, it ought not to be a hard task for you to track down that intruder.”
“I dare say you are hinting that I look for him inside these four walls. But I’m not so sure. An outsider could easily have got in, and I understand the servants are above suspicion.”
“Nobody is above suspicion when it comes to a large sum of money, like that. I suppose it was common property, the knowledge of the box of money, I mean.”
“Yes, sir,” Molly said, cheerfully. “The ladies didn’t make any secret of it, so the servants was all blabbitin’ about it. But not one of ’em would touch it, you needn’t think they would!”
“That’s as may be,” the Inspector said, rising. “Well, we’ve something to go on, anyway. I’ll leave you now, and if you want me, Mr. Stone, you know where to find me. I can’t think the money is an important matter compared with a murder and a disappearance. I dare say I take Miss Jane’s absence more seriously than you do, Mr. Randall, but to a policeman a mysterious disappearance is a serious matter. If there was any chance now, that Miss Jane had gone off on her own accord,—but I can’t see it that way. Well, we’ll get out a dragnet and do all we can. I prophesy she will not be back here for the funeral on Sunday.”
The policemen departed and Randall turned to Stone with his most courteous air.
“May I stay to lunch with you, Mr. Stone? I suppose, Molly, you can fix us up something.”
“Oh, yes, certainly. I’ll see Betts about it at once.”
“Don’t defer such things to me,” Stone said, a little annoyed. “You’ve more right here than I have.”
“Ah, well, we won’t quarrel about that. Perhaps you’d like to select a suite of rooms for yourself. There are plenty of them, and you can make your own choice. Do you care for any of the turret rooms?”
“I think not,” and Stone looked thoughtful. “I’m ghost proof myself, but I’ve an idea I can keep watch and ward better if I camp out in some other quarters. I’ll go with Betts and make a choice.”
He left the room, and James Randall stood looking after him, with an odd smile on his face.
Then he shook his head, sat down in an easy chair, and drawing a sheaf of papers from his pocket, began carefully to look them over.
The two men met at luncheon.
A delightful meal, perfectly cooked and served; by tacit consent, they talked of other matters, until coffee was placed on the table, and then, Randall again brought up the all-engrossing subject.
“Of course,” he said, patronizingly, “as an outsider, I get a perspective on this thing that you people who are working in it cannot perceive. Now, I dare say you are looking for the murderer of Janet among her crowd of young friends. Such a thing would be hardly possible. Not only because those boys and girls are devoted friends and chums, but because the awful deed is the work of an older, a more experienced and hardened nature.”
“Not necessarily,” Stone differed. “Those young people are not boys and girls, they are men and women. Do you know that most of them are about twenty-five years old, and in to-day’s acceptation that is old enough for anything.”
“You, then, suspect some one of the crowd?” Randall looked horrified.
“I haven’t said so. But it is far from impossible. Indeed, it is far more likely than to think any of these house servants did it.”
“But the servants, several of them, had opportunity, and as to motive, the lure of a diamond necklace is enough to tempt the cupidity of any of them.”
“But it’s too absurd to think of one of the servants daring to go down to the beach, get under Miss Janet’s umbrella and commit the crime. He or she would be spotted at once—”
“By whom? If Janet recognized him, she didn’t live to tell of it. And, too, Mr. Stone, have you looked into the past of these servants? Do you know that the parlormaid has once been a trained nurse? That the second chauffeur was at one time a doctor’s chauffeur? These things make for familiarity with the hypodermic syringe.”
“Yes, those are certainly points to be investigated,” Stone agreed. “This case has no end of ramifications. Two more of the servants I myself have marked down for future inquiry.”
“Yes? Well, any of them would take the opportunity or make the opportunity for the sake of that necklace.”
“What about young Meade, who is said to have buried that setting in the sand?”
“There you go over to the young people again! Well, you’ll never be satisfied until you rake them fore and aft. Go to it, my dear sir. It’s your business, not mine.”
“I certainly shall not exclude the possibilities of that younger crowd. Then, we have the problem of the man, Nick Morton.”
Randall waved his hand airily.
“Nothing in that. I’ve known Morton these many years. He’s a sharp customer. He can drive a close bargain, but he’s not a murderer.”
“How do you know?”
“To begin with, he hadn’t the opportunity—”
“That’s just what he did have. He was under the umbrella, with his arm round Janet—”
“That was after she had told of the wasp’s sting.”
“I’m not so sure. Mr. Belden is our informant, and we must admit his stories are questionable as to veracity.”
“You agree, I suppose, that Janet’s cry that a wasp had stung her, must refer to the fact that at that moment she was pierced by the deadly needle?”
“Yes,” Stone spoke guardedly, “I think we can admit that, though it may not be true.”
“Of course it’s true. Now, one of the maids or even Peter the footman could have slipped in at the back of the big umbrella and used that needle without anyone noticing. Those youngsters are so accustomed to a maid or a manservant about, they’d think nothing of it. Nor would Janet be surprised at the advent of one of them.”
“Meaning the quick witted Eileen?”
“Meaning any of them. Well, I’ve given you my ideas for what they’re worth. Now you can go your own gait. I’m leaving here now. I shall have to be back and forth between here and our New York office. Of course, I’ll be here for the funeral, when I hope we shall see Miss Jane reappear.”
Betts appeared just then in the doorway.
“There are two ladies calling,” he began, a little uncertainly.
“Yes,” Randall said, suavely, “who are they?”
“Miss Eunice Church and her mother.”
“I’ll see them,” and Randall rose to his feet. “Come along, Stone.”
In a small reception room the callers awaited them.
Lovely Eunice, calm and collected, and her fluttering, nervously smiling mother.
The girl took the helm.
“We came over,” she said, after greetings had been exchanged, “to see if there might be anything we could do. Mummy felt there might be a possibility that you would like to have her here on Sunday, in case Miss Jane doesn’t return.”
“You know Miss Jane is gone, then?”
“Oh, of course. Everybody knows it. And wouldn’t it be nicer to have my mother here as sort of hostess, you know, than to have only the housekeeper in charge?”
“It certainly would be, Miss Church.” Stone spoke with unexpected decision, and Randall stared at him. “It is a kind and thoughtful suggestion and I hope it can be carried out. You were Miss Janet’s dearest friend?”
“Yes, and she always loved my mother, too. Having no mother of her own she frequently used to say she adopted mine.”
Mrs. Church gave a resigned sigh, as one who had greatness thrust upon her. The kind-hearted lady was not unwilling to do her daughter’s behest, but all the atmosphere of the occasion was distasteful to her, and she dreaded the ordeal. Yet it was all arranged for her and she bowed her acquiescence, while Stone nodded his satisfaction.
Miss Jane Winthrop did not come home for her niece’s funeral.
Mrs. Church and Eunice were, in a quiet way, acting hostesses, and they greeted strangers and directed certain small matters in an efficient and unobtrusive manner. Eunice, too, had kept a list of the flowers received and their donors’ names, telling Molly that she would attend to the acknowledgment of these tributes, of which there were an astonishing number.
The service had been simple but very beautiful and then Janet Converse was taken away for the last time from the strange home she had loved so well.
There was no relative or family connection to mourn her, and as interment would be in a New York cemetery, there was no occasion for a funeral procession.
Betts and Molly straightened up the rooms, the mortician’s men whisked away the funeral chairs, and soon it was all over.
“If I can be of any help to you, in any way, Mr. Stone,” Eunice said, as she and her mother were leaving, “don’t hesitate to call on me. Of course, I naturally know a lot about the family matters, and if Miss Jane doesn’t return soon, you may have some questions to ask me.”
“Thank you, Miss Church. Now that I am definitely engaged on the case, I shall devote all my time and attention to it, and I’ll be more than glad to have the help of one who knew the family well. Tell me, was Miss Winthrop quick-tempered, that is high-tempered, given to sudden fits of anger?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Stone. She was mild and gentle, as a rule. I’ve heard Janet say that if really angered, her aunt was quite capable of flying into a rage, but I never saw any evidence of it. Molly Mulvaney could tell you that better than I.”
“You have complete faith in Mrs. Mulvaney, I suppose?”
“Why, yes, so far as I know. You see, when Janet was alive, she and I went about our own affairs and really saw little of Miss Jane and practically nothing of Molly. I’m afraid we were a careless if not heedless pair. We thought of nothing but our own pursuits and pleasures. As I look back I wonder that Miss Jane was as pleasant about it as she was. We neglected her shamefully, I fear.”
“That’s the way of to-day’s young people, I’m told, Miss Church. But as I understand it, Miss Winthrop was so attached to her niece that her one desire was for the girl’s happiness and pleasure.”
“That’s right exactly. Now, I must go, Mr. Stone, and if I can help you, call on me.”
She went off and James Randall, who had been listening, said, with a smile:
“She’s a good sort, and willing to help. But where are the others? After the services they scurried away like frightened rabbits.”
“They’ll have to scurry back again,” said Stone, frowning. “I’ve a lot of questions to ask that bunch of youngsters.”
“You don’t suspect them, do you?”
“I believe the usual response to that is, ‘I suspect everybody and nobody.’ But I do say I’m more ready to imagine the criminal among them than among the staff of servants.”
“Well, that’s your business. Now, I’m going to the city, and I’ll be back to-morrow or next day. Of course, if Miss Winthrop returns or any word comes from her, let me know at once. I have to confer with my brother, for I frankly admit I’m up a tree. I doubt if anyone ever heard of such a case. The heiress murdered, her next of kin and heir, disappeared, and no one else to claim relationship or any legal interest in the estate!”
“What shall you do?”
“Probably nothing for a time. The house must be carried on, I’ve no authority to close it. I can, of course, pay salaries and wages, but beyond that I’ve little jurisdiction.”
“You are in a peculiar position. But who isn’t? I feel my own case equally peculiar and difficult. And I’m sure the police are simply discouraged at trying to get anywhere.”
“One more thing. Have you heard anything of a hidden treasure?”
“Only indirectly. I rather ignored the matter, for it seemed to me like servants’ gossip. Why, is there a tradition to that effect?”
“Yes, a tradition.”
“But this isn’t an old mediaeval castle. It’s a rather poor imitation of one, I’d say, and I wonder how such a story gained credence.”
“Well, ferret it out if you can.”
“Hold on there. Tell me all you know of it.”
“Nothing definite. But my late client, Janet’s father, as good as admitted that there is some such thing hidden in the turret, or somewhere, and it’s my theory that if there’s anything in these yarns of wailings and moanings, the demonstrations are due to some very real human beings and not to any supernatural agency.”
“Of course. I’m glad to have that hint. You don’t know what form the treasure takes on?”
“I’ve heard of a gold box or gold casket, but it may all be made up. As I’ve told you, these things are outside my province.”
“Yes, you’ve told me that several times, but for the Lord’s sake, if you know anything, pass your knowledge along!”
“Oh, I will, rest assured of that. Now, I’m going. Keep me posted as to progress.”
Randall stalked off and Fleming Stone felt a bit strange as he turned to take a seat by the open window in the pleasant sitting room that Miss Winthrop had called her own.
He concluded to adopt this room for his own uses, and if Miss Jane returned, he could hand it over to her on short notice.
Rut Stone found he could not sit still. For perhaps the first time in his life he felt nervous about his case.
Or at least, anxious, worried, uncertain. He felt as if he didn’t know which way to turn.
He rose and paced the room, then giving himself a shake, he decided to go for a long walk.
“That,” he said to himself, “will blow the cobwigs out of my brain.”
And he was right.
There was a strong sea breeze blowing and Stone set off at a brisk pace.
An hour’s walk made a new man of him, and he returned to Twin Turrets with fresh energy and new resolutions.
Moreover, he had formed some ideas. Not definite enough to be called theories, but rather decided opinions.
And one was that he must solve some minor mysteries before he could hope to reason out the great question of the murderer.
He must solve the problem of the wailing ghost. He knew, of course, that the disturbance was due to some human being, either mischievous or wicked, and that person must be discovered.
Next he must find out who took Janet’s necklace. He was not at all convinced that the thief of the diamonds and the killer of Janet, were one and the same, but the truth about it must be learned.
Next he must solve the mystery of Miss Jane’s disappearance.
He didn’t underrate the importance of this, he knew that it was second only to the murder itself; might, in fact, be another murder. But he must find out.
These things, he felt sure, could be, at least to some extent, discovered in the house. He thought it not unlikely that clues to all these problems would be forthcoming if he looked carefully enough. And he determined to look very carefully.
As to people, individuals, he wasn’t quite ready yet for those considerations.
But he knew in what general order he should take them.
When the time came, Morton should be one of the first to be finished off. Stone liked to take a suspect, and either condemn or acquit him in short order.
Morton once settled, he would consider Belden. He hardly thought Belden really involved in the crimes but he wasn’t satisfied with the man’s statements and he proposed to grill him thoroughly.
Then, of course, there was young Meade. Stone didn’t really suspect Meade but he must make sure.
Of course, that meant the other members of the “crowd” must be looked after as well. He dreaded the young people far more than any others. The servants he took little interest in. Perhaps that Peter or that sly looking Eileen had a hand in stealing the necklace, but he doubted it, and anyway, he felt sure they were not concerned in the murder.
Morton for choice, then. He was so slick, so smooth an article, that one simply had to suspect him.
And what was his nefarious business? Oh, yes, he was mixed up in that Rare Book business. That was suspicious on the face of it. Even a greenhorn could bamboozle Janet into disposing of her valuable books by pretending they were worthless.
Though not an expert, Fleming Stone was more or less of a book collector, and he wondered if he couldn’t trace some of Morton’s chicanery, if any, right here and now.
But dinner was announced just then, and Stone found that his brisk walk had given him an excellent appetite.
He found a delightfully served dinner ready for him, and he began to think his lines had fallen in pleasant places after all. He had wanted an intricate case, and he surely had one.
After enjoying his dinner leisurely and smoking a cigar, Stone went up to the library.
There was another general library on the ground floor, but this small collection of the rare books of the late Mr. Converse was housed in the circular room at the top of the East Turret.
The room below this, in the turret, had been Janet’s bedroom, he remembered.
Telling Betts where he could be found, if wanted, Stone went up the spiral staircase to the small round room with its curved tiers of shelves and its old books.
At first, the detective was so engrossed in his interest in the books he almost forgot his errand.
But soon he began to open his eyes. Careful investigation was not going to be necessary, it seemed, for the truth sprang at him.
Again and again he discovered that a modern edition had been substituted for a genuine antique.
This was indubitable, for Stone’s knowledge stood him in good stead.
One book case held only the works of early American poets and novelists.
Among Hawthorne’s works, he soon found a copy of The Scarlet Letter, that was not a first edition at all, but had been made to look old and worn by judicious rubbing.
Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn were not at all the desired copies, but spurious imitations.
English authors the same way. Novels by Hardy and Conrad were base imitations of what they ought to be.
Stone knew these things for facts, because of the accompanying volumes and also from the catalogues, which indicated First Editions, though the books themselves were of much later dates.
Clearly, Morton had in some way persuaded Janet to let him take away the rare books and had substituted fakes.
This stamped Morton, in Stone’s estimation, as a cheat and a crook. It had to be proved, but that, Stone felt sure, would not be difficult, with the help of the police.
It was just as Stone was about to leave the Turret library that he heard a faint sound. Had he never heard of the Turret ghost, he would have attributed the sound to the wind or some other natural cause, but remembering Molly’s declarations of the disturber of their peace, he stood motionless and listened.
Again he heard the faint sound, not a wail or moan, but more like a moving person in the wall.
With a sudden jump Stone sprang at the spot where the sound seemed to come from and gave a loud bang on the wall.
Instantly the sound ceased, nor was there any return of it.
“Scared him off,” thought Stone, wagging his head. “Now to find the entrance. I know they say it can’t be found, but I haven’t tried yet.”
Carefully and methodically he tapped along the wainscot, along the walls as high up as he could reach, and then, along the baseboard and the floor. But no hollow sound rewarded his efforts, and he gave it up for the time being. He knew he couldn’t achieve his object in a hurry, but he was none the less determined that he would achieve it and that right soon.
From the library he went to Miss Winthrop’s room.
He had not yet finished scrutinizing her belongings.
He studied carefully the scattered letters that strewed the desk and the floor beneath it.
It was strange that Miss Jane, a tidy person, should leave these letters scattered about. Had she been surprised while at her task of looking for some particular letter, or had she been clearing out her desk, or merely looking over the letters to get some fresh memories of her beloved niece?
And, this was the main point at issue: Had she gone from the house willingly or unwillingly?
The latter, he felt certain. She couldn’t go off voluntarily, leaving Janet in her coffin, leaving the household at its wits’ end, leaving her own room in disorder.
But if unwillingly, then she must have been kidnaped.
After all, that was the most plausible solution. The Converse fortune was now Miss Jane’s, and if some villain, brave enough and strong enough had carried her off, it was for ransom. In that case, there was nothing to do but wait for a message from the kidnapers.
But somehow, this solution didn’t entirely satisfy Fleming Stone. He looked round the room. There was the box of veronal tablets, where it had been replaced on the dresser. Suppose the intruder had drugged Peter’s coffee with these and had also drugged Miss Jane with them. It would then not be difficult to carry her out unseen by anyone else.
He had never seen Miss Winthrop, but he had heard that she was a tall, spare woman, and, too, perhaps there were two men to carry her.
Meticulously he went over the contents of her toilet table. A small drawer that held handkerchiefs was slightly disturbed, but that could have been done at any time. The pile of silk stockings, too, was a bit disarranged, but the detective knew that silk stockings are easily thrown out of alignment if picked up in a hurry.
He went on noticing.
Miss Jane’s fountain pen was in its place on her pen rack. Her purse was in a small drawer, with some bills and change in it. Her checkbook was in a desk drawer.
Surely, she had not gone away of her own accord, leaving these intimate things behind her.
Stay, where where her glasses?
He could find none, but he was not sure whether she wore any or not. He rang a bell, and when Peter answered, he asked to have Molly sent to him.
He inquired as to glasses, but Molly said Miss Jane had only the sunglasses she used for the beach. These were of yellowish tinted glass. But as for reading glasses, Miss Jane had never required any, having exceptionally strong vision.
“Now, Molly,” he said, “I want to find out exactly what Miss Jane wore or took when she went away. Eileen has said there is no hat or coat missing, she said Miss Jane had no fitted bag, and that none of her bags or suitcases is gone.”
“But Janet had a fitted bag,” Molly said, eagerly. “I gave it to her last Christmas. A lovely one.”
“Go and see if it’s in its place,” directed Stone.
Molly went and returned, saying, “No, sir, it isn’t. But that’s nothing, really, for Janet was quite likely to give it away, or to—”
“Would she give away a bag you gave her?”
“Oh, yes. She was that heedless, you know.”
“What was in her bag?”
“A Pullman robe and slippers, and the fittings that came with the bag. That’s all.”
“It doesn’t help much,” Stone said, despondently. “Molly, was Miss Jane just as usual when she said good-night to you, the last night she was here?”
“Well, sir, she was about the same, but she sorta kissed me special—like. I set it down to her feeling so awful about Janet.”
“Probably that was it. Did she usually kiss you good-night?”
“Very seldom. But lawsee, that night, she was all upset. Why, she woulda kissed anybody! I mean, you know, she was so put about—”
“Yes, I understand. Now, Molly, I’m going out for a walk. How shall I get in?”
“I’ll give you one of the latch keys, sir. You can take Miss Jane’s. Oh, it isn’t here. I’ll get you another.”
Stone started out, and his walk took him to Yellow Sands Inn.
The place was not far from Twin Turrets, only a few minutes’ walk, and Stone went in and looked around for Dick Pompton, the innkeeper.
The Inn was fashioned to a degree after the old English Inns, but, like Twin Turrets, it was not a really good imitation.
However, it was a comfortable, genial place, and Stone soon found Pompton who greeted him warmly.
“Wish you’d come back here to stay,” he said. “We miss you a lot.”
“Perhaps I will return some day. Look here, Pompton, give me five minutes alone, will you?”
“Sure, come this way.”
Stone found himself in a cosy little parlor, and Dick Pompton waited for his message.
“What do you know,” Stone asked, “about the so called ghost over at Twin Turrets?”
“Not much. But I’ll say I’ve seen lights around that turret when no lights ought to be there.”
“You’ve seen them, yourself?”
“My very own self, and so have my family and some of my guests.”
“All right. I’ll take your word for it. How do you explain it?”
“I don’t.”
“Because you can’t or because you don’t want to?”
“You’re too cute, Mr. Stone. Why do you ask a question like that?”
“You decline to answer?”
“Oh, not quite that, but let’s say I’d rather not answer.”
“Of course, you know you can be made to answer.”
“Of course, I know that, but you won’t make me, will you?”
The old man was so wheedlesome and withal so embarrassed, that Stone concluded to let the matter rest for the present.
“All right, Pompton, but tell me what else you’ve seen or heard except the lights?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“No, and you know it isn’t. Go on, now.”
“Well, I never heard anything, myself, but I’ve heard tales as would make your hair stand on end.”
“Those aren’t the tales I want. I want only your own experiences.”
“Well, they’re few and far between, Mr. Stone. I’ve seen some dark, shadowy figgers, poking around, quiet-like, near the turret, but further than that I can’t say.”
“Know who these figures were?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
“You’re not very communicative to-night, Pomp, I’ll see you some other time.”
Fleming Stone could tell when he was going to get his desired information and when he wasn’t. Tonight, he was sure he wasn’t, but that did not mean he despaired of getting it some other time.
He said good-night in a cordial, friendly way, and went home.
Next day, he had word from Hambidge to meet him at his office at noon.
Accordingly Stone went there, and found James Randall there before him.
As a matter of fact the junior partner of Randall Brothers was not at all averse to visiting the Club Spindrift.
He was fond of the gayeties afforded by the Club and he welcomed this errand that brought him to Yellow Sands now and then.
The three men had an earnest conversation regarding the matter of Miss Jane’s possible return.
“I admit,” Randall said, “that I was too optimistic. I thought of course she’d come back for the funeral. Now, what are we to think?”
“That’s just the point,” Hambidge told him. “We don’t know what to think.”
“But of course,” Randall pursued, “you’re making every effort to trace her?”
“Oh, that, of course. We’ve fine-tooth combed the railroads and steamboat lines, we’ve looked up motor cars, we’ve tried to trace footprints, in case she walked away, but all to no avail. We’re concentrating now on the murder. That is a known crime. The disappearance we are not sure about.”
“You don’t care to tell us about the wills, Mr. Randall?” asked Stone.
“Miss Janet’s will, yes. Not, of course, Miss Jane’s.”
“Did Miss Converse leave much to her young friends?”
“Some. Five thousand dollars each to Miss Church, Miss Fair and Miss Ames.”
“Any to the young men of their crowd?”
“No, only the girls.”
At that point a man appeared, who seemed to be thrusting his way in, regardless of a deterrent office boy.
“I will go in,” the visitor announced and promptly did so.
Hambidge sat quietly, taking in this insistent personage.
“I am Jed Cross,” the stranger said. “You know me, any of you?”
The Inspector shook his head, and Fleming Stone gave no sign of recognition.
“Well, you soon will. I am the heir to the Converse estate, and unless Jane Winthrop returns, every cent of the fortune is mine.”
Throwing his hat on a chair, the claimant for the property seated himself in another chair, and prepared to meet objections.
“You’ll have to tell us more than that, Mr. Cross,” the Inspector said, without heat or show of anger.
“I’ll show you fast enough,” Cross declared. “Want it now?”
“Good a time as any,” Hambidge told him.
“All right, then, here goes!” and Cross began his story.
“My name is Jedediah Converse Cross,” the stranger began, looking from one to another of his hearers. “My home is in California,—Los Angeles. I am the nephew of William Converse, he was the father of Janet, and consequently I was Janet’s own cousin. My mother was the sister of William Converse, she married Anthony Cross, and I am the only child of that union. I am thirty years old, and if Jane Winthrop is dead, and if she died intestate I am the next of kin and the rightful heir.”
The speaker was a round-faced, bullet-headed man, who seemed full of vigor and animation, all of which he apparently was putting forth in an effort to prove his point.
“This is a strange story, Mr. Cross,” Randall said, feeling the matter was coming within his jurisdiction. “I suppose you will know we want proofs of your statements.”
“You’ll get them, full and plenty,” Cross declared. “Now, shall we go into the matter of proofs first, or take up some other aspects of the case?”
“I don’t see, for my part, that there is any case,” Hambidge remarked, dryly. “Anyway, it isn’t a matter for the police,—as yet. Why do you come here, sir?”
“I was hunting Mr. Randall, and that led me this way.”
The man had an ingratiating smile, though not at all cringing or propitiatory. He was a somewhat short, thickset shape, but well dressed and well groomed. He spoke in a cultured voice, but also he showed a bit of determination to have his speech out.
“Well,” James Randall said, “you have found me. Now, so far as I am concerned, I think you’d better give us some proofs of your identity before we go any further.”
“Certainly. But it seems to me that Inspector Hambidge could quite readily dispense with my presence. Shall I go with you to your own office?”
“My own office, and if you know anything about me at all, you should know it, is in New York City. I am here—”
“Of course, I know all those details. You are here looking into the matter of Jane Winthrop’s disappearance. So am I. I’m deeply interested, because as I said, I’m the only living representative of the Converse family.”
“You’re assuming Miss Jane’s death?”
“She isn’t a Converse. She is related to Janet on her mother’s side. Mrs. Converse was a Winthrop. Naturally, I know the whole family history.”
“Naturally you would, if you propose to make this preposterous claim—”
“Hold hard, Mr. Randall. Have you a right to use the word preposterous when you know almost nothing about the basis of my claim?”
“Perhaps not,” Randall returned, for he was of just mind. “Now, as I think, too, this is not police business, suppose you come with me to my rooms at the Inn—perhaps Mr. Stone will come along, too,—”
“Why not go right over to The Turrets?” suggested Stone. “You’ve been there doubtless, Mr. Cross?”
Cross gave him a shrewd glance.
“I have,” he said, “but only once. I went there not long ago to see Janet.”
“Did you see her?”
“Yes. She was a beautiful girl and most gracious and courteous to me. Come on, then, let’s go over there, I want to get the ball rolling.”
The three men walked the short distance to Twin Turrets almost in silence. Randall was swept off his feet at this new development. He didn’t, couldn’t, believe there could be any truth in it, the man was probably a clever impostor, yet the matter must be sifted.
Fleming Stone was tremendously interested. He paid great attention to the timbre of a voice, and there was that in the tones of Jed Cross that made for sincerity.
He might be a crook, Stone realized that, but so far, he didn’t think so.
At the house, Stone led the way to the room Hambidge had chosen for an office and the three sat round a small table.
“Now,” said Cross, “here are my proofs and my credentials. Here is the wedding certificate of my parents, my own birth and baptism record, and the death notices of my family. These are all copies, of course, but the originals, in the vaults of a New York Safe Deposit Company are at your disposal, if you become interested in my claims.”
“Were you on good terms with the Converse family here?” asked Stone, anxious for side lights on the matter rather than statistics.
“Yes, up to a couple of years before William Converse died. Then he and I had a quarrel, and we were not friendly afterward.”
“What was the quarrel about?” Randall inquired.
“That’s not pertinent. If, after you’ve heard all I have to say, you believe my tale, then we can go into minor matters.”
“Go on, then, with what you have to say.”
“It’s simply this. Supposing Jane Winthrop doesn’t return, what shall you conclude?”
“That’s hard to answer. As you doubtless know, after seven years a missing person may be adjudged dead. But there are side issues, of course.”
“Of course. Well, if Jane is alive and if she returns duly, I shall willingly relinquish all claims. But I don’t want to wait seven years to know.”
“And how can you find out sooner?”
“That’s just the trouble,” and Jed Cross gave a wry smile that showed the question was a serious one to him.
“What shall you do, Mr. Randall,” Stone inquired, “if Miss Winthrop remains absent for say, several weeks or months?”
“I shall probably be of the opinion that she is dead, but I cannot take any legal steps regarding the estate on my own opinion.”
“What do you think happened to her?” Cross asked, suddenly.
“I think she was kidnapped,” answered Randall, briefly.
“Some proposition, to kidnap an able-bodied woman like Jane. Unless she was drugged.”
“Which she doubtless was. But what I can’t understand is why the kidnapers haven’t yet applied for ransom.”
“Cold feet, maybe. It’s easier to do the actual kidnapping than to arrange for the ransom money.”
“You know Miss Winthrop pretty well then?” Randall asked of Cross.
“Not so very. Haven’t seen her since William died. Jane and I never got along very well, she was a tough proposition for anyone to get along with except her idolized niece.”
“Who could have killed that girl?” Randall exclaimed.
“Might have been most anybody passing by, who knew she had that necklace with her. With that gang bunched together, an outsider could have crept up and jabbed the girl and grabbed the necklace while they were talking and laughing. You know how noisy they are, and how careless of what’s going on.”
“Well, come back to the subject in hand, Mr. Cross.” Randall looked impatient. “If you prove your identity, and if these documents of yours are genuine, they’ll prove it for you, what can I do for you? I can’t hand over the Converse fortune to you until we know for certain what has happened to Miss Winthrop.”
“No, and I don’t expect you to. I don’t need money, I’m not a poor man. But I want to be recognized as the next in line, the heir to the property if Jane never comes back.”
“All right, the proving of these claims will automatically establish you in that position. What else?”
“I’d like to be in this house for a time at least. I can’t see that it would do any harm. Let me live here, for a time, and if Jane comes home, I’ll turn the place over to her instanter. Meantime, you ought to be glad to have a Converse living here.”
“Mr. Stone is domiciled here now.”
“I’m ready to vacate,” Stone smiled. “I was thinking, Randall, I’d tell you I was pretty well fed up with the place. It’s lonely, if you ask me. I did want to stay here for awhile, and I’m glad I did, and I’d like to stay about a week longer, then I’m ready to give my latchkey to Mr. Cross.”
“If he qualifies,” put in Randall.
“That’s all right, sir,” Jed told him. “Stick to it till you prove up my claims. I’m not worrying about that. Why, here’s the letter I had from Janet. That ought to help some.”
“It doesn’t,” Randall said, after the merest glance at the letter the man offered. “That’s Janet’s writing and it’s to her Cousin Jed, but that doesn’t prove you are he. Don’t you know anyone here at Club Spindrift who knows you?”
“Not a soul,” said Jed, cheerfully. “But you hike over to New York and interview some of those bankers and brokers, and I reckon they’ll put you wise to who I am.”
“You’ll have to go with me. All the identification in the world won’t get you anywhere unless it’s tied onto you, personally.”
“Pshaw, I know that. I’ll go with you. To-day?”
“No, to-morrow.”
“All right, to-morrow. And, I say, Mr. Stone, don’t think you must clear out because I’m coming in. There’s room here for the two of us, and it won’t be so lonely as being all by yourself.”
“What do you want to hunt for?” Stone said, abruptly.
Cross stared at him. “You’re a cute one. How do you know I mean to do any hunting?”
“Why come here, otherwise? Now, I’ll be frank. I’m hunting clues that have a bearing on the murder of Janet Converse. I’m not hunting for the stolen necklace, and I’m only incidentally hunting for clues to Miss Jane’s disappearance. The murder is my end and aim. Partly because I think that when I discover the murderer, I’ll know more about the other mysteries. So, if I may have a week longer here to hunt around, I’ll be satisfied.”
“Well, I’m not in residence here yet,” Cross smiled. “Time enough to settle such matters later on.”
“But you haven’t answered my question. What are you going to hunt for?”
“That, too, must wait till I’m accepted as a true born Converse,” Jed said, speaking soberly. “But I’ll tell you then, for I’ll be glad of your help.”
“Do you know anything about the secret treasure?” Stone pursued.
“What’s that?”
“Mostly tradition, I believe. But there are legends of some hidden thing that several people are anxious to find.”
“Several people! Who?”
“Interested? Well, as you say, I can’t tell you further until you are established here, as you call it, in residence.”
“Who is your pet suspect for the murderer, Mr. Stone?”
“Hard to say. I favor one to-day and another tomorrow. But I don’t believe it was any of the servants here, though it may have been.”
“Not very informative, are you? Ah, well, after to-morrow, I’ll be in a different position.”
“Maybe,” said Randall, glumly.
“Yes, maybe,” assented Cross.
And then the two others went away, leaving Fleming Stone again to his solitude.
Instinctively, Fleming Stone had taken a liking to Cross. But long years of experience had taught the detective that he could not always trust his instincts. True, they were far more often right than wrong, but he had known them to be so very wrong at times, that he was inclined to beware of them until he had some proof of their justification.
He had no real reason to like Jed Cross. In fact, the reasons he had were ridiculous. He liked his name, for one thing. It seemed to him, Jed Cross, must be a man of integrity. He laughed to himself at his own foolishness, but he still liked Jed.
Then, too, he liked his breezy, somewhat Western manner. And his positive assurance of his own invulnerable position.
Well, the worth or worthlessness of the man was not his business. Nor would it, he believed, be a difficult matter to settle. If Jed could get due and proper identification, he must be recognized as a relative of the Converse family. If he couldn’t, that settled it the other way,
A strange thought flashed across Stone’s mind.
Suppose Cross was not only an impostor, but a most clever and wily one. Suppose he had made plans and laid wires that would prove his apparent identity, yet were utterly false. Suppose he succeeded in hoodwinking Randall, and also, Hambidge, to say nothing of the astute detective himself.
And, this was the strange thought, suppose he was the kidnaper of Jane Winthrop and he was keeping her in durance vile, whatever that is, while he came here to spy out the land. Suppose he were to learn that her proved death would make him the heir to the property, and suppose that being so, he was prepared to make her death a provable thing, if indeed, it were not so already.
Stone was sure, too, that aside from the inheritance of the estate, Cross had another ax to grind. There was that pestiferous treasure. Ten chances to one there was no treasure, it was all poppycock. Stone hated Treasure Stories, anyhow. They generally wound up with what he called Torture, Terror and Trap methods, which were anathema to Stone’s taste. He had never experienced a case where a lovely girl was gagged and bound and put in a cellar, and he never wanted to.
But he did want to solve this murder mystery and he buckled down to it.
First, he concluded, it was highly improbable that Cross had been the kidnaper, yet, it might be so. Perhaps he had only intended to make Miss Jane talk and tell him how to find the treasure—if any. Perhaps she refused to talk, she probably would, and Jed was now trying to find the hidden loot for himself.
Whether this all had any bearing on the murder mystery was problematical indeed, but it must be considered.
He wished he had known Miss Jane. He gathered she would be likely to put up a fight, but if she had been drugged, that wouldn’t help her much.
And beyond doubt she had been drugged. The veronal tablets were half gone and the maid said there had been a full box. The question was could Cross have carried her from the house alone. But the answer was not really important, for if Jed Cross had to have an accomplice he would have a good and a trustworthy one.
Stone gathered such information from the general demeanor of the man, from his quite obvious efficiency and capability.
Or, was there a confederate in the house? Was one of the servants, even Peter himself, an accomplice of this strange man?
Try as he would he couldn’t get away from the subject of Jed Cross.
One thing, though, didn’t fit. Cross, Stone saw at once, was not a brute, and only a brute could have disarranged the flowers from the dead girl’s hand and rumpled up her lovely curls, and taken her pearl pin. Robbing the dead is about the lowest form of vice, and somehow, Stone couldn’t see Jed guilty of that.
To take the big sum of money and bonds from the strong box, that was understandable; to ignore the petty cash in Miss Jane’s purse, that too was probable enough; but to disturb the dead body of his kinswoman, that Stone couldn’t believe.
And, of course, not for a moment, did he look on Jed as the murderer.
That, now, was his business. Why, didn’t he go to it?
But something held him. He began to reconstruct Miss Jane’s going away.
Her plain black dress, no hat or coat, no luggage, for he took small stock in Janet’s fitted bag, no money, no toilet appurtenances, nothing really positively missing but her latchkey and a package of milk chocolate!
The latchkey was an uncertainty, for Eileen said Miss Janet was everlastingly losing hers and borrowing her aunt’s.
But the chocolate, the maid was certain had been on the toilet table that night of her disappearance and was missing next morning. True, the maid might have taken it herself, but that was too petty to consider. At a time like this, if Eileen had taken the chocolate, surely she would have said so.
That chocolate cheered Stone a lot. He saw it as a signboard, whither pointing, he had no idea, but a signal, nevertheless.
And then a ring at the jangling doorbell, and Maisie Ames was announced to see Mr. Stone.
He welcomed her advent, for he wanted to get in touch with the young crowd and here was an opening.
He went into a reception room to receive the girl, and she came in, a little hesitantly, but with a determined air.
She looked as freakish as ever.
Bizarre she was and bizarre she would always be in dress, manner and speech.
“Hello, old chappie,” she said; and Stone met her half way.
“Hello, yourself,” he said. “Why this honor?”
“Want to see you. Want to talk to you. Want you to talk to me.”
She threw herself into a long lounging chair, and crossed her slender legs. She produced an incredibly long cigarette holder, and with a glance of apology, proceeded to put it to use.
Stone waited, preferring to let her take the lead. Maisie had on one of her most bizarre frocks. Red, of the hue known as Chinese vermilion, it had absurd figures embroidered in black and yellow, and its short jacket had a fringe of small Egyptian beads.
But Maisie wore her clothes well. Indeed, a conventional costume would have robbed her of any claim she possessed to distinction.
“Well, you see,” the girl began, looking at Stone, cautiously, “I’m in love with Adrian Payson.”
“Yes?” was the polite but non-committal response.
“Yes. Likewise and also, he’s in love with me. Well, we’re in a pile of trouble. You see our crowd have taken it into their collective head that Adrian stole Janet’s necklace.”
“And did he?”
“I don’t think so. Of course, you can’t tell what one will do in a pinch—”
“And was Adrian in a pinch?”
“He always is, if you mean broke, hard up, on the rocks, or anything of that sort.”
“Yes,” Stone said, “I did mean something of that sort.”
“Well, he’s that, of course. But he wouldn’t be fool enough to take a necklace worth thousands and thousands of dollars.”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“Because they’d pin it on him—”
“But they’ve pinned it on him anyway.”
“How’d you know that?” Maisie’s surprise was genuine.
“Don’t be silly. You told me yourself.”
“Oh, yes, so I did. Well, Mr. Stone, they’re beginning to cold shoulder my boy and I don’t like it.”
Maisie had jumped up and was pacing up and down the room, though striding more accurately described her gait.
“Take it easy, Miss Ames. Sit down. Tell me, what are the proofs the crowd think they have of this thing?”
“That’s just it. They’ve no proof, except that Janet intended to give Adrian her necklace that day, to get the clasp fixed, and that Adrian is terribly in need of money.”
“Why was she going to give the necklace to him for repairs?”
“He’s clerk in a big jewelry house, oh, he’s beyond all suspicion, or the firm wouldn’t keep him! It’s all too ridiculous! And Janet hadn’t given him the necklace, we all know that, and Adrian and I were the first ones to leave the crowd to go down to the surf, so how could we— could he take the necklace without being seen?”
“I thought Mr. Payson was an artist.”
“He wants to be, but he’s not much good at it. He never sticks to anything. Why, he’s only been in this jewelry firm about a month. He always gets fired, you see, from any position he takes.”
“Not a first-class record.”
“No; that’s why I’m coming to you. For, you see, Mr. Stone, you must see, if they pin this theft on Adrian, it’s only a step further to— to pin the—”
“The greater crime on him. But if you two were first out of the crowd, he certainly couldn’t have been the one to administer the hypodermic.”
“Well,—he went back again, just for a moment.”
“What did he go back for?”
“He said to me, ‘Oh, I forgot to get Janet’s necklace,’ and he flew back to her, and returned to me in a minute.”
“Yet still you hold him innocent?”
“Of course. Why, he hadn’t time to get the necklace from her.”
“It needn’t take long—”
“No, but it would take a minute or so, and he wasn’t gone five seconds.”
“Now, Miss Ames, you don’t know what five seconds means. Try it.”
Stone took out his watch, and bade Maisie tell him when five seconds had elapsed. She said, “Now,” in exactly twenty-five seconds.
Trying her again, she went to the other extreme and declared it was five seconds when it was two and a half.
“So you see,” Stone said, “your testimony as to time is worthless. Now if Mr. Payson didn’t have any hand in the wrong-doing, who did?”
“I may as well tell you, straight out,” Maisie declared, sitting upright, and shaking her tawny mane out of her eyes. “We all know, but nobody will mention his name. Yet, they’re willing enough to mention Adrian’s name! It’s outrageous, that’s what it is!”
“Well, if they all know, tell me.”
“I believe I’d better.”
“Yes, seeing as that’s what you came for, I think you’d better. Out with it, now.”
“Well, of course it was,— it had to be, Stacpoole Meade.”
“Why had to be? I understand he was engaged to Miss Converse.”
“That’s just it. And he’s the most awful blaze-upper in the world. If Janet so much as looked at another man, he flew into a tantrum, and that was before they were engaged.”
“And did he fly into a tantrum on this day? Why?”
“Because of that Morton person. Stack came along and saw Morton under the umbrella with his arm round Janet. That was enough for him, and—”
“Wait a minute. Did Mr. Meade go round with a hypodermic needle ready, in case he wanted to commit a sudden—murder?”
“Oh, you can be funny if you like. But that’s the truth of the matter, and, of course, he had his accomplice.”
“Oh, yes. Miss—” This was sheer bravado on Stone’s part. He hoped it would work, and it did.
“Yes,” said Maisie, her eyes blazing, “Miss Fair.”
Though normally a serene sleeper, Fleming Stone had a wakeful night.
What with mulling over the information Maisie Ames had given him, and listening for noises of the spooks, which didn’t materialize, he slept little and fitfully.
His friend Enders had gone away from Yellow Sands, and Stone missed him.
He wanted somebody to talk to, not necessarily to discuss the case, but some companionship.
He fell to wondering what manner of man Jed Cross would turn out to be.
He had little faith in his preposterous claims, and yet, if he proved his identity, they must accept him as the Converse heir, in the event of Miss Winthrop’s continued disappearance.
A persistent, if absurd thought, in the back of Stone’s head kept obtruding itself.
What if Miss Jane hadn’t been kidnaped, but had gone away of her own volition?
Yet, how could she have done that? Without hat or coat or purse or luggage, where could she have gone?
And, from all he could learn of her, she never would have gone away and left her loved niece dead and unburied.
No, there was no sense to that. And anyway, if Miss Jane had done anything of that sort, it argued her a villain if not a criminal.
Stone had no wish to asperse the good lady’s character, with no reason for doing so. No, the evidence, what little there was of it, tended to show that Miss Jane had been drugged and carried bodily from the house, and was held somewhere, against her will. The large amount of stolen money and securities all confirmed this theory, there was nothing against it.
Now, the question was, must there necessarily be a connection between Janet’s murder and Miss Winthrop’s disappearance?
He thought not. For, even if he was prepared to entertain any thought of the young people being implicated in the murder, he certainly could not suspect that they had abducted Miss Jane. That was asking too much of credulity.
And as to the young people.
Stone had stood up for them, did so still, but that only meant he held that they were a smart and clever lot, not a set of brainless, thoughtless fools.
He knew plenty of people who did think they were, but he gave them credit for brains. Well, then, if they had brains they could successfully organize and carry out a murder.
And according to Maisie Ames, that’s just what they had done—some of them. Meade, she said, aided and abetted by Clementina Fair.
All right, he’d go to see those two people, as soon as the day reached a decent hour.
He managed some sleep toward morning, and rose at what is called betimes, ready for anything that might turn up.
An excellent breakfast engaged him for a time, and then the housekeeper came to him for orders.
“Molly,” he said, “could Miss Fair have had anything to do with Janet’s murder?”
“Miss Ames seems to think so, doesn’t she?”
The wise old head nodded sapiently, as Molly Mulvaney looked sidewise at the detective.
“Ah, keyhole information, eh?”
“Just that, sir. I listened in on Miss Maisie, ’cause I wanted to know what she had to say. A venonomous repitile, she is, you know, a snake in the grass. And she pins it on to Miss Fair.”
“Well, I’m asking you what you think of the pinning. You know these young people better than I do, could they kill one of their own crowd?”
“Meaning the girls, or the boys?”
“Either or both.”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it past some of the young men, but I’d think twice before I suspected the girls. They all loved Janet. ’Course, the boys worshiped her, but they had jealousy and hate all mixed up in their souls, but the girls, well, I can’t see any reason for them to do in poor little Janet. Unless, that is, they wanted their inheritance money. I declare, Mr. Stone, I don’t believe you know how hard up those girls are, most of ’em. It’s sooprisin’, that’s what it is, how little money they’d have. Wherever they went, whatever they did, it was always Janet who paid. Not but what she was willin’ enough, bless her, but they were always stone broke, every one of them.”
“You amaze me. I thought they were a rich lot.”
“They make a fine show, and they pay their bills, I s’pose. But they’ll be mighty glad to get Janet’s beequest, if indeed, they didn’t bring it about—”
“Is Miss Fair so poor, then?”
“Oh, yes, the worst of the lot. Her father makes a lot of money but he squanders it on his own pleasures. Miss Clem, she has an allowance, but it isn’t paid her half the time.”
“And Miss Church?”
“Well, Eunice, now, she’s got a lot of sense, and though she has a foolish, extravagant mother, she holds her back more or less, and keeps their heads above water. She was Miss Janet’s intimate friend, you know, and I’m glad she’ll get her beequest, that I am.”
“Well, I’m going to see the young ladies to-day, and after that I’ll have to tackle the men, I suppose. Bad business, Molly, very bad business.”
“Very bad, Mr. Stone, very bad indeed.” And then the talk turned to household affairs, and Stone made known his daily wants and wishes.
A little later, he set out for the Fair house, with a feeling that he wished the interview was over.
The Fair house was a small but good looking bungalow, of modernistic tendencies.
Stone walked up the crazy pavement to the long porch, and discovered Clementina Fair lounging in a hammock.
She jumped up at his step, and pulled herself together, as she greeted him courteously.
“Mr. Stone,” she exclaimed, a little nervously, “how nice to see you. I was just longing for someone to talk to.”
She motioned him to a chair, and herself appropriated a long, low hammock chair made of striped duck.
She wore what seemed a negligee robe, but which was really a very full and flowing pajama costume.
It was of her favorite jade green color, a stamped silk, of odd but pleasing pattern.
Her black hair was rumpled, but effective in its untidiness, and her make-up was strong and definite.
On her feet were little red mules, which tapped on the floor as she talked.
“Did you just come to call, or are you sleuthing?” she asked, with a seductive smile.
Clem couldn’t help being seductive, it was second nature to her, and long experience made it almost an unconscious gesture.
“Both,” and Stone smiled at her. Though not flirtatious, he could adapt himself to his surroundings like a chameleon, and if she wanted nods and becks and wreathed smiles, she should have them.
“Get the sleuthing over first, then,” she commanded, folding her lovely hands on her lap.
“Don’t use that word, Miss Fair,” he begged. “It’s a good enough word for some people, but you ought never to voice anything savoring of slang or underworld jargon.”
“I know it,” she agreed, contritely. “It doesn’t suit my style, does it? But what can I say?”
“Oh, detecting, inquiring, imagining—lots of things.”
“Do you use your imagination in your work?”
“Certainly.”
“Then, who do you imagine killed Janet?”
“That’s what I came to ask you?”
“Me! I know nothing of it.”
“No, I suppose not. But you were about the last to leave the umbrella.”
“Henry Betterton and I, yes. Does that make us suspect?”
“Not entirely. Now, Miss Fair, don’t fence, try to be helpful, won’t you?”
“Why should I?” The tone was pert, but Clem’s lip had begun to quiver, and Stone perceived she was deeply moved for some reason. Clearly her saucy rejoinder had been merely made to gain time, or to recover her poise, or for some other obscure purpose.
She was fast losing her self control, and this Stone did not want.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said, in a casual way. “I’m not accusing anybody of anything. I’m just trying to get at the truth.”
“Do you have to?” she almost wailed. “Why? Why can’t you let matters stand? It won’t help our Janet any to learn who killed her, will it?”
“You’d rather the investigation should be dropped?”
“Far rather! Can you drop it? Oh, Mr. Stone, do—do, I beg of you!”
He waited for her to pull herself together. But instead, she grew worse, more excited, more nervously upset. With a sudden cry of terror, she rose from her seat, and stood at bay, trembling, panting, a pitiable sight.
Stone’s manhood revolted at thought of torturing her further, but he had a dim suspicion, that Miss Fair was assuming this excessive emotion, and he was taking no chances.
“Please sit down again,” he had risen himself, and he gently urged her back to her seat. “Truly, I don’t want to hurt you unnecessarily, but I think you can be of great assistance.”
“I don’t want to be! I don’t want to assist you! I won’t—” a muffled sob broke from her, and flinging herself face down among the pillows in her chair, she burst into convulsive weeping.
“My, my, what the devil is to pay?” cried a cheery voice, and Henry Betterton came strolling up the path. “Who’s abusing you, Clem, dear?”
“N—nobody,” the girl struggled to say.
“Well, you keep quiet, old honey. Leave Mr. Stone and me to thrash this thing out. Is it necessary, Mr. Stone, to reduce Miss Fair to a nervous wreck?”
“Is it necessary for her to put on nervous wreck effects just because I ask her a few civil questions?”
“Ask ’em of me. I’ll give you straight answers.”
“Very well. Now, Mr. Betterton, as man to man, do you think it possible one, or more than one of your crowd can be implicated in this murder of Miss Converse?”
“I like direct talk, Mr. Stone, but you are certainly very straightforward, aren’t you?”
“That’s not an answer to my question.”
Now that he was relieved from the responsibility of Miss Fair’s hysterics, Stone determined to make the best of his opportunities.
“Have you a right to quiz me?”
“It isn’t a question of rights, but expediency. Don’t you think Mr. Betterton, it’s wiser to talk to me than face a court of inquiry in public?”
Betterton looked at him intently.
“Yes, I do. Fire away. Oh, you’re waiting for an answer. Well, then, yes, I’d say one or more of our bunch could most assuredly be mixed up in this murder business. But you’re dead wrong when you pick on Stack Meade. Why I’ve known that chap for years, and to connect him with crime is too absurd.”
“Well, then, who is more likely?”
“Yes, you are certainly straightforward. Now, I know Meade is under suspicion in some minds. The minds of some dubs who don’t know him at all. I do know him, and I tell you—”
“You’re going to tell me that he is the soul of honor and integrity and all righteousness, solely and simply because he is a friend of yours, and the King can do no wrong.”
Stone’s pleasant smile robbed the words of sarcastic sting, and Betterton sat gazing at him.
“Clem,” the young man said, “you go in the house. Go into the living room, lie down on the couch and don’t stir till I tell you to. Hop it, now.” Without demur the girl rose slowly from her lounging chair, shook out her full, voluminous pajamas, and moved toward the door of the bungalow.
“Darling child,” Betterton said, as she passed him. “Be good now, and get a little nap if you can. If not, just relax, and wait for me.”
“Do you always ride the whirlwind and direct the storm?” asked Stone, amused.
“Always,” Betterton nodded. “That’s what I’m for. Now, we’ve shaken her, let’s get down to brass tacks.”
“Brass tacks it is. The murderer must be found. I propose to find him. I want all the help I can get, by which I mean information that I can’t get except from your crowd.”
“You’re sure the murderer belongs to our crowd?”
“Not at all sure. But it seems to me probable.”
“Yes,” Betterton agreed, “it seems to me probable, too. But not old Stack.”
“Yet his actions were—well, questionable.”
“As how?”
“He came along, looked under the umbrella, saw Janet in Morton’s arms, and then, we’re a bit hazy as to what he did next.”
“What happened to your source of information?”
“Well, it’s that odd Belden chap, and I never feel I can really depend on anything he says.”
“Well, Mr. Stone, you know there is a sort of unspoken system of information, like the—the Apaches, isn’t it?—that spreads itself without effort or intent.”
“I know. And there is a certain flair possessed by detectives that scents these wireless rumors, and either discounts them or makes use of them. Now, vague but persistent hints link the names of Mr. Meade and Miss Fair with the crime. Don’t jump down my throat, I’m telling you what you doubtless already know.”
“I do. And I want to combat it, not deny it. Denial does no good, but combat may.”
“So, I came to see Miss Fair, and satisfy myself as to her attitude. It is not encouraging, Mr. Betterton.”
“No, Clem is a difficult proposition. She goes off the deep end at the least touch. Nervous temperament and all that. But I’m going to knock that out of her. I expect to marry her, you see. Oh, she doesn’t know it yet, and you needn’t tell her. That’s the sort of thing a chap likes to tell for himself. So, as you may gather, I don’t take any stock in her— what do you call it? Blood guiltiness? But my way of quashing a libel of that sort is not by vehement denial but by argumentative proof.”
“Prove away.”
“Not so easy as all that. But, look here. Clem and I left Janet last. Now, why not us two for suspects instead of Clem and Stack?”
“I’m not defending this theory, I’m only investigating it. I’ve not heard any suspicion of you voiced by anyone.”
Stone looked as if he were merely making a casual observation, but Betterton scanned his face closely.
“You’re all ready to suspect me, if you get the slightest chance,” he said, calmly. “But I can’t let you do it. I must keep out of it myself, so I can help Clem through. Mr. Stone, I had no hand in Janet’s death.”
Stone thoroughly believed him, and was glad to do so. Elimination of even one of the crowd was a help.
“Then, according to you, both Meade and yourself are out of the running. Leaving, in your crowd, Payson, Pennell and Doctor Cutler.”
“And the girls.”
Betterton said this flippantly, and Stone wondered why.
He suspected it was to turn the subject, if possible. He didn’t believe for a minute Betterton suspected any of the girls, unless as an accomplice in a minor way.
“Did they ever find the hypodermic syringe?” Betterton then asked.
“They did,” Stone told him. “But it was of no assistance whatever. It was, of course, broken. You know they’re glass in the middle with metal ends. The metal ends were found bent and twisted from being trodden on, and the glass entirely missing.”
“You couldn’t trace the ownership?”
“Doctor Cutler says it might be one of his and it might not. He has a great many in his laboratory, and any of his patients could easily get access to them. No, it’s no sort of clue.”
“Have you any real clues?”
“Do you remember the story of the census taker? He asked a man if he had any family ties. The reply was, ‘None that I parade.’ That’s my answer to your question.”
“You have clues, then, but don’t care to exploit them.”
“Got it in one!” said Stone, rising to go. He liked to talk to this young man, but it was not directly profitable, and he had other calls to make.
“You go along in and look after Miss Fair. Give her my regards and say good-by for me to her. Good-by, Mr. Betterton,”
Fleming Stone held out his hand with such obvious sincerity that Betterton had to take it.
“So you believe my word?” he said, with a slight tinge of embarrassment.
“I do. But have a care. Don’t get into the Maelstrom too deeply. You know you can’t touch pitch, and all that.”
“Yes, I know,” the young man looked very sober. “But sometimes the pitch has to be touched.”
Stone, by this time was on his way, and with a farewell wave of his hand he went on.
He planned to go at once to see Stacpoole Meade and learn something definite from that youth, either from what he said or did not say.
To get to the Clubhouse, where Meade was a transient guest, Stone had to pass by Eunice Church’s house.
The girl sat on the veranda, in a low chair, and on the rail, sat Meade himself.
Too good an opportunity to lose, Stone turned in and drew near the pair.
It was a somewhat pretentious cottage, that the Churches had rented for the season. Gray shingles and white paint made a pleasing effect, which, it seemed to Stone was just the right setting for the calm, lovely Eunice.
He went on, and mounted the steps as one assured of a welcome.
“Too early for callers?” he asked, gayly. “Or may I drop in?”
“Oh, drop, by all means,” Eunice said, cordially. “We’re glad to see you. Aren’t we, Stack?”
“Sure,” said Meade, without undue enthusiasm.
Stone, too, perched himself on the rail.
“Nonsense!” Eunice exclaimed; “if I have two guests it’s a party. And in that case we adjourn to the upper balcony.”
She led the way, by a pretty little outside stair to a balcony that overlooked the gay bathing beach.
Awnings made it shady and chintz covered wicker furniture made it comfortable and picturesque.
Eunice prettily directed the seating and then threw herself on a wicker chaise longue full of chintz pillows.
“Ready for a cocktail, Mr. Stone?” the girl asked, smiling at him.
“Thank you, no, too early.”
“All right, a bit later, then. Now, what’s it all about? Are you going to tell us things or ask us things?”
“Both, I suggest, as being fair all round. Have you anything worth telling, if I ask?”
“Have we, Stack?” and Eunice’s violet eyes turned to her other guest.
“No, we haven’t. I say, Mr. Stone, cards on the table. Are you after me?”
“It all depends. Have I any reason to be after you?”
“Not that I know of. I didn’t kill Janet. Why, she was my fiancée!”
Stone’s eyes flashed to Eunice, but she was not looking at him. She was gazing at Meade, and her smile was inscrutable.
Lovely as ever, the perfect face serene and bland, she yet gave the impression of a frightened child.
Was it fear for Meade, or was it merely the reaction from the idea of talking to a detective?
“But a fiancée of such a short time, she hardly counted, did she?” and Eunice leaned over to pat his hand.
Stone was not embarrassed, he knew the petting ways of the young crowd, and hand-patting went without saying.
“Why did you merely look in at Miss Converse and then scoot away, Meade?” the detective asked, in a casual tone.
“If you two are going to talk business,” Eunice rose, “I’m going to shake up a cocktail. You’ll need it, I’m sure.”
Stone was holding open for her the screen door into the house.
“See, Mr. Stone, these are my rooms. Attractive? Yes? No?”
“Yes,” Stone said, poking his head into the boudoir, and noting the bathroom beyond. “The police Inspector was deeply impressed by your midget refrigerator.”
“Yes? Look at it! Isn’t it ducky? Now, run along and have it out with Stack, and quiz him good and plenty.”
Eunice laughed and turned to her little tea wagon in the boudoir, which contained “the makin’s.”
Stone returned to his fellow guest, and carried on a desultory conversation. He had no wish to quiz him, he only wanted to note his demeanor and general behavior.
Soon Eunice called for help, and the two men sprang to attention.
The wagon was rolled out, and the shaker was vigorously wielded by their hostess. The concoction was pronounced a success and Eunice declared a dividend.
“More, please,” Stone said, holding his glass toward her, even after his second one had disappeared.
A little surprised, Eunice said, “All gone!” and shook the shaker. But she stopped suddenly and set the silver container down on the tray.
“Oh, just a drop,” Stone begged, picking it up.
“Not a drop there,” Eunice insisted, her face a little set.
Stone shook it again and then put the shaker down with a wry smile. “Not a bit,” he said, though the shaking clearly proved his words untrue.
“You’ve had enough,” Eunice said, a little bluntly. “Wheel it in, Stack.”
Meade wheeled it in.
Eunice sat silent, her beautiful hands on her knees, the thumbs curled inside the fingers in a lovely childish gesture. Then the talk became general and inconsequent.
The next evening Jed Cross reappeared.
“Well, I’m elected,” was his greeting to Fleming Stone, as he joined the detective on the back verandah of Twin Turrets.
“Clean bill of health?” asked Stone, smiling at him.
“Yep. Friend Randall isn’t a bit pleased, but he can’t do anything. I had all my papers in such shipshape form that he simply had to O. K. them.”
“You found men to identify you, then, in New York?”
“Lots of them.”
“If you’re an impostor, you’re a slick one,” Stone told him, with a glance of admiration.
“You ought to be able to find me out, if I am. What sort of detective are you, if you can’t detect a blatant imposture?”
“Well, you see, I believed in you from the beginning.”
“I know it. I saw it in your eyes. Now, I’m in residence here, and while it’s, in a way, on suffrance, yet I am the head of the house until Jane returns. And so, I invite you to stay here as long as you like.”
“Thank you, very much, but I can’t stay long. I’m pretty well through with what I wanted to do here. Another day or two will see me through.”
“And my work here is just beginning.”
“You’re hunting the treasure, I take it.”
“Well, yes, but you needn’t broadcast it.”
“Have no fear. Do you mind telling me what this mysterious treasure is?”
“I mind very much. It’s a secret, until I find it. After that the whole world may know about it, for all I care.”
“Perhaps I could help you.”
“Perhaps. But I’ll work alone, at first, anyhow. Then, if I need help I’ll be glad to call on you.”
“Do you know where the treasure is hidden?”
“Haven’t an idea. That’s what makes it so hard. Janet knew and nobody else.”
“Didn’t Miss Jane know?”
“I think not. If she did she wouldn’t have told me. She had no use for me.”
“She knew you, then?”
“Yes,” Jed smiled. “That’s a cute way of checking up on me. Well, go ahead. Check up all you like. Now, I’ll tell you frankly, I propose to hunt this house from cellar to garret. I’m bound to find that thing I’m after, if it’s to be found.”
“Is it of value to you only, or to any finder?”
“Game of twenty questions, eh? Well, it’s mostly of value to me, and yet, if anybody found it for me, I wouldn’t be stingy with a reward.”
“Does anybody know where it is, or what it is?”
“Not unless Janet told them. She may have done so.”
“Look here, Mr. Cross, has the hidden treasure any connection with these so-called spooks?”
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised. Now, you know the young people better than I do, which ones would Janet be most likely to tell?”
“Well, Eunice Church was her dearest friend, or do you bar out the girls?”
“Not at all. What about that Fair girl?”
“She’s a bit queer. And she’s somewhat suspected of being mixed up in the greater tragedy.”
“What! Killing Janet? You don’t mean it! Oh, I bar the girls from suspicion of that sort, surely.”
“But as an accessory? You see, young Meade is suspected, too, and he and Clem Fair were together.”
“What a moil! Hints here and there. Suspicions of this one and that one. But not a definite clue or bit of proof—”
“Oh, go slow! I’ve found some clues, I’ve found some proof.”
“You know who killed Janet?”
“I think so.”
“What! Out with it, then! Who, man, who?”
“Oh, come, now, I’m not sure enough to blurt it right out in meetin’. But you can’t quiz around among those youngsters without getting hints here and there. You see, they’re so ingenuous. They’ve had no experience in holding their tongues, or diplomatically concealing their knowledge. They give everything away, not necessarily in speech, but by looks, expression, voice, and their hesitation to tell the truth.”
“Well, if it’s as plain as all that, I’ll dig it out for myself. I’m a bit of detective, I’ll have you know.”
“I don’t doubt it. Why don’t we work together?”
“Would you play fair?”
“Certainly not. I’m an engaged Investigator, you’re a rank amateur. You may come out ahead of me, but I surely don’t propose to give away my game to you. Especially as you refused to let me go treasure-hunting with you.”
“All right, honors are even. What about the staff here in the house?”
“I’m not considering them at all. I’ve no idea they did the murder; I doubt very much if they stole the necklace, and I’m sure they had no hand in kidnapping Miss Jane. Why worry about them? And, anyway, the police are looking after that phase of the problem.”
“Then, who?”
“I’m sticking to the young people, until I’ve squeezed that orange dry. You can have Belden, Morton, and—who was the third outside suspect? Oh, yes, it was you! I suspected you pretty strongly at first.”
“And don’t you suspect me now?”
“I’ve no reason to, that I know of,”
“And so you really mean to say you know who committed that murder!”
“Oh, Lord, no!” Stone grinned at him. “I only say I think I know. There’s a big difference. Anyone can think he knows a thing, whether he really knows it or not.”
“Yes, I see. And what was the motive? I mean, what do you think the motive was or could have been?”
Fleming Stone looked grave.
“There’s a lot of nonsense talked,” he said, “about there being only three motives or four motives or seven motives for murder. There are lots of motives, almost as many as there are criminals.”
“But I suppose they do resolve themselves down to a few, after all, eh?”
“First, always, I put greed.”
“Not a crime passionel, then.”
“Not with the young people. I think, now, but I may change my mind, that the murderer and the thief of the necklace are one and the same, or at any rate, two people acting in collusion.”
“A man and a woman, then?”
“Yes, probably a man and a woman. And the crowd, as they call themselves, falls naturally into couples. There’s Maisie Ames and Payson.”
“Uninteresting pair.”
“That’s what I think. Unlikely, too. Payson is too obvious as a suspect. He was sure to get the necklace in his possession sooner or later, why kill anybody?”
“Go on. Who next?”
“Eunice Church and Stacpoole Meade.”
“Much more interesting, but unbelievable.”
“Quite so. Eunice being the victim’s dearest friend, and Meade her fiancé.”
“Then that leaves?”
“Clem Fair and young Betterton.”
“The best bet yet.”
“So it seems. Clem is poor, wants the gems, has a golden opportunity to take them. Betterton, who is deeply in love with her, may or may not believe her guilty, but he is standing up for her staunchly. Clem is a nervous sort, and goes all to pieces if you look at her obliquely. But Betterton is one of the finest chaps I ever saw.”
“He’s no finer than Stack Meade.”
“I like his attitudes better. Meade is uncertain, vague, even vacillating, it seems to me. Betterton is absolutely straightforward and sure of himself.” Stone nodded his head positively as he delivered this ultimatum.
“Is Meade going back to Eunice now?” asked Cross.
“Was he hers before?”
“Oh, yes. Janet took him away from her. But—”
“Wait a minute. How do you know this? I thought you just arrived here.”
“I know. But I’ve been here before this summer. You know that. Why, I told you I saw Janet in reference to my own errand.”
“Did she tell you she was stealing Meade from Eunice?”
“Not in so many words, but I gathered it. I’m not the fool I look, you see.”
“Well, Miss Janet succeeded, then. She was engaged to him.”
“That engagement’s a funny thing, too.”
“All engagements are funny things. They mean little. Made to-day and broken to-morrow. Want me to show you where your treasure is located?”
“Don’t bite off more than you can chew. I like you, Stone. Why don’t you just settle down and stay here?”
“It gives me the willies. And when you begin to prowl around nights, which I’ve no doubt is your intention, I’ll go off my head.”
“Nonsense. You want to get back to the bright lights and gayer rooms of the Inn.”
“Absolutely correct. I do. But I do know a bit about the ghost business. Isn’t that mixed up with your quest?”
“I don’t know. I hope so. Have you found the secret entrance?”
“No, but I’m sure there is one.”
“I’m sure of that, too. Let’s root it out. Where, for choice, do you place it?”
“Don’t you think you’d better settle into place first? Get Betts and choose your rooms and all that. Then, since you’re master here, get into your stride, and I’ll tell you all I know as to ha’nts and spooks. I’ll stay here a few days, and see you settled.”
Stone left him, and went off to his favorite stamping ground, which was Jane Winthrop’s room.
He was determined to tear the heart out of the mystery in this room.
“Suppose she did go off, without hat or coat,” he mused to himself. “Without luggage, without money, where did she go?”
“To some friend,” an inner voice answered him. “She had no friends.”
“Only Janet. And she certainly wouldn’t go off and leave her unburied, in her white casket—no, it doesn’t make sense!”
For the hundredth time the detective admitted it didn’t make sense, and anything that didn’t make sense had no attraction for him.
He sat still in Jane’s room, as Cross and Molly Mulvaney came along the hall.
“Hello,” Jed called out. “I’m thinking of taking this room.”
“All right, do,” Stone returned. “Nerves pretty good?”
“Haven’t any.”
“You will have, Mr. Converse,” Molly said, sniffing. “Evil sperrits is a-lurkerin’ about this room. It’s enough to make your flesh creep to hear ’em at night in these here walls!”
“Have you heard them, Molly?” asked Stone. “Really, now?”
“I’ll say I have! Why, the last night Miss Jane was here, that’s the night Janet died, they says, ‘Give up the treasure!’ as plain as plain! I just guess I heard ’em!”
“They spoke about the treasure?” cried Jed, incredulously. “Are you sure?”
“ ’Course I’m sure. Miss Jane she heard ’em, but she don’t know a thing about the treasure.”
“Who does know?” Cross spoke eagerly.
“I never knew anybody to know but Janet, and the secret died with her.”
Molly left them, and Stone said, “Tell me about your treasure, and I’ll help you to find it.”
“Can’t. Sorry, old man, but I’m bound to secrecy. I can tell you I’m after a golden casket or vase or urn, or something of that sort. But what’s in it, I may not divulge. I’ll say, though, that it would have absolutely no value and no interest for anyone but me. Except, of course, as I might give a reward for the finding of it.”
“You’re sure it’s in this house?”
“Yes, Janet said so. She knew all about it.”
“Who told her?”
“Her father. It had as much interest for William Converse as it has for me.”
“How big is it?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe as big as a coconut, maybe a mite bigger. Oh, do help me to get hold of it! I’ll make it well worth your while.”
“If I run across it, I’ll hand it over, don’t worry about that. So, you’re going to take this room, in hopes of wheedling the thing out of the spooks, eh?”
“I have some such idea,” and Cross looked a little sheepish. “You know there must be some secret entrance to this room.”
“Or to the library or to Janet’s room.”
“Yes, to some one or more of the turret rooms. Now, do you mean to say that two smart Alecks like you’n me can’t find that concealed entrance?”
“If you knew how I’ve hunted!” Stone sighed at the thought.
“Well, hunt again.”
Cross was scrutinizing the walls and floors, and even as he spoke, Stone had a new idea.
“Perhaps it isn’t a door,—”
“When is a door not a door?” said Cross, flippantly. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, I mean something. Suppose it isn’t a door, because it doesn’t go down to the floor or up to the ceiling.”
“Well, go on with your pretty talk.”
“And it isn’t a window,” Stone went on. “Suppose it’s a—a panel—”
“Well, suppose it is. Where’s your panel?”
“There are four of them right under your nose,” and Stone pointed to four depressed oblong spaces in the wall.
“They won’t move,” Cross told him. “They are solid stone.”
“I know it, but they may move—”
Poking at one after another, the third one did seem to move the merest trifle, but, too, it might have been imagination.
And, too, there was no place where it could move up or down or sideways, and though Stone kept on pounding and shaking, he had no hope of success.
When, suddenly, he touched by accident some tiny spring or catch, and the panel began to swing round.
It was the simplest possible mechanism, merely pivoted at top and bottom and it swung easily, owing to perfect adjustment.
The panel, about two feet from the floor, was perhaps five feet wide, and when swung open gave access to a slim man, on either side of the central bar.
The two men looked at it in silence a moment, then Stone stepped over and quietly locked the door.
“Got it,” he said, succinctly. “There’s your entrance, Cross. Now, find your treasure yourself.”
“Come with me, then.”
They stepped gingerly into the opening, and found themselves in a small gallery that wound round above a spiral staircase.
“Look out for the door,” Stone said. “We don’t want to lock ourselves in a living tomb, like the Mistletoe Bough, or whatever it was.”
Blocking the door ajar, the men went on to reconnoiter.
It was a very narrow staircase, and very steep and precipitous. Apparently, it wound round the inside of the turret wall, and was quite evidently of much later date than the house itself.
“Oh, I see,” Cross said, “it’s a tunnel,—I mean after you get down, and leads to some other house.”
“Lucid!” exclaimed Stone. “But if that’s right, I’ll bet I know where it leads to.”
“Where?”
“Yellow Sands Inn.”
“Why?”
“Can’t you guess why?”
“No, tell me.”
“Bootlegging.”
“Oh, of course! What a gooney I am! Come on, let’s go.”
They went on down and down, it seemed to Stone an endless journey.
But Cross was keyed up by excitement, and didn’t mind the exertion.
At last they reached a level floor, and before them stretched a long, dark passage.
“Want to tackle it now?” the detective asked, and Jed Cross nodded.
“Yes, but I don’t believe we’ll come out at the Inn.”
“You’ll see. Why, where else could we come out? Will this little flash hold out, I wonder.”
“I’ve lots of matches—”
“Don’t strike them. The place may be unpleasantly damp. Well, come along.”
They went along at a brisk pace, and after a long but fairly straight ahead walk, found themselves in a clean, well-kept cellar.
“There,” Stone said, triumphantly, “the cellar of Yellow Sands Inn.”
“Ever been here before?”
“Not in the cellar, no. Are you going upstairs?”
“I think so. I want to see what Pompton has to say about this thing.”
They went cautiously up the cellar stairs, and stepped softly through the door into the big kitchen and from there to the office where they were pretty sure of finding the proprietor.
“Hello,” Dick Pompton said; “where’d you two drop from?”
“From the secret passage,” said Stone, quickly, before Jed could speak.
“What!”
“You heard. Now, tell us all about it, will you?”
“Come inside and sit down,” Pompton said, a little uncertainly. “How did you find the thing?”
“Partly by accident. Who built it?”
“My father, in 1920. You can guess what for?”
“Of course. But don’t you use it now?”
“No. Don’t need to.” Pompton grinned. “Did you leave it all sprawled wide open for anybody to find?”
“Oh, no. We covered our tracks. Now, will you keep quiet about it?” Stone seemed very much in earnest. “It may have a bearing on the investigations I’m making.”
“Oh, I’ll keep quiet. Too many people know of it now. I don’t want the whole of Club Spindrift trailing up and down those stairs.”
“Who knows about it?” demanded Stone.
“All that gang of young people to start with. And they’ve told everyone they met, I fancy.”
“Do the youngsters use the stair?”
“Oh, no. It’s too dark and dirty and generally uncomfortable. But they’d use it if they wanted to.”
“Did Miss Converse know of it?” asked Stone, suddenly.
“Yes, but Miss Winthrop didn’t.”
“Nor Mrs. Mulvaney, I suppose?”
“No, I think not. None of the servants, probably. Why?”
“Nothing. Who’s been up that way lately?”
“No one that I know of. The night Janet died I think somebody went up there, but maybe not.”
“And the next night? How about the next night?”
“I don’t know anything about it.” Pompton had turned suddenly taciturn. Stone could see he meant to say no more, and he seemed to regret what he had said already.
So the detective shut up in his turn and left the matter to Cross.
“Ever hear of a secret treasure?” asked Jed, casually.
“Nope,” and Pompton was about as responsive as a wooden Indian.
“Lucky for you,” Jed said, carelessly. “If you hear of any such, let me know, will you?”
A tap at the door brought in a page boy, who spoke to Pompton.
“That man, you know, Mr. Holt, says he wants to see Mr. Stone as soon as he comes in.”
“Oh, yes. I say, Mr. Stone, do you know a guy named Holt?”
“What’s his first name?”
“What is it, Bill?”
“Humphrey, Mr. Humphrey Holt.”
“Grand name,” Stone commented, “but I don’t know it. Never heard of him. Some mistake.”
“Won’t you see him, Mr. Stone?” Bill begged. “He’s pesterin’ the very life outen o’ me.”
“All right, buddy. I’m going to the little reception room on the mezzanine. Send or bring his nibs there.”
Stone went to a small waiting room, and soon Bill came along steering his quarry.
Humphrey Holt proved to be a somewhat timid person, but withal determined to have an interview with Fleming Stone.
Cross had disappeared, so Stone met his caller alone.
“Mr. Holt?” he said, pleasantly. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing. I want to do something for you.”
The voice was low and cultured, but there was no smile on the grim face.
A man from the Middle West, Stone surmised, with a definite purpose in mind.
Holt’s figure was long and a little lanky. Gray hair, thin and not very well cut. A weather beaten, age-lined face, with a strong chin and pale colored eyes, surmounted by thin gray eyebrows.
Yet there was a look of shrewd wisdom that caught Stone’s attention.
“Yes,” said Holt, “I want to join forces with you. I want to help you detect.”
Now, of course, this was not the first time strangers had come along and offered their unsolicited services to help the detective “detect.”
As a rule Stone gave them short shrift.
But there was something about this applicant for the position of assistant that made Stone think twice. What it was he didn’t know himself.
Perhaps the wistful look in the gray eyes or the eagerness shown in the visitor’s attitude, as he sat forward, on the edge of his chair, apparently hoping against hope.
About fifty years of age, Stone judged, surely old enough to know better than to come on this wild goose chase of an errand.
“You’re not in the first flush of youth, Mr. Holt,” Stone said, with a kindly smile, “what makes you think I want or need an assistant? I am accustomed to working alone.”
“I know, I know, Mr. Stone, and I don’t want to seem insistent or intrusive. But, well, I just know I can help you.”
“In what way? By your skill or by your knowledge?”
“That’s just it! How you put your finger on the very point! I have no skill, that’s your share of the partnership. But I have knowledge.”
“I wasn’t aware, as yet, that we had formed a partnership. Also, how can I be sure that your knowledge will be of any use to me? I’ve a lot of knowledge of my own, you see.”
“Yes, but I know things that you don’t know. I know who killed Janet Converse.”
“Oh, you do? Then, don’t you also know that you must carry that knowledge straight to the police, and not come dangling it before my hungry eyes?”
“But the police would hoot at it. They are good enough in their place, they are earnest, plodding workers, but they have no imagination.”
“And your knowledge is founded on imagination? In that case, I fear it would be of little use to me. I have imagination of my own, and to spare. It’s facts I want.”
“But I have facts, I know facts,—oh, pray, believe me!”
“Who are you, anyway, Mr. Holt? You interest me, I admit, or I’d have dismissed you at once. Where are you from, and why?”
“I’m from Chicago. I’m a decent, well-behaved citizen. My business is or rather was in a doctor’s office,—assistant, you know. But hard times made the doctor lay off some of his helpers and I had to go. Well, I’ve a little laid by, and no other good position offered, so I’m trying out detective work. If I feel I can succeed at it, I shall take it up seriously.”
“You’re not serious, then, in this Converse matter?”
“That’s an unworthy jest, Mr. Stone. I am very serious. It is a big case. If I can help you to solve it, I don’t want any fame or glory. You can have all that. I just want the experience and the education I shall get from working with you.”
“You’re a most extraordinary person, Mr. Holt. But I don’t see that I can use your services. As a matter of fact, I think there are too many cooks spoiling this broth already. I don’t know what I’d do with another. I’m sorry, but I doubt if we’re for one another.”
Tired of his caller, and a little ashamed of himself for feeling as much interest as he did, Fleming Stone rose, to intimate that the interview was over.
Holt rose, too, and taking his hat from the table, he began to button the light overcoat he was wearing.
“Sensible man,” said Stone, nodding approval, “the mists roll in here so suddenly, you’re wise to protect yourself against them. Let me help you,” as Holt fumbled with the buttons. “Ah, you have it.”
“Any chance of your changing your mind, Mr. Stone?” the guest asked, dejectedly. “If so—”
“There’s a great deal of a chance, Mr. Holt. In fact, I have changed my mind. I have decided that I want to link up with you. Now, do you think I’m a weathercock?”
“What changed you so suddenly?”
“Oh, I’m like that. A creature of moods and whims. All detectives are, I’d say. Now, are you still of a mind to join forces with me?”
“Yes,—I think so.”
But the speaker was less enthusiastic than at first, and Stone hastened to do a bit of urging.
“Oh, I won’t be too hard on you. We’ll jog along together, and if either of us wants to break the partnership, why, that’ll be all right, too.”
“Very well. What shall I do first?”
“Have you a room here?”
“No, I just arrived.”
“Come to the desk with me, and I’ll get the room clerk to fix you up. Then, get yourself to bed. Been traveling all day?”
“Pretty much so. From Chicago. Can I see you tomorrow morning?”
“Sure. Breakfast with me at nine. That suit you?”
“Yes. I want to work fast—”
“You can’t work too fast for me. I like quick action. Come along, then.”
They went to the desk, and Stone’s magic influence secured a room for his friend, Humphrey Holt. Then they said good-night, and Stone went first of all to telephone Twin Turrets that he wouldn’t be there for the night, but would stay at the Inn.
Jed Cross grunted.
“Huh, the lure of the bright lights,” he said, and Stone laughed and returned, “That’s it, exactly.”
By the time Fleming Stone met his new friend at breakfast, next morning, he was half inclined to think he had made a mistake.
His sudden change of mind had been brought about by an impulse based on a thought so absurd, so unbelievable, that Stone wished heartily he had left Humphrey Holt to go his ways.
But he had stipulated that either of them could dissolve their partnership without notice, so he stilled his doubts and went into the dining room, smiling as usual.
Holt was already at a small table, and Stone sat down opposite.
They were both rather quiet, and Stone looked at the other curiously, as if scenting dissatisfaction.
But the detective from Chicago was cheerful and composed of manner, and said, appreciatively,
“Better try the Spanish omelette, it’s very good.”
“All right, I will,” and Stone ordered himself a portion.
“What are you up to this morning?” Holt went on. “Any definite work?”
“Yes. You see, it’s this way.”
Stone had planned his procedure. He meant to tell Holt certain things, and see how he took them, then, if it seemed advisable, he could follow up with things of greater importance.
“It’s this way,” Stone repeated. “I’m eliminating.”
“Ah, from the crowd of young people?”
“Yes.” The detective was surprised at this quickness of perception. “And I’ve three left to check up on.”
“Who are the three?”
“Adrian Payson, young Pennell and—Doctor Cutler.”
“Good Heavens, you don’t suspect Cutler!”
“No, but he has to be checked up.”
“I suppose so. Waste of time, though. Payson has the motive, of course, he’s as poor as a church mouse.”
“They all are, or most of them. Pennell is poor, Meade hasn’t very much, only Betterton is really affluent.”
“Cutler has all he wants.”
“All he needs, perhaps, but not all he wants. Like all modern young doctors he wants a lot of money for experimentation and all that.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But, he couldn’t steal Janet’s necklace for that!”
“Why not? Somebody stole it. Perhaps some of the young crowd—”
“What about that Morton person?”
“I can’t get him really entangled. And the police have pretty much cut him out of it. They’re all for the crowd, now.”
“That’s right, too. It was one of the crowd—”
“How do you know so much about all this? I can’t get you.”
“Oh, I’m not difficult. I’ve studied up all the newspaper reports and I’ve thought things out. Today, I’m going up to New England for a day or two.”
“What for, if I may ask.”
“I want to visit the college where the crowd went to school. Mohawk College, in Massachusetts somewhere. It’s co-ed, you know, and nearly all of them went there. I’ve got to find out something, and I don’t know any other way to do it.”
“The inquest will be day after to-morrow, shall you be at that?”
“If I get back in time. Look here, have you paid any attention to the story they tell that Miss Converse said the wasp stung her?”
“Yes, I’ve thought it over, and I’ve several solutions for it. But none of them quite fits.”
“Well, that’s what’s taking me to Mohawk College. Now, see here, Mr. Stone, I know what I’m about, but I can’t swing it alone. When I come back from Massachusetts, will you stand by to help me?”
“Of course, Mr. Holt, I’ll be right on the job. I’m wondering, though, if you aren’t a bit visionary.”
“Not visionary, but possibly mistaken. But I hope not,—oh, I hope not!”
The tone was so serious that Stone was impressed, in spite of himself and he looked at his companion thoughtfully.
“You’re in earnest, anyway,” he said. “Look here, Holt, do you know any of these people, personally? Did you ever know any of the Converses?”
“Not really well. I met some of them, some years ago. I knew the old maid, slightly. Miss Jane what’s her name? But I’m interested in the case as a case.”
“Sometimes I think that Miss Jane,—Winthrop, her name is, wasn’t abducted, but went off of her own accord.”
“Maybe. But why would she do that?”
“I’ve no idea. And I don’t suppose she did. She wore no coat or hat, took no luggage, but the real reason I can’t think she did, is because loving her niece as she did, she wouldn’t go off and leave her in her coffin.”
“No, of course not.”
But Humphrey Holt seemed disinterested. Clearly, his thoughts were elsewhere.
“You never can tell what a woman will do,” he said, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Well, I must see about tickets and all that, and get off. Remember, I want a talk with you, as soon as I return. I think I’ll have news of some importance for you. I say, Mr. Stone, you don’t have to broadcast my presence here, do you?”
“Surely not, Mr. Holt.”
“Nor our partnership?”
“No, indeed. You go ahead on your own for a few days, and then I can size you up and see if I want to go ahead with our collaboration.”
“Which you rather doubt?”
“Which I very much doubt,—although I was sure enough last night.”
“Oh, well, I’m not unaccustomed to disappointment, and if you don’t want my help, I’ll work on my own. You see, I have an advantage over you, because I know who did the murder.”
“So do I.”
“Oh, you do! Well, when I get back from my little trip I’ll be sure, and then we’ll compare notes—”
“That I don’t promise.”
“Oh, all right. What are you doing to-day?”
“Interviewing the remaining suspects. There are three chaps I don’t feel sure about yet.”
“And are there any you do feel sure about?”
“Yes,—you!”
Humphrey Holt stared.
“You’re sure I committed the murder?”
“Oh, Lord, no! Why would you? But I’m sure about you,—you know,—about you.”
Without another word, Holt rose from the table and stalked from the room.
Fleming Stone shook with suppressed laughter, a luxury he seldom permitted himself at the expense of a fellow human being.
But the amazed look on Holt’s face was too comical, and Stone continued to chuckle at the recollection.
“That settles it,” he said, to himself, “if it needed any settling.”
And then, he, too, left the dining room, and after a cigar on the veranda, while he divided his attention between the sea and his morning paper, the detective finally rose and went to see his remaining suspects.
Adrian Payson, to the detective’s surprise, was at home, and seemed pleased to see him.
“Not at business?” said Stone, cheerily.
“No; I’ve chucked the job.”
“That so? Why?”
“Because they looked at me in a manner which, I believe is called askance.”
Stone smiled.
“Didn’t you give in too easily?”
“Well, I can’t stand askance looks.” Payson was smiling, but he was in earnest, too.
“And how are you earning your living, now?”
“I ain’t.”
“Drop it, Payson, and tell me a few things, will you? Do you know who took the diamond necklace?”
“Of course. It’s an open secret. All our crowd know. It was Clem Fair and Stack Meade, either or both.”
“I suppose you mean the girl took it and Meade is shielding her.”
“Well, yes, that’s how I see it, for I know Stack wouldn’t take the jewelry himself.”
“But Miss Fair can’t get away with it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean she can’t sell those stones. They’re too well known.”
“Oh, there are fences, you know.”
“Heavens, is your crowd up to all those crook dodges?”
“Our crowd is up to anything and everything there is to be up to. And I wish the thing would get settled up one way or another. We haven’t had a good all round party since—since—you know. I’m tired of the whole subject.”
“You’re not afraid of being seriously suspected— arrested?”
“No, not while there’s so much evidence against Stack and Clementina. They’re the guilty parties, Mr. Stone, and not only regarding the necklace—”
“You mean one of them killed Miss Converse!” Stone showed his horror in his face.
“Of course. You must see it for yourself. Who else could it be? Don’t be so overcome. You must be used to murders, even shocking murders, so why act so flabbergasted.”
“Which one do you suspect of the graver crime?”
“Oh, Clem, of course. It’s a woman’s job, you see. No man would use poison. If he wanted to kill, he’d strangle or shoot or stab. You know these things yourself, I’m sure.”
“Let me get this right. You’re voicing the opinion of your crowd when you accuse Miss Fair of the murder and Meade of shielding her?”
“Just that. We all think alike about it.”
“And the motive?”
“Jealousy and envy. Janet had everything. Clem had almost nothing. I don’t mean only money and position, but friends and love and popularity and all that. Clem’s a born vamp, and yet, without any exertion or even intention, Janet cut her out at every turn. And as a final blow, Janet had annexed Stack, whom Clem absolutely worshiped. So, in a moment of vile anger, she put Janet out of the way. I think the necklace business just happened. She saw it hanging from Janet’s breast pocket, and couldn’t resist snatching it.”
“Does Meade know or believe all this?”
“Hard telling what old Stack knows or believes. But he must know, for he has heard the thing discussed over and over in the crowd.”
“And Miss Fair? Has she heard it discussed over and over?”
“Well, more or less. We’re an outspoken lot, you know. And Clem is so nervously excitable, she flies into tantrums if we shut up when she comes in, so we just go ahead and talk right before her.”
“Well, you are a queer bunch!”
“Yes, we are.”
“How about the others? Miss Church, now, and Mr. Betterton?”
“Oh, they’re of our way of thinking. But those two don’t say much. You see, Euny Church was such a pal of Janet’s that she doesn’t babble as much as the rest. And Henry is too tactful and diplomatic to say much. But to tell you the truth, I think he’s awful sorry for Clem.”
“Then, there are two more chaps, Pennell and Cutler.”
“But I tell you, Mr. Stone, no man killed Janet. Not one of our crowd, rotten as we are, would have done that. I mean the men. Girls will do anything.”
“Not very chivalrous, are you?”
“No, and the girls don’t deserve I should be. You know the girls of to-day are outside the laws of chivalry and all that old-fashioned stuff.”
“I suppose so. Well, you’ve helped me a little, Mr. Payson—”
“Have I? I didn’t intend to.”
“I dare say not. But I helped myself to your knowledge and beliefs.”
Stone gave him a whimsical glance as he rose to go. He had taken a liking to the young man, and he thoroughly believed in his innocence now.
Pennell was not at home, so the detective went into the doctor’s office for a few moments.
“Put me wise to Roger Pennell,” he said, finding Cutler alone and at leisure.
“Oh, Penny is all right. He’s just a mountebank, you know. He couldn’t kill anybody.”
“Who did do the killing, then?”
“One of the girls, I suppose. And, there’ll be another murder soon.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, another of my hypodermic syringes is missing.”
“Do you know who took it?”
“Haven’t a notion. I can’t keep my place locked up all the time, so, of course, anybody can get in and out as he likes. And, you know they found the needle that killed Janet. Well, as I say, now another one is missing.”
“I think you ought to keep them locked up,—if only for your own protection.”
“I suppose so. But I never have, and it’s hard to teach an old dog—and all that.”
“Who is the criminal?”
“Clem, they say.”
“Do you think so?”
“Well, she’s the temperament. Neurotic, exotic, highly strung, full of passion and fury, made of nerves and temper. Oh, it must have been Clem.”
“And she has taken another needle?”
“I s’pose so,” Cutler sighed. “I wish the business would get finished.”
“To what extent is Meade involved?”
“None at all, except that he’s standing up for Clem.”
“She has Betterton to stand up for her.”
“Yes, but an extra man or two is a necessity for Clem Fair.”
“And for the other girls? Maisie Ames? Eunice Church?”
“They’re not suspected, are they? I haven’t heard of it.”
“I don’t know that they are. But why not?”
“Lord, don’t ask me. I’ve mulled over it all till I’m nearly crazy!”
“Well, I’ll run along. I’m bothering you, and not learning anything.”
Cutler joined in the little laugh Stone gave, and his frank, pleasant face showed a look of relief as the detective took his departure.
Stone went straight to his rooms and settled down there for the rest of the day.
“It’s straightening out,” he said to himself. “I see daylight at last. Now if that rascal Holt brings home the bacon—”
It was late evening before the rascal Holt returned from his trip to Connecticut or Massachusetts or wherever the trip had been.
A tap on Stone’s door announced the arrival. “Come in,” was the invitation, and Holt entered. The visitor came in softly, closed the door gently, and sat down in an armchair, with a disconsolate expression of face.
“It’s Clementina,” was the terse statement,
“No!” and Stone looked amazed.
“Yes. I saw Miss Brent. She’s the only teacher that was there at the school when the crowd was there. Except, of course, the principals. I didn’t talk with them.”
“You came right out, and asked Miss Brent the direct question?”
“I did so. I said, ‘Do you remember which of the crowd was called the wasp?’ and she smiled and nodded her head. ‘Of course I do,’ she said. ‘It was Clem Fair.’ And then I asked, ‘Why did they call her that?’ And she said, ‘Because everything she said had a sting to it.’ So that’s that.”
“Sounds pretty positive.”
“It is positive. I questioned her over and over, to make sure she remembered all the girls. She adored Janet, I could see that. She liked Eunice, too, but Maisie and Clem she had little use for. It seems Clem was forever teasing the others, and her teasing words were so sharp and her remarks so barbed that they dubbed her the Wasp. And so, when Janet called out ‘the Wasp did it!’ that’s what she meant, that Clem did it.”
“I don’t like it. I don’t believe Clem did it,”
“I don’t like it, either, and I know Clem didn’t do it.”
“Did Stack Meade have any hand in it?”
“Oh, no, it was a girl’s job.”
“Tell me more about Miss Brent. Did you like her?”
“Not a bit. She was too anxious to denounce Clem Fair. She seemed to have no pity or sympathy for her, just a cold sort of contempt. She’s a wizen faced old maid, and I was glad when the interview was over. Though I found out all I could from her. And it was plenty.”
The adjourned inquest was going on.
As before, the coroner was playing to the grand stand. He had his star performers well up in front and he was exploiting them for all they were worth.
Much of the routine questioning was dull and uninteresting, but the audience hoped for better things when the smart crowd of young people should be called on.
And they hoped for a sensational denouement when and if Stacpoole Meade should be charged with the crime.
The “crowd” were mostly in the front row. Well dressed, perfectly groomed, correctly mannered, they sat waiting developments.
Fleming Stone sat directly back of Eunice, and though not an enthusiastic admirer of feminine beauty, he could scarce take his eyes off the perfection of girlish charm he was gazing at.
In line with his eyes was her small rough straw hat, powder blue to-day, to match her thin silk gown. Some vagary of the moment left one small ear uncovered, and Stone scrutinized the outline and almost longed to touch the delicate flesh.
A thin helix, pointed a very trifle at the top, terminated below in a rather broad and heavy lobe. A fine place to pierce for earrings, he thought, for he was a little old-fashioned.
He had never seen Eunice from this angle before, and he noted the muscular jaw with a little surprise. The thin lips, though, saved it from a heavy effect, and the neatly shaped head, flat at the back, was aristocratic and charming.
Stone dragged his attention away from the girl, to listen to the procedure.
Molly Mulvaney was being questioned, regarding the disappearance of Jane Winthrop.
But as Stone knew, she could tell no facts that were not already known.
Yet it was Molly’s crowded hour, and Stone smiled to see her enjoying herself. She told of the ghosts in the wall, and recounted how they had noticeably performed the night of Jane’s departure.
Details of this departure were called forth, and brought oh’s and ah’s from the interested spectators.
Having given Molly her full quota of time, the coroner called Humphrey Holt to the box.
From the back of the room, Holt came unwillingly forward.
He sat down, back to the audience and facing the coroner and jury.
To his great surprise, the coroner plunged into the subject by asking where he had gone when he took train for Massachusetts the day before.
Holt stared blankly, and his exceedingly even and very white teeth convinced anyone who noticed them that they were not the ones that had originally grown in Humphrey Holt’s head.
But the Chicago detective pulled himself together, and answered the question fully if briefly.
“I went to Mohawk College,” he informed his hearers. “I am interested in this case, and I wanted to find out something.”
“And did you?”
“I did. I’m sorry to say I did.”
“Your opinions or feelings are not asked for. What did you find out?”
“That the Wasp was the nickname given to Miss Fair by her schoolmates.”
A silence followed. Clementina gave a quick gasp, and then, shutting her lips close together fell back against her father, who put his arm round her.
“The inference is obvious,” said the coroner, crisply. “We know that Miss Converse said that the Wasp had stung her, but we cannot be sure whether she meant an ordinary wasp, or was using this nickname.”
“She never called me the Wasp!” moaned Clem, but her voice was so low, few could hear it.
“Oh, yes, she did,” Eunice said, but she too spoke in a low tone.
The coroner frowned on this side talk and carried on, with Holt.
“From whom did you get the information, Mr. Holt?”
“From a Miss Brent, one of the teachers who had been a teacher of these young people during their school years.”
“You remember this teacher, Miss Church?” the coroner referred to Eunice.
“Oh, yes, Miss Brent was our chemistry teacher. I remember her well.”
“You remember her, Miss Ames?”
“I do,” said Maisie.
“And you, Miss Fair?”
“I remember Miss Brent, but I was not in her class.”
“I was,” put in Stacpoole Meade. “I was in her chemistry class, but I do not remember ever hearing Miss Fair called the Wasp. Why should she be?”
“Out of order, sir,” said the coroner. “You will be questioned in your turn.”
“All right,” Meade said, carelessly. “But can’t you get along with it? I’ve an engagement and I can’t wait forever.”
“Come along now, then, Mr. Meade,” Littell said, “I think Mr. Holt has told his story.”
With seeming gladness the Chicago detective dropped back to his seat in the rear of the room, and Meade took his place.
It was plain to be seen Stacpoole was not in the best of humors.
He looked belligerent, and spoke shortly.
Littell ignored this, and after a few preliminaries asked his witness why he looked in at Janet beneath her umbrella and then went away at once.
“Because that bounder Morton was with her,” Meade said.
“As her fiancé, couldn’t you dismiss any other man?”
“Has that anything to do with this examination?” Meade looked like a thunder cloud.
“I’m conducting this examination,” Littell said, sternly, “and I advise you to answer direct questions directly.”
“If you suspect me of killing Janet Converse, I’d rather you’d say so. If you have any evidence or proof of such a thing, bring it on. But otherwise you’ve no right to badger me.”
“I’m not badgering you,” the coroner spoke more calmly. “But your behavior was peculiar. For a man only just engaged to a lady, you treated her in cavalier fashion.”
“I treated her as I saw fit. She was my girl, I loved her, I was angry at seeing Morton there with her, but I didn’t kill her.”
“Who did?”
“I’ve no idea.”
It was at this point that Fleming Stone rose and slipped away. He left the room and left the building, and was soon walking rapidly along the sands.
He knew Clem Fair would be called next. He knew there would be no unexpected developments from either Miss Fair or Meade.
He was sure the result of the inquest would be an open verdict, and he had an important errand to attend to.
He was gone about an hour and returned to find Eunice Church in the witness chair.
She was a little excited. But this only added to her beauty.
Again Stone was thrilled with the loveliness of the girl.
“This won’t do,” he told himself. “You’ve never acted like this before.”
“I don’t want to answer your questions,” Eunice was saying to the coroner. “You have no right to ask me. I don’t know who killed my friend, I don’t suspect anybody. If any of our crowd did it, I don’t want to know it! I don’t see why you have to dig into these things. Can’t you let the matter drop? It won’t bring my darling back to me!”
Eunice broke into sobs, but she quickly controlled herself and resumed her tirade.
“If you must keep this thing up,” she went on, “if you must dig into the evidence or clues or whatever you call it, at least look for a motive. What possible motive could any of us have except Mr. Meade? There’s no sense in dragging in Miss Fair. She had nothing to do with it. Or if she did, it was at somebody else’s orders. Where is Janet’s necklace? Who stole that? Where is Miss Winthrop? Why don’t you make some progress in your investigations?”
The coroner was utterly unable to stem the flood of sharp speech that poured from the lovely lips of the girl.
It was plain to be seen that she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, that she scarcely knew what she was saying, that in another moment she would entirely lose her self-control.
Molly Mulvaney threw herself into the breach.
She rose from her seat and went to the frantic girl.
“There, there, Miss Eunice,” she said, “stop talking now, and come along o’ me. Go on with your work, Mr. Coroner, I’ll take care of Miss Church.”
Eunice’s mother was not present, and Molly easily persuaded the trembling girl to be led away from the scene.
Stone was glad to see her go, for he feared a spasm or convulsion that might play havoc with the girl’s well being. But Molly was a host in herself, and would, of course, take Eunice safely home.
Henry Betterton was called next, and as usual, he smoothed things out, at least, to a degree.
His slow, sensible tones and his rational words had a soothing effect on all concerned.
“I wouldn’t remember Miss Church’s evidence, if I were you,” he said to the coroner. “You know she was really not herself. All of us who know and love Eunice Church are well aware that she is subject to these temperamental disturbances, and while they are violent, they are of short duration and soon pass over. She really loses her mind during the spells, and I appeal to Doctor Cutler to bear out my words.”
“Yes,” Cutler agreed, “Miss Church is a neurotic and this excitement of her friend’s tragic death and the consequent emotions caused by this inquest and all that, may well bring about a severe illness. So, let Miss Church’s evidence be stricken from your records and later on, after she is calmer, I am sure she will grant you a saner interview.”
“That’s right,” Betterton nodded his fine head. “Now, I also want to ask leniency for Miss Fair. She, too, is in a nervous state, and I’d like to take her away—”
“I’m afraid we can’t agree to that, Mr. Betterton,” Littell said. “You see, Miss Fair is more or less under suspicion, which Miss Church is not. As Mr. Meade is under suspicion also—”
“Well, you’ve examined them both,” Betterton purred, “now, let them go. You can’t hold them, you know. Why not get your verdict and then you’ll know where you stand.”
Not for nothing was Henry Betterton looked upon as a general and an efficiency expert.
The whole room looked at him with smiles, and seemed to regard him in the light of a deliverer. The jury were delighted at thought of getting through with it all, the audience was fed up and ready to leave for the beach or the Casino, and the coroner himself was overjoyed at finding a way out.
There was so little to go upon. It was useless to say Meade was guilty with no proof to back it up. Or to accuse Clem Fair without evidence.
But Coroner Littell was not minded to give in too easily.
He looked at Betterton with a stern, accusing glance, as if half inclined to charge him with the murder.
Betterton met this glance with smiles, and took a seat next Clementina, offering her a tablet of candy, which he took from a package in his coat pocket.
A wan look of thanks gleamed in the girl’s eyes and she leaned against Henry’s protecting arm, wondering if her troubles were really over.
Hambidge and Meeker, greatly amused at the coroner’s antics, made no comment and offered no advice. They recognized the inquest for the farce it was, and had no definite wish but that it might terminate as quickly as possible.
Then, Hambidge thought, they could get busy on their own, and perhaps get somewhere.
The police department had been far from idle. They had done lots of routine work, they had cleared several suspects and they flattered themselves they were shaping things to a climax.
Fleming Stone, too, was nearing a climax, in his own mind, but it was a different climax from the one aimed at by the police.
Which, if either, was correct, nobody knew.
The most utterly despondent, disheartened, dejected individual was Humphrey Holt.
From his seat in the back of the room, he glowered and frowned on the crowd of young people that was even now definitely arousing his ire.
Things had not gone as he wanted them to, nor as he had expected them to.
He knew Clem Fair had no hand in Janet’s death, nor had young Meade.
He knew who was responsible for the girl’s death, even though he had no shred, no atom of proof. No shadow or shade of evidence.
So he sat and brooded, not caring whether the inquest went on or went off.
The audience waited tensely. They wanted to get away, but they wouldn’t budge until the curtain fell.
For might there not be an arrest after all?
The jury fidgeted. If there was work to be done, they were ready to do it, if not, they wanted to get off to the beach, the golf links or the club porches. They were prosperous, influential men, on their vacations, and they begrudged any unnecessary time to this matter.
Seeing the jig was up, Littell cleared his throat for action.
He summed up the situation, though nobody listened to his summation, he advised the jury, though they heeded naught he said, and at last he dismissed them with a tacit injunction to bring in an open verdict.
This they would have done, anyway, and did, to the applause and delight of the cultured and fashionable audience.
True, some of the jury had held out for a different verdict, merely because they hated to be told what to do by old Littell.
But the lure of the summer day, the sunshine that came in at the windows, the sea breeze that tempered it to the shorn lambs, all called them to the outdoors and they heeded the call.
“We can’t do otherwise,” said the pompous foreman, “than report for ‘persons unknown.’ While we admit those persons may have been Mr. Meade and Miss Fair, we have no proof of that, so we submit our verdict.”
The coroner’s reply to this was lost in the stampede for the door.
In an incredibly short time the room was cleared, and only a few were left behind.
Obeying a nod from Hambidge, Fleming Stone followed the Inspector into a small anteroom.
Holt shuffled along, and somehow insinuated himself, without invitation, into the group.
“Well, that’s over,” said Hambidge, with the air of a man conscious of a great relief. “Now we can attend to a few things.”
“You don’t suspect Meade, do you,” Fleming Stone said, with a covert look at Holt.
“No,” the Inspector declared, shortly. “Nor the Fair girl either.”
“Who, then?”
“Oh, who? Who, yourself. What do you think, Mr. Holt?”
Hambidge had been inclined to treat Humphrey Holt as a joke, but a look of intelligence in the pale colored eyes and a snap of the china white teeth suggested that the joke might have an idea or two rattling about in that sparsely thatched gray head.
“I’m all kerflummoxed,” Holt admitted, sadly. “My one prop has been knocked out from under me.”
“And what was that prop?” inquired Hambidge, kindly.
“The lady teacher, the Brent woman. But she was so sure and positive,—there was nothing more to be said.”
“Sure and positive—was she? Then, of course, there is nothing more to be said.”
Hambidge spoke in an absent-minded manner, not looking at Holt, but busy with some notes on the table before him.
But Stone took up the tale.
“Sure and positive, eh?” he asked.
“I’ll say so,” came the aggrieved tones of Holt. “I tried to make her see reason, but she said she knew what she was talking about. So few people do,” and Holt sighed like a lost soul.
“Well, anyway, Hambidge,” Stone said, changing the subject, “here’s your gewgaws.”
From his pocket he brought out a small packet, and opened it to show a glittering mass, which he poured out into the palm of his hand.
“The Converse diamonds!” the Inspector breathed, gasping in his surprise.
“Yes, that’s right. Now, what shall we do with them?”
“Turn them over to Randall, of course. Lord, what a pity! All that immense estate and no one to possess it—”
“What about Jed Cross?” asked Stone, his eyes on Holt’s face.
That worthy was fairly snorting with disgust.
“Jed Cross!” the Chicagoan said, scathingly. “He’s no more heir to that estate than I am!”
“I believe you, Mr. Holt,” declared Stone, “whether anyone else does or not! Aren’t they beauties, Hambidge? Perfectly graded and flawless.”
“Yes, but their beauty doesn’t interest me. Where did you get them? What did you learn? Has it any bearing on the crime? Are you sure these are the Converse stones?”
“There, there, you animated question mark! Don’t pester the life out of me! I got them where they were hidden, and a clever hiding place it was. No, it didn’t seem to have any bearing on the crime, so I shan’t tell you where I found them. But I will say that neither Miss Fair nor Mr. Meade had a thing to do with the hiding of those gems.”
“Well, then who? Wait, I’ll guess myself.”
“You may guess, Hambidge,” Stone told him, “but you won’t guess right. Have a try.”
“One of the crowd?”
“I didn’t agree to help you, but, yes, I’ll say it implicates one of the crowd.”
“Lemme see, then. Can’t be one of the girls, ’cause there’s only Maisie and Eunice. Eunice is above suspicion and Maisie is beneath it.”
“Mighty well put,” Stone laughed outright, while Humphrey Holt gave his now familiar snort, which meant utter disagreement with anything anybody said.
“Well, there are the men,” Stone urged him on. “You say not Meade. I say not Betterton. Leaving Cutler, Pennell and Payson. I clear Cutler.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why. Only it’s too impossible.”
“But he had the hypodermic needle, and he had the poison—”
“Hush your foolishness!” growled Holt. “Doctor Cutler no more did that awful thing than I did. Anybody but the doctor!”
“Pennell? Payson?” Hambidge gave a low whistle. “Back to Payson, eh?”
“What makes you think so?” Stone looked puzzled.
“Because you got the diamonds. From Payson of course.”
“Did you go and get them, Mr. Stone, when you left the inquest room?”
This from Holt.
“I did, yes. But I don’t say I got them from Payson’s place.”
“You don’t have to. Who else could have them?”
“What about Meade and the string of settings that he ground into the beach that morning?”
“But you said it wasn’t Meade—”
“No, I didn’t. I said he had nothing to do with the hiding of them.”
“Oh, well, if you’re holding out on us—”
“I am, for the moment,” said Stone seriously. “But truly, the knowledge of where I found these, I must keep to myself for twenty-four hours longer. You have the goods, let that suffice you. It relieves you of one task. Now, you’d better turn them over to the Randalls as soon as may be, before they get lost, strayed or stolen again.”
“Yes,” agreed the morose voice of Holt, “get ’em in a safe place, do.”
The advice was followed, and within an hour the precious stones were safe in the custody of the lawyers.
And at sunset that same evening a man and a girl strolled along the beach.
“But I want my share of the jewels now,” the man was saying. “I don’t think I’ll stay here much longer. I’m safe from all suspicion, of course, but that detective, Stone, eyes me too closely for my taste. And that crazy coot from Chicago gives me the willies.”
“Who is that person, anyway?”
“A detective, I’ve heard. A friend of Fleming Stone’s. But I think he’s a freak, the Holt man, I mean. He acts crazy to me.”
“No, he isn’t crazy, far from it. Well, stay right here, and I’ll get the sparklers.”
Nick Morton sat down on the bench indicated, and stared at the sunlit sea. It seemed to him he waited an hour, but it was really inside of a half hour that the girl was back with a small packet.
“There,” she said, in a whisper, “that’s just half by actual count. Now go.”
“I’ll go fast enough. And if they’re all right, you’ll never see or hear of me again.”
“I could even live through that,” and with no further word of farewell, they separated.
Morton went home, and behind his locked door, he examined the contents of the parcel he had just received.
His face changed as he looked. He became more and more angry, yet instead of growing belligerent, he became very quiet.
Jamming on his hat, he went out and went straight to the railroad station where he took a train for Philadelphia.
“Can’t afford to be mistaken,” he said to himself. “Must know the truth. But if she has double-crossed me— Well, she’ll be sorry she ever was born.”
Fleming Stone, in his rooms at Yellow Sands Inn, was doing some deep thinking.
He hated to be a spoilsport, he hated to interfere with another person’s plans, but he couldn’t let the game go on. It was too dangerous. It might end in a catastrophe, and anyway, whether it did or not, he had no right to hold out on such important, such vital evidence.
At last, with a sigh, he picked up his telephone and called James Randall.
It was a beautiful, bright morning, and he had a notion that young Mr. Randall would prefer a stroll on the beach to a call on the detective. But it had to be. The whole affair was closing in, and now that the diamonds were recovered, the next step must be—
“Hello,” he said, in answer to Randall’s greeting.
As he anticipated, the lawyer was a bit reluctant to forego a morning’s outing, but at Stone’s hint of urgency, he agreed to come to the Inn at once.
He arrived duly, dapper and well dressed, swinging a jaunty cane and looking a bit accusing, as if Stone had better put up the goods or take the consequences.
“Sit down,” the detective said, offering a chair near the window, overlooking the sea.
“What’s it all about?” asked Randall. “Something really important?”
“Yes, to my way of thinking. Come in.”
The last, in answer to a tap at the door. Humphrey Holt entered, at the invitation, and though he seemed a little distrait, he nodded pleasantly enough to the lawyer.
“You sent for me,” he reminded Stone, looking at him questioningly.
“Yes. You know, Mr. Holt, I told you—I knew.”
“I know you did, but you didn’t say what you knew.”
“I will now.”
Fleming Stone looked curiously at Holt. He stared so intently that Randall became interested, and wondered what was up.
Holt began to fidget. He had a way of wriggling his feet when embarrassed, and as his feet were large and somewhat awkward, he made anything but a serene picture.
Still watching him, Stone said, slowly,
“You’re a brave woman—Jane Winthrop!”
Randall jumped to attention, but Humphrey Holt seemed to crumple up as if touched by a sirocco.
And as the two men stared, the masculinity utterly fell away from the so-called Holt, and the identity of Jane Winthrop was beyond all doubt. But Jane was game.
“How did you know?” she said, with an attempt at bravado.
“Too easy,” Stone said. “What I can’t understand is how you ever dreamed you could get away with it. Why did you attempt such a fool thing?”
“I had to,” Jane Winthrop said, soberly. “I had to avenge my darling’s death, and as I saw it, that was the only way.”
“Are you really Miss Winthrop?” asked Randall, in awed tones. “Then you are the heir of the Converse fortune—”
“Never mind all that,” said Jane. “Tell me what I’m to do now.”
“Get back to your own sex, first of all,” Stone advised, but Randall said:
“No. Tell us your story first. There’s a lot to be done. Do you know Jed Cross?”
“Of course. I’ve been around here a week or ten days. But tell me, Mr. Stone, how you spotted me, and then I’ll tell you my story.”
“Oh, to begin with, no woman can pass as a man,” Stone said. “A man might pose as a woman, and get away with it, but not the other way. And the very first time I saw you you gave yourself dead away.”
“How? Tell me how?”
“The simplest possible error. You came here, you know, and when you left, you tried to button your overcoat. You fumbled with the buttons, and I suddenly saw you were trying to button the right lapel over the left one. Now women’s garments button that way, but men’s are the reverse. Ours button the left side over the right.
“That gave me the hint, and then I noted carefully, and a dozen little things cropped up. The way you sat, the way you smoked, the way you ate,— to one looking for proof, you were a mass of proofs. But I do say it was a wonderful stunt, and I’d like to hear how you got it off as well as you did.”
“It was perfect,” Randall declared. “I never dreamed of a disguise! But somebody must have coached you—”
“Yes, that’s just it,” Jane said, eagerly. “Shall I tell you how it came about?”
“Did you have a hat, after all?” asked Stone, musingly.
“Oh, yes, I had a rather largish straw hat of Janet’s. And a coat of hers, and her fitted bag, and all her money and bonds.”
“Your money and bonds,” corrected Randall, gently.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And you took the chocolate to eat on the train,” Stone went on.
“How do you know I took a train?”
“How else could you get to Chicago?”
“How do you know I went to Chicago?”
“From little things you’ve said, inadvertently.”
“Stop this cross fire,” begged Randall, “and one or other of you tell the story.”
“I’ll tell it,” Jane said.
“It was this way,” she began, her gray eyes taking on a saddened look, “the young people brought me the news of Janet’s death. Oh, they were gentle and very careful to break the news as cautiously as possible. But I knew—oh, I did know—who killed my darling.”
“You’ve changed your mind about it, though?” asked Stone.
“I don’t know,” and Jane looked doubtful.
“Go on with the story,” said Randall, impatiently.
“Well, I was sure I knew the criminal, and I was sure, too, that nobody else knew it, and nobody would believe me. I tried to get Mr. Stone to come to me, but that first day I was really too ill,—too prostrated to see him, and the next day, I had made up my mind to disappear.”
“Why?” cried Randall.
“I had a wild scheme, a crazy scheme, but it was the only plan, it seemed to me, by which I could get the true murderer. So I left the house that night—”
“You drugged Peter, then?”
“Yes, I had to. I took no luggage, except Janet’s little case, and I took the emergency money. As Mr. Randall says, it was mine anyway, but what better use could it be put to, than to track down Janet’s murderer?”
“You took the flowers from Janet’s hand, and threw them on the floor?” Stone asked, looking at her, wonderingly.
“Yes. I had my reason. And I kissed my darling’s cold face. I dare say I did disturb her curls, but I scarce knew what I was doing. I drugged Peter’s coffee, and I took some veronal with me, doubting if I could sleep at all.”
“How did you get away?”
“In the simplest fashion. I made no haste, I took what few things I wanted and then I quietly went out of the side door. I walked through the woods, along the shore road, to Ocean Grove—”
“To Ocean Grove!” exclaimed Randall.
“Yes, it isn’t so very far. There was a very late train leaving, a convention excursion train. I could get on that without being noticed by anyone. I went to New York on that train, and after a wait in the Pennsylvania station, I took the earliest train possible for Chicago.”
“And of course, no one thought of looking up such matters!” said Stone, with admiration in his eyes. “Go on, Miss Jane. Why did you go to Chicago?”
“My brother lives there. Charles Winthrop. I went to his house. He is unmarried and lives alone. He is a real pal of mine and I knew he’d help me through. I told him my story; told him the only way I could get Janet’s murderer was to pretend to be a detective and so have opportunity to investigate. Also, I must pose as a man, for a woman detective is no good, and too, I’d be recognized. But I never dreamed anyone would penetrate the disguise I did assume! You’re too smart, Mr. Stone.”
“Tell us more,” Randall urged. “You had your heavy, bushy eyebrows cut away?”
“Plucked,” said Miss Jane, calmly. “I had a new double set of false teeth made, quite different from the denture I habitually wore. I had my hair shingled and thinned out, and then Charlie coached me in the matter of manly action. He drilled me in the arts of standing, sitting, walking and smoking—all such things he taught me to do in a masculine manner.”
“Your brother approved of all this?”
“He did not! He was angry, and even furious about it. He refused to help me, but I wheedled him into it. I showed him it was the only way, and he came at last to see it as I did. Then he helped me in earnest. He had clothes made for me, bought haberdashery for me, and in fact made a man of me to all outward effects and appearances. You never suspected, Mr. Randall?”
“No, certainly not. But I didn’t see you as closely as Stone here. I think the whole performance was marvelous, but—what happened? Why didn’t you get your murderer, as you proposed to do?”
“I may have made a mistake.” Jane looked so downcast that Stone was sorry for her.
“The wasp?” he said, gently.
“Yes. You see, I had heard Janet speak of the girl they called the Wasp and I was sure she was the murderer. But I couldn’t find out which girl it was. I had a letter from Janet, long ago, when they were all at school, in which she told me who it was they dubbed the Wasp. But I couldn’t find that letter, although I went over stacks of her letters. Then, I went up to the college, as you know, and the teacher said the Wasp was Clementina Fair. I’m sure it wasn’t, but what could I do?”
“Nothing. Miss Brent must have known.” Randall spoke slowly. “Now, what are you going to do, Miss Winthrop?”
“Oh, I’m going to give up this foolery. My, but my brother will be glad to know I’ve quit!”
“Then you took Janet’s little pin?” Stone came out of a reverie.
“Yes. As a souvenir. I knew I’d never see my darling child again—”
“How could you go off and leave her like that?” Randall exclaimed.
Jane Winthrop straightened up and looked at him.
“It was a Spartan act,” she said. “But it had to be done. Or, at least I thought it had to be done. You can never know or guess what I went through. But I was sure I could convict the criminal in that way and in no other. I dare say you think I am—unbalanced.”
This was exactly what Randall did think, but he forebore to say so.
“And now?’ he asked, instead.
“Now, I must get fixed up.” Jane was sane enough now. “One of you men must go over to The Turrets and tell Molly Mulvaney to come over here and bring me a complete outfit. I daren’t telephone it all.”
“I’ll go,” and Randall rose hurriedly, as if afraid Stone would cut him out.
“Go on, then.” Jane said, with a touch of her old acerbity. And Randall went.
“Who was it you thought must be the criminal?” asked Stone very gravely, as they sat waiting for Molly to come.
“I’m ashamed to say it, but I suspected Eunice. I know now I must have been crazy, but, Mr. Stone, I was crazy. You see, it was my impression that she was the one Janet called the Wasp. And so, I lost my head, and I imagined Eunice capable of crime! Oh, I hope I can make it up to her in some way.”
“She need never know that you suspected her.”
“No, but I know it, and it will always be on my conscience. Then, when I was so sure of Eunice’s guilt, I saw the flowers she had put in Janet’s hand, and I lost my head, I think. I snatched the flowers from my darling girl, and I leaned down and kissed the cold face,—oh, I kissed her distractedly, that’s why her curls were mussed up—”
“No, Miss Winthrop, take my advice, and don’t hark back to those mistakes of yours. You are yourself again, or will be, as soon as Molly fixes you up. You have a duty to perform, a duty that must be your first thought. You are now head of the house, heir to the Converse fortune. You must assume due dignity and gracious manners. You must act with justice and wisdom. You see all this, don’t you? If not, I must agree that you are unbalanced—”
“Agree with whom?” asked Jane, quickly.
Stone reddened. He couldn’t say, with Randall, yet he knew Randall had his doubts of Miss Jane’s sanity.
“The people who don’t understand,” he floundered a little. “The people who will wonder where you have been—I say, Miss Jane, you’re not going to let anyone know you were Holt, are you?”
“Oh, I’d rather not, but can I keep it secret?”
“I don’t see why not. No one knows now but Randall and myself, and of course, Mrs. Mulvaney. We must invent a way of covering it all up. Wait till I think.”
“I’ll have to wait until after dark,” Jane began.
“No, that won’t do. I think, if Molly brings a good big cloak and a shade hat, you can make a getaway without attracting notice. Anyway, we’ll see.”
Molly came then, and brought a good sized suit case.
“For the land’s sake,” was her first comment. “You fooled us all good and plenty!”
“Not all, Molly,” Jane corrected her. “Mr. Stone caught on.”
“He would!” and Molly nodded her sagacious head. “Now, you going to change here, or in your own room?”
“Here,” Stone said, preemptorily. “I’ll stay here in the sitting room, and you two take the bedroom and bathroom, and be as expeditious as possible. You dress Miss Winthrop, Molly, and then put her other clothes in the suit case. Leave it here, I’ll attend to that part. I’ll tell Pompton that Mr. Holt was called back to Chicago in great haste, and his things are to be packed and sent after him. To your brother, I suppose, Miss Jane?”
“Yes, Charles will take care of them. How good you are to me!”
“Somebody’s got to be good to you.”
“I’ll say so,” chimed in Molly. “She’s uncapable of being good to herself. All right, Mr. Stone, we’ll make a lightning change.”
Molly whisked her charge into the bedroom and soon had her transformed into a fairly presentable woman. Her hair was too short, and her plucked eyebrows changed her expression, but when she resumed her own false teeth, and was in a neat and well-made black dress, Jane Winthrop was a lady, indeed.
“Where’d this black dress come from,” she said. “I thought that little old thing I wore was the only black one in the house.”
“I had it made to your measure,” Molly said, placidly. “I surmisered you’d come along home some day, and you’d be yellin’ for somethin’ fit and proper to wear. So there you are, and a good lookin’ rig it is. Here’s a good big floppydoodle cape that’ll kiver you nicely, and here’s a hidy sort of hat. Of course, here’s your own shoes and gloves and here’s a spandy clean handkerchief and I just guess you’re a little bit of all right. Show yourself to Mr. Stone now.”
Molly flung open the door, and Stone was astounded at the picture Miss Jane presented.
“Fine,” he said. “Now, get out of the Inn quietly and inconspicuously, and then, as you walk over to Twin Turrets, you needn’t be shy at all. Go along with your head up, go into your own house, and —oh, by the way, you’ll find Jed Cross there, I suppose.”
“I’ll take care of him,” and Jane wagged her head. “I can take care of everything now that I’ve got out of those beastly togs. How you men stand ’em, I don’t know!”
“Come along,” urged Molly. “Don’t be talking nonsense. You cut up a fool trick, but somehow you’ve come out of it with a whole skin. Come on, now.”
The two women went down the stairs, talking naturally to one another, and nobody looked at them with suspicion. Yellow Sands Inn had all sorts and conditions of patrons within its doors, and there was nothing conspicuous about this pair.
Once in the street, however, Molly breathed more freely, and they made for Twin Turrets. It was but a short walk, and Jane was exhilarated by the success of their getaway.
“Does Jed Cross think he owns the place?” she asked as they turned in at the entrance.
“Well, he isn’t sure—”
“He will be in a few minutes,” Jane Winthrop said.
Betts answered the door, and though he did his best to appear as usual he gave a gasp, and breathed out, “Oh, Miss Jane!”
And then, he quickly returned to his wooden Indian demeanor.
Jane, all her old dignity and aplomb restored, stalked up the stairs to her own room.
At Molly’s hurried but definite orders before leaving the house, Jane’s room was all spick and span for her use.
She gladly entered and threw herself into an easy chair.
“Now, Molly,” she said, “I shall not go out of this room to-day. I’m done up, and I propose to stay here for twenty-four hours, at least. Tell Betts to send me good meals on trays, and then let me alone. My, but it’s good to get home!”
Molly looked at her a little uncertainly. She knew Mr. Randall thought Miss Winthrop was mentally unbalanced, and Mr. Stone was in no wise sure she wasn’t. Molly didn’t believe the men were right, but she did believe Jane had been through a severe mental strain, and a rest was certainly what she needed.
Molly was inclined to suggest Doctor Cutler, but concluded to wait and see if his ministrations were necessary.
“Now,” Jane announced, after she had sat silent for a time, “now, I want to see Eunice. Will you telephone, Molly, and ask her to come over here?”
“Want I should tell her you’re back at the old stand?”
“Tell her I’m home, of course, and say I greatly desire to see her.”
Molly did as she was bid. As a matter of fact she was so glad to have her mistress at home again, she would have carried out any order.
A little squeal of surprise greeted her news as Eunice took the message.
“Miss Jane home? How gorgeous! Yes, indeed, of course, I’ll come right over. May I come to luncheon? Or wait a bit later?”
“Come right along,” said Jane, when this request was relayed to her.
“But we’ll lunch up here, Molly. On trays, you understand.”
Molly nodded wisely, knowing full well that Jane was not yet ready to face the redoubtable Jed Cross. He had eagerly asked for an interview, but had been put off till the morrow.
Eunice came tripping in, and hastened up to Miss Jane’s presence.
“Oh, my dear,” she cried, throwing her arms around the older woman’s neck, “I’m so glad to have you here again! Where did you go? No, forgive me, I didn’t mean to ask. Tell me as much or as little as you wish. Oh, Aunt Jane, it’s heavenly just to see you!”
“Let me look at you,” Jane said. “Yes, you’re just as pretty as ever. You and Janet are the prettiest girls in the world.”
“Don’t talk about Janet—I can’t bear it!”
“Yes you can, dearie. I have to talk about her, or I’ll die. That’s why I sent for you. Eunice, who killed her?”
“Oh, Miss Jane, who did? Shall we ever know?”
“Yes,—yes, indeed. I had a wrong suspicion,— no, I won’t tell you about it. You tell me whom you suspect.”
“I hate to, but—well, you know as much about it all as I do, don’t you? Have you been kept informed or not?”
“Tell me, anyhow.”
“Then, I suppose it must have been—Clem. I wouldn’t say this to anyone else, but I must say it to you.”
“And young Meade?”
“Oh, no,—I don’t think so.”
“Hold on, Eunice, are you in love with Stack? You’re blushing like everything!”
“You always make me speak the truth, whether I want to or not.” The big violet eyes looked straight into Jane’s own. “Yes, I suppose I am in love with him. But, while he was Janet’s—”
“Yes, I understand, you would never have let Janet know.”
“Oh, no! But I can’t believe Stack could have had anything to do with the—the crime.”
“You put it all on Clem, then?”
“Oh, I don’t know! How can I know? Where have you been, Miss Jane?”
“I went out to Chicago, to my brother’s. Don’t ask me more about it just now. Perhaps I’ll tell you some time. And, Eunice, I—I am not as strong as I thought. I can’t see you to-day. Dear child, I’m really ill. Will you think me dreadful if I send you back home now?”
“Of course not. You must rest. I’ll send Molly and I think you’d better have Doctor Cutler over.”
“Molly will know what to do. Run along, now, and come to-morrow, if I send for you.”
“Yes, I will. We’re having a moonlight bathing party to-night. I’ll call in on my way home, and inquire how you are.”
But this Eunice did not do. She was taken home herself, in a fainting condition from the moonlight party.
The crowd had gone gayly down to the beach, had plunged into the surf, and laughter and chaff had rung out on the summer air.
The lovely, if scanty, bathing garments of the girls and the singlets of the men were wet and shining as the silver moonlight played on their gay colors.
It was a larger party than usual, for others had wanted to join in what was really a celebration of Stack Meade’s release from suspicion of crime.
Clem, too, was scot free, but no one had ever believed she would be arrested. But Meade had been in danger and now, the jury having freed him, everybody was relieved.
They planned a rollicking party in the waves, to be followed by a dance and supper at the Casino.
But a sudden cry had gone up from some frightened girl:
“Oh, what’s the matter with Stack? Henry, where are you?”
Everybody called on Henry Betterton in an emergency, and he ran toward the screaming Maisie.
And it was the lifeless body of Stacpoole Meade that Betterton and Doctor Cutler carried up from the surf and laid on the sands.
No one knew how or when it happened. In fact, no one knew quite what had happened.
Stacpoole Meade was dead, there was no doubt about that, and Henry Betterton stood by to keep watch and ward, while others ran for the police.
Cutler made a brief necessary examination and said he could do no more till the authorities came.
Several of the guests, not directly members of the intimate crowd, were for going home.
But Betterton warned them.
“It would be wiser to stay,” he said. “The police will want to question you and if you have gone, they’ll hunt you up, and it will look as if you had run away. Better stick to it.”
Some agreed with this and decided to stay, but others doggedly persisted in going to their homes.
“Drowned?” said Betterton, quietly, to Doctor Cutler.
“No,” Cutler replied curtly, and they said no more.
Hambidge came, and Meeker and some others. The Inspector began to think that a fashionable Beach Club was a hotbed of crime.
He said little, and made a swift examination of Meade’s body.
“Can’t tell yet,” he said. “Have to take it to the mortuary and have an autopsy. It may be a case of drowning and it may not. Was he a strong swimmer?”
“The best,” said Betterton.
“Was he feeling all right to-night? Nothing the matter with him?”
Hambidge always asked these questions about the young people. Frisky, they were, in his estimation, and quite liable to be a little on the gay side.
“Perfectly all right,” Doctor Cutler declared. “He was in fine humor, and the party was to celebrate his getting out of the clutches of the police.” He smiled grimly. “And now you’ve got him back.”
“More trouble,” said Hambidge, soberly. “I wonder who did it?”
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Betterton, “are you implying—”
“Never mind, Henry,” Cutler said; “don’t borrow trouble. We’ll know soon enough.”
“Guess I’d better go and look after the girls,” Henry said, rising to his feet.
He looked sadly down at Meade’s white face.
Stacpoole had been one of the merriest of the group that night, as they all splashed about in the moonlight.
It was a wonderful night. Almost full moon, with clouds now and then darting across the silvery glow, and then disappearing, making the radiance clearer than ever.
Someone had said it was growing chilly, and was time to go in. Henry had agreed to this, and was about to hunt up Clem among the dancing, tumbling throng when Maisie’s scream rang out.
At that, of course, Betterton had hurried to the scene of trouble, and he had not thought of the rest of the party since.
Now, his caretaking instincts came again to the fore, and he started for the group who were now shivering and shaking in their wet garments. Some had bathing capes which they shared with those who had none.
“You can go to the bathhouses and dress,” Betterton said, “the Inspector said to tell you that. But nobody must go home until their names and addresses are taken. Remember that. You’ll only get into trouble if you disobey orders.”
The girls began to storm, to cry or to whimper, according to their temperament.
Eunice, Clem and Maisie were very quiet. They knew better than the others what they had to face.
And they were apprehensive. Was it a drowning accident, or was it—
Silently, they went to dress.
It was awful to put on their gay party frocks with things as they were.
The hilarious feast they had planned, the festive dance, all seemed a dreadful mockery.
And back of it all was the ever recurring thought, who—who? but no one could voice the question.
Hambidge left orders for the whole crowd to go to the room he designated in the Casino. The small private ballroom, in fact, where they had meant to hold the party.
In an incredibly short time, they were dressed and assembled there.
The men, too, dressed quickly, and a decorous crowd awaited Hambidge’s arrival.
Doctor Cutler was with him and the Inspector wasted no time in preliminaries.
“Who was nearest Mr. Meade when the alarm was raised?” he asked.
“I think I was,” Maisie Ames replied, not at all abashed at stepping into the limelight.
“What was he doing?”
“Doing? Nothing. Just talking and laughing as we all were. What else can anyone do in the ocean? You can’t swim at a party. We jumped about and looked at the moon and flirted. That’s all.”
“What made you scream out?”
“Stack looked so queer. All of a sudden, he seemed to collapse, just slumped down, as you might say. And as he went under water, of course I yelled, I grabbed at him, but he was too heavy. He merely slipped on down.”
“Who else was near you two?”
“Let me see. Clem Fair was the other side of Stack—”
Maisie stopped suddenly. What had she said? What had she hinted?
She hurried on. “And Mr. Claibourne was the other side of me. And the rest of the people around us were not—not our own crowd, you know. They were the outside guests.”
“I see. Where were the rest of what you call your crowd?”
“Well Roger Pennell was ’way off, with Eunice, I think, and Doctor Cutler, oh, yes, Doctor Cutler was near us. I forgot him.”
“Where was Mr. Betterton?”
“I don’t know. But he’s always all over, everywhere. He darts about like a water spider, keeping things going properly. But I’ll tell you who was there, who didn’t belong. That Morton man, Nick Morton.”
“What was he doing there? Was he invited to the party?”
“Lord, no! We don’t have people like that. I can’t imagine why he was around. But I did catch a glimpse of him, twice.”
“With whom was he talking?”
“I’ve no idea. You see, we were all carrying on like mad. A moonlight bath is a wild party, always. And to-night we were whooping things up. Oh, you don’t think—do you?”
Maisie broke down and began to weep sobbingly. Doctor Cutler went to her and soothed her, also he gave her some bromide or something that quieted her nerves.
“Miss Fair,” the Inspector proceeded, “you were near Mr. Meade?”
“Yes,” said Clem, her face very white and her eyes big with terror. “Yes, I was.”
“You saw him go under the water?”
“No, I saw nothing of the sort. I was looking the other way, I was talking to Mr. Claibourne, a man I had only just met.”
“Then what was the first intimation you had of something wrong?”
“Maisie’s scream, of course. That frightened us all.”
“And that is all you can tell me, Miss Fair?”
“Yes, all. I saw nothing unusual; in fact, I hadn’t been talking to Mr. Meade for some time. I was jollying this Mr. Claibourne,—he’ll tell you so.”
“Yes, indeed,” put in the young man in question. “I was telling Miss Fair about a golf game I played—”
“All in good time, Mr. Claibourne,” the Inspector said, curtly. “I’ll ask you questions when your turn comes. That’s all, Miss Fair, if you have no other information to give. Miss Church, where were you?”
“At a distance from Mr. Meade and Miss Fair. I couldn’t see or hear them, of course, but when I suddenly heard Clementina scream, I knew something terrible had happened. She gave an unearthly yell.”
“I did not!” declared Clem.
“Well, it sounded so to me,” Eunice averred. “Adrian was with me, and he was startled, too. ‘What can be the matter?’ he said.”
“Tell only your own story, Miss Church. Mr. Payson will tell his own.”
“But I’ve none to tell. I was too far off to know any details of what had happened.”
“Did you go toward the group around Meade at once?”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Payson and I went right over. Of course it was only a few steps, but we ran, and when we arrived everybody was there in a heap.”
“This is as you remember it, Mr. Payson?”
“Yes, exactly as Miss Church tells it. It was of course, the simple, natural thing to do, to run over there, when we heard a terrified scream.”
“Where were you, Doctor Cutler?”
“I was near Meade, but not next to him. I was thinking it was getting very chilly and I wished the crowd would go indoors. I feared bad colds unless they did so.”
“Did you mention this fear to anyone?”
“I don’t know. I may have said, ‘Come on, let’s go in!’ or something like that. It’s difficult to remember what one says in a gay party. I was having a rollicking time, and I doubt if I should have insisted on breaking up the fun even if I thought it prudent. A doctor must relax at times, you know.”
“Yes, of course. Now, I’ll talk to these strangers.”
“Don’t leave me out,” Pennell said, with a worried look. “I’m in the crowd, you know.”
“Yes, of course. Well, Mr. Pennell, where were you?”
“When Clem called out? I was over near Miss Church and Adrian Payson. We were saying it was time to go in. We were quite ready to go. I wanted to dance and have supper, and I said so. Then, Clem’s voice rang out, and we forgot everything and just ran.”
“Thank you. Your story is straightforward, but not especially helpful.”
Then Hambidge, with Betterton to introduce or mention names of the guests not of the “crowd,” took their testimony.
They were for the most part garrulous. Especially the girls, keyed up, doubtless, by nervousness, they were in chattering mood. The men were more conservative, but after all, none could throw any light on the matter.
The inquiry was perfunctory, but it had to be made.
Hambidge was interested in two points only. One was the presence of Nick Morton on the scene, the other the proximity of Doctor Cutler to young Meade.
There was no definite reason to connect Cutler with the matter, but the Inspector had heard rumors, and a rumor to his ears was a matter to be remembered.
But everybody had been absolutely unembarrassed, no one seemed self-conscious or unduly excited. Clearly, most of those present suspected nothing more or worse than an accident, perhaps cramp or undertow.
And, so far as was yet known, there was no reason to suspect anything more sinister.
After some more questioning the young people were allowed to go their ways.
Young Meade’s father had come from his home, and he took up matters with the mortuary men.
Silent Stuy, as he had been called, lived up to his name. No one heard him express grief or regret at his son’s death, but many afterward testified that he looked as if he had been stricken by a blow of fate.
The crowd wondered what they had better do. One of the strangers declared that since the party was all ready for them, it was a shame to waste it, and why not go to it and let it cheer them up.
Many took this view and except for a few of the crowd, they filed into the next room, where the supper was laid.
“Seems awful to eat, drink and be merry, under the circumstances,” said one of the more serious minded youths. “But,—oh, hang it all, we can’t dance!”
This was a general opinion, for callous and frivolous as they were, it was against human nature to be gay and festive after such a tragedy.
“I want to go home,” Eunice said, swaying a little, as she spoke.
“And you’d better,” Doctor Cutler advised. “You’re ready to break, Eunice. Somebody will take you home, and then you tuck yourself in bed with a couple of aspirins.”
“Yes,” and Eunice seemed about to faint.
“I’ll take her home,” offered Nick Morton appearing from nowhere in particular. “Come, Eunice.”
“No, no!” she almost screamed. “Adrian, take care of me, do!”
“I’ll take care of you,” said a calm, steady voice, and Fleming Stone came to her side. “Depend on me, Miss Church, I’ll see you safely home. Good-night, Morton.”
Looking chagrined, Morton faded from the picture, and as somebody brought Eunice’s wrap, Stone led her away and called a taxi at the door.
“Right home?” he said, gently, as Eunice seemed unable to brace up at all.
“Yes,” was the almost inaudible response, and they drove to the Church cottage.
An alarmed maid let them in.
“Oh, Miss Eunice,” she cried, “your mother is not at home. She went unexpectedly to spend the night at Mrs. Fellowes, she thought you wouldn’t mind.”
“No, I don’t mind.” Eunice suddenly sat upright. “Mr. Stone, I don’t want to stay here alone,—without Mother, I mean,—will you take me over to Twin Turrets and I’ll ask Miss Jane to harbor me for the night. She and Molly will take care of me.”
“Not a bad idea,” Stone said, relieved to have her well looked after. “We’ll do that very thing.”
They did so, and the imperturbable Betts opened the door to Stone’s ring.
It was not very late, and Miss Jane was still up, talking to Mr. Cross.
“Why, Eunice, dear,” she cried, “what has happened?”
Stone told her in a few words and asked if she would shelter Miss Church for the night.
“Gladly,” she said. “Come to me, darling. I’ll ring for Molly.”
Jane Winthrop felt keenly that she had done Eunice a sad injustice in thinking she could have been the girl Janet called the Wasp, and she was happy to have some means of making up for it.
Seeing that all was well, Stone excused himself, being very anxious to get back to the scene of action.
He was more or less disgusted by the heartlessness of the revelers who could enjoy the feast of good things spread for them, but he remembered they were young, also, that many of them were unacquainted with Meade, and while they were horrified, they had no personal feeling of sorrow.
Stone hovered round a bit to hear what the gossip might be, and not entirely to his surprise, he learned that Cutler’s name was freely bandied about.
He recollected then, that the doctor had said there would be another murder, and wondered what that speech had to do with this disaster.
But he wanted facts, not theories, and he hurried away and went over to Headquarters.
“There you are,” Hambidge called out. “Well, old chap, who did this one?”
“The same hand that killed Janet Converse,” Stone said, soberly. “There can be no doubt of that.”
“Oh, yes, very grave doubt,” said the Inspector. “That is, on one side. Get down, now, to brass tacks. Say, Clem Fair was implicated in both crimes; the first, perhaps, with Meade as a partner, this second one, with Cutler’s assistance—”
“Hambidge, are you crazy?” Stone looked his amazement.
“Not a bit of it. Somebody had to do it. Who else had access at all times to the poison and the instruments, who, except the doctor himself?”
“But the motive? Where’s your motive?”
“Where’s a motive for anybody?”
“Well, the other had robbery, at least.”
“And this may have an even deeper motive that we, as yet, know nothing of.”
Cutler came in then.
“Well, am I right?” the Inspector asked him. “Is it another poison case?”
“Yes,” said Cutler, dejectedly. “I can’t make it out. Yes, the autopsy showed just the same conditions and phases as in the case of Janet Converse.”
“And have you missed another hypodermic syringe?”
“Two of them,” said Cutler, gloomily.
“Two, Cutler! Do you mean it?” Stone asked.
“Yes. Two of my syringes are missing from my surgery cupboard. An old one and a new one.”
“Also, some poison?”
“No, I keep those securely locked up.”
“Who could have had access to the syringes?”
“Anybody,—anybody at all. You see, the crowd are in and out of my rooms at their own free will. They come in my private office and they make tea or shake up cocktails, or do whatever they like. It never occurred to me to lock things up carefully. Of course, any doctor would lock up his poisons.”
“Cutler,” Stone said, suddenly, “I wish you’d go with me over to Twin Turrets. I took Eunice Church there to-night, and I think she is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. You may save her by prompt action.”
“Yes, Eunice has been going the pace, and she’ll go all to pieces if she keeps on. But why is she at The Turrets?”
“Her mother is not at home, and she was lonesome, so Miss Winthrop took her in.”
“Oh, I see. By the way, did you know her mother is going to marry that Jack Fellowes?”
“No! That explains it. It was to the Fellowes’ home that Mrs. Church went to-night.”
“Yes, Fellowes’ sister-in-law. Well, there’s no reason Mrs. Church shouldn’t marry if she likes. She’s a butterfly sort of woman, anyway. Absolutely different from Eunice.”
“Well, come along, and if there’s a light downstairs, we’ll go in. If not, we won’t ring them up.”
Hambidge looked a little dubious, but made no definite objection to Cutler’s going off with Fleming Stone.
“Is Eunice a neurotic subject?” Stone asked the doctor.
“She wouldn’t be, normally, but I think she is all upset about her mother’s love affair, and also, she’s naturally distraught over Janet’s death. And now, Meade’s. Of course, you know she was desperately in love with Meade?”
“No,” said Stone, “I didn’t know that. I hear little of the gossip of the crowd. I thought Meade was in love with Janet.”
“Meade was a weathercock. He was here to-day and there to-morrow. I think he was crazy over Janet, and after she died, he simply transferred his affections to Eunice.”
“I thought Meade was held to be a fine character.”
“Oh, he’s a sterling chap, and all that, but his fancies are fickle.”
They found the house still lighted up, so they rang the bell.
Betts admitted them, and showed them at once into the sitting room where they found Jane Winthrop, Jed Cross and Eunice.
The girl was sitting beside Miss Jane, whose arm was round her.
She, Eunice, had evidently been crying, and her reddened eyes and flushed cheeks betokened, too, a bit of fever.
Cutler with a professional air, took hold of her pulse, and watched her reactions closely.
“I wish you’d go away,” she said, petulantly to the doctor. “You bring it all back to me,—I can’t stand it!”
“Is it necessary, Doctor, to stir her up,” Miss Jane asked, solicitously. “The poor darling is so unnerved, so overwrought!”
“I’ll go,” Cutler said, a bit curtly. “I’ll leave some medicine for her which must be given exactly according to directions.”
“I won’t take it!” cried Eunice. “It’s poison! I know it is! You poisoned Janet, Doctor Cutler, and now you’ve poisoned Stack, and you’re trying to poison me! I won’t take it!”
Her voice rose to a shrill scream, and Miss Jane put an arm round her and cuddled her like a baby. Suddenly Eunice’s mood changed.
“Forgive me, doctor,” she said, contritely. “I lost my mind, I think. But if you knew how I loved Stack, you’d understand. I worshiped him! Of course, when I knew he was engaged to Janet, I stepped into the background. But after she was gone, I let myself go. He knew how I loved him! Oh, who could have taken him away from me?”
“Just a minute, Miss Church,” Stone said, in a calm, normal tone, which had the effect of stopping her ranting, “tell me what Nick Morton was doing around your crowd to-night.”
“I will tell you. If I don’t, he will, and I’d rather you’d hear it from me. I had Janet’s diamonds, and that man stole them and left fakes in their place! There, that’s what he was doing. Trying to pretend I had the real stones yet!”
“How did you get the real stones?” the detective asked her.
“Janet gave them to me, that day she died. She handed them to me while we were together under the umbrella, and told me to keep them safely for her. She said she’d decided not to let Adrian take them to be fixed. So I brought them home and to keep them more safely, I took them out of the setting. After she —died,—I was afraid of everything.”
“And you hid them?” Stone asked, looking at her.
“You’d never guess,” she said, smiling at him.
“Oh, yes, I can. You hid them in the ice cubes of your little midget refrigerator. You put one or two in each little receptacle for water, and then when they froze, there were your gems safely hidden!”
“What nonsense!” scoffed Eunice, but she had turned pale and her lip quivered. “I can’t stand any more, I must go to bed,—or I shall scream!”
“Let her go,” said the doctor. “What sort of yarn are you spinning, Stone?”
“No yarn. Merely the truth,” said Fleming Stone.
The next morning Jane Winthrop came softly into Eunice’s bedroom to see if the girl were awake.
It was a pretty, bright room, far removed from the turret apartments and bright with sunshine. The furnishings of gay chintz and light painted woodwork were both restful and cheery, and Jane saw a smiling face nestling among the lace pillows of the soft, downy bed.
“There you are, my fairy godmother,” Eunice cried, holding out her arms to her hostess. “I’m so sorry I was horrid last night, but truly, I was all in! I felt I couldn’t stand those men another minute. I’ll apologize or do whatever you think best. I’m myself again this morning. But last night I was nearly crazy.”
“I know you were, dearie, and now, just forget it. There’s nothing to apologize for, nothing to regret. You were nervous and excited, and no wonder, after the awful experiences of the evening. Now, Eunice, don’t you want to stay here with me a few days, until you get really better?”
“Oh, indeed, I do! I’d just love that, and I’ll try not to make any trouble. You know, Mother and I are at odds about her marriage to Mr. Fellowes. I won’t go into that matter now, but I’m sure she’s making a mistake. She runs over to his brother’s house, and they think I’m awful—”
“Never mind what they think, you stay here awhile and be my little girl, will you?”
“Oh, you angel!” and Eunice drew Miss Jane down to a seat on the bed, and embraced her warmly. “And maybe,—perhaps—you might like me enough to—to take me for keeps—adopt me, you know—”
“We’ll see about that,” and Jane smiled. “It might be that way.”
“Shall I get up now?” and Eunice started to rise.
“Yes, in a minute. First, tell me about last night. Eunice, who killed young Meade?”
“Oh, Aunt Jane, who did? I don’t dare think! Wasn’t it, mustn’t it have been Clem?”
“But why? Why in the world would Clem Fair want to kill Meade?”
“Oh, because,—because, don’t you see, he knew something about her that she didn’t want told. Suppose she killed Janet, and suppose Stack knew it,— and he did know it, he told me so,—then, she had to get him out of the way—”
“Eunice, I can’t believe these terrible things of your crowd!”
“I can scarcely believe them myself, only I know they must be so. And oh, Aunt Jane, I did love Stack so! And he loved me. Perhaps Clem was jealous of our happiness. Yes, I know he loved Janet, too, but after she was gone, he let me take her place,—he told me so. And we were so happy together. We hadn’t let it be known, of course, we thought it better to wait for a time. And now, I never can have him, never can hear him say he loves me again.”
She put her head down on Miss Winthrop’s shoulder and sobbed.
The door opened slowly and Molly looked in. “Come in,” Jane said. “Eunice is going to get up now. We must be very gentle with her, Molly, for she has had a terrible blow. She was engaged to young Meade—”
“To Meade! Janet’s beau! Why, Eunice!”
“Oh, it was all right,” Jane said, quickly. “You know hearts are caught on the rebound—”
“They are, eh? Well, you’ve lost that chance, Miss Eunice Church.”
Not at all pleased at Molly’s tone, the girl looked at Jane for sympathy, and got it. For Jane Winthrop never did anything by halves. She felt she owed Eunice compensation for her unjust suspicions of her, and she was paying it in full measure.
“Have a care, Molly,” she said, curtly. “I don’t wish Eunice spoken to like that. She is my guest, and she may become more than that to me.”
“Yes,” Eunice smiled happily, “I may yet be the adopted daughter of Miss Jane.”
“I thought you had a mother,” Molly said, bluntly.
“I did have,” Eunice spoke sadly, “but she is about to desert me for a man I dislike and distrust. So, if I can stay with someone who loves me and whom I love, my life will be happy indeed.”
“Huh,” said Molly, keeping her voice calm and pleasant, “sounds good, I must say! You prepared to be a daughter to Miss Winthrop?”
“Yes, indeed! I’ll be the best daughter in the world!”
“Ain’t got much of an opinion of yourself, have you?”
“Molly, be quiet!” Miss Jane commanded.
“Oh, let her babble on,” Eunice said, laughing. “I don’t mind her a bit. Her bark is always worse than her bite, and she’s fond of little Euny, after all. Aren’t you, Molly?”
The wheedlesome smile brought an answering nod from Molly, and she began to look about for garments for the visitor.
“My land o’ Goshen, ain’t you got any duds over here ’cept those party fixin’s?”
“Why, no, I haven’t. I just thought of it. Shall I telephone for the maids to send me some things?”
“Guess you’d better. Here, I’ll do it. What you want? Some sport togs, I s’pose, and some—goin’ to put on blacks?”
“No,” Eunice said, her eyes filling with tears. “I don’t think I’ve a right to. You see, our engagement wasn’t announced—well, ask for some white dresses, will you?”
Molly, really glad to be busied about these things, attended to getting Eunice’s clothes sent over from her home, and also left a message with the maids for Mrs. Church, should she return from her visit.
And so, in about an hour’s time a very beautiful Eunice, garbed in a simple white silk frock went slowly down the stairs.
She found Jed Cross alone in the great hall.
He looked at her quizzically.
“Got over your tantrums?” he asked.
“Yes, and I’m sorry I was so silly, Mr. Cross. But, really, I was terribly upset—”
“Needn’t tell me that, I noticed it for myself.”
Eunice resented a little the brusqueness of his speech, but she ignored it and went on.
“Yes, you must admit it was a trying experience I had to go through, and when you remember the other tragedy not so long ago, you surely see that it is enough to make me nervous and even hysterical.”
“You a nervous temperament?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I am. Though I try to overcome it as much as possible.”
“Oh, you do. Well, now, look here, Miss Church, I’m thinking you need a friend. Now, you be friendly with me, and I’ll befriend you.”
The great blue eyes opened wider and Eunice gazed at the speaker in a sort of bewilderment.
“I don’t understand—” she began.
“You will. Listen now. Did your friend Janet ever tell you about the hidden treasure?”
“She referred to it a few times, but only in a vague way. I’ve no idea what it is or where it is, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s what I mean. Now, I propose to find that thing, and if you’ll help me, really help, I mean, I’ll give you a nice reward.”
“If I can help I’ll do it without reward. But how can I be of assistance?”
“Well, tell me what you know of the secret passage.”
Eunice laughed.
“No more than you do, I fancy. But the treasure isn’t in the secret passage.”
“How do you know that?”
“Janet told me that much, though she didn’t tell me where it is hidden.”
“Did she know?”
“Oh, yes. Her father told her before he died. She was the only one he ever told. He didn’t even tell his wife.”
“No, she wasn’t a Converse. Janet was. Well, Miss Church, or may I call you Eunice, I hope you’ll stand by me in my search.”
“Of course I will. But you want someone cleverer than I am. Why not enlist the aid of Mr. Stone?”
“I hope to do so. Now, here’s where I stand by you. Brace yourself for a shock. That Morton man is coming, and with him is the Inspector.”
The advice of Jed Cross was salutary, for it enabled Eunice to control her nerves and her countenance as the two men entered the hall.
“Good morning,” Morton said, in an unpleasant tone. “Here you are, I see. Now, Miss Church, will you explain to the Inspector why you changed the real diamonds for fraudulent ones?”
“I did nothing of the sort,” Eunice returned coolly. “Miss Converse gave me the real stones to keep safely for her. I did so, as I supposed. Then when you convinced me you had a right to half of them, I handed them over, as I thought. If I gave you imitations it was unknowingly.”
“What made you think he had a right to half those stones?” demanded Hambidge, bluntly.
“He told me he had bought them from Janet,” Eunice replied.
“Bought nothing! He has no right or title in those jewels at all.”
“Well, I haven’t got ’em, have I?” jeered Morton.
“No. Morton, you’re a crook and you’re capable of lots of crimes, but I don’t suspect you of murder and I can’t pin a robbery on you. I know all about your chicanery with the old and rare books of Miss Converse, but as she willingly let you take them, I’ve no just complaint there. Go on, now, and make yourself scarce, for I warn you, if I can get a true bill against you, I’ll do it.”
Morton slunk away, seeming glad to depart. “Then that was a true story of Stone’s about the diamonds?” Jed asked.
“Yes,” said Hambidge. “He was mighty clever, too. He had cocktails over at Miss Church’s home— you tell about it, Miss Eunice.”
“Yes, I hid the stones in the ice cubes, because I thought the police would get them away from me, and Janet had trusted them to my keeping. Then when ever I made cocktails, and used the ice cubes, I looked out to see that the melted ice wasn’t thrown away, and I put the stones in fresh cubes. It was a bright plan, wasn’t it?”
“Very!” said Hambidge. “And what did you do with the setting?”
“That,” Eunice looked distressed, “that is one of the blots on Stack Meade’s scutcheon. He took the stones from the setting for me, and then he went out on the beach one morning and buried the setting in the sand.”
“He told me, before he died, that you buried it in the sand,” Hambidge declared.
“I think you must have misunderstood him,” Eunice said. “It was as I told you. Mr. Hambidge, do I have to attend the inquest?”
“No, I think not. No suspicion attaches itself to you, and you are not required as a material witness. You were some distance away from Meade when he fell, I understand. Near Mr. Payson.”
“Yes, next to Mr. Payson, quite a distance from Mr. Meade.”
“And Mr. Pennell was with you?”
“Oh, we were all there together, more or less in a bunch. There were others with us. And when we heard Clem scream, of course, we ran over there.”
“Of course. Now, Miss Church, confidentially speaking, who, do you think was base enough to poison Stacpoole Meade?”
“I wish you wouldn’t ask me those things, Inspector. I don’t know, I’m sure, and if I have suspicions I’d rather not state them.”
“But you want to assist justice, if you can, I’m sure. Have you any idea that it might have been Doctor Cutler?”
Eunice gave a little gasp of dismay, and it was plain to be seen that the suggestion was not strange to her.
“Let the child alone, Hambidge,” Jed Cross said. “Anyway, she’s working for me this morning, and I’ve a mortgage on her time and attention.”
“All right,” said the Inspector, rising. “I must be getting along, anyway. Here comes Stone, I trust he won’t interfere with your business.”
Stone came in, his usually placid face a little drawn with anxiety, or, it might be annoyance.
“Don’t go because I come, Hambidge,” he said, smiling. “I bear you no ill will.”
“I must go. Coming to the inquest, Stone?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t get much useful knowledge out of your inquests, though I’m told Littell is going to improve on his technique this time.”
The Inspector went off and Stone dropped into an easy chair. Now that Miss Jane was in authority again, he was regularly engaged to sift the whole mysterious affair for her, and so he came and went as he chose. A room or two was always kept in readiness for him at Twin Turrets, and he liked having the freedom of the house better than making it his home.
“I say, Stone,” Jed Cross began, speaking seriously, “can’t you take a hand at my problem?”
“Certainly, old man. What is your problem?”
“To find the hidden treasure, as you know darned well.”
“Too easy. Why didn’t you tell me you wanted my help?”
“I’ve told you a dozen times, but you’re always too busy. Give me a half hour right now, and find the thing.”
“Great Scott! What would I do with half an hour! I can probably find it in ten minutes.”
“Don’t be silly!” exclaimed Eunice. “You don’t mean that, Mr. Stone, do you?”
“Why not?”
“Well, if you can, for mercy’s sake, do, and save Mr. Cross’s sanity!”
“In all seriousness, Cross, what is the thing you are hunting for?”
“A vase of gold, or gilded material. So far as I know, it is perhaps as tall as a—oh, well, maybe about six or seven inches tall. And as big around as a teacup, or something bigger.”
“Your description is getting a bit vague. Is this thing a vase, do you say?”
“Yes, or more like an urn,—a small urn.”
“A small urn or a large teacup or a medium sized vase. I can’t picture it in my mind.”
“You don’t have to!” Jed grew wrathy. “Just tell me where it is.”
“What’s in it?”
“Never mind that. You don’t have to know what’s in a thing to find it.”
“And you really want it found? Such a nondescript, shapeless thing as you depict? Well, let’s go and look in the hall.”
Something in Stone’s voice made Jed think he was more serious than he seemed, and they all went out to the great hall.
Eunice, greatly interested, watched Stone as a child might watch a magician, about to take rabbits from a silk hat.
Glancing round the enormous room, with its groined ceiling and its beautiful stained glass windows, Stone sat down on a long, low Chesterfield, and Eunice perched on the arm of the sofa at his side.
“Come in, Aunt Jane,” she cried, as she heard a step in the passage. “Mr. Stone is going to find the treasure.”
“The treasure! Why, that’s in the Turret.”
“I don’t think so,” Stone said. “I’ve investigated that turret place very thoroughly, and I don’t think the treasure is hidden there.”
“Where is it, then?” Jed demanded. He was too nervous to sit down, he walked back and forth, fidgeting as he went.
“Sit down, Jed,” Miss Jane ordered, as she took a chair. “I can’t bear to see you wiggling about. Now, go on, Mr. Stone. Deduce.”
“It is deduction,” Stone said, slowly. “Or rather, elimination. I may be all wrong, but if that gold vase is in this room, then I know where it is, because there’s only one possible place.”
“Where, where?” cried Jed, excitedly.
“Look round for yourselves. Say the urn is seven inches tall, can you see any place it could be concealed?”
“There isn’t any,” declared Eunice. “This hall has no hiding places, no niches or crevices. Janet and I often spoke of that.”
“But Janet knew where it was?” Stone asked.
“Oh, yes, but she never told me.”
“I’ll tell you, because I think the time has come to tell. Also, keep in mind that I may be wrong. The urn may not be where I think it at all.”
“Have a try at it, anyway,” Jed growled.
“All right. But we’ll have to have Betts in,—Betts and Peter both.”
A bell summoned the two men, and Stone spoke to the butler.
“Which of you dusts this room?”
“I, sir,” Peter answered.
“Everything in it?”
“Certainly, sir. Everything.”
“Especially the Dante,” said Eunice, who was inclined to giggle. “I always said that big bust of Dante looks exactly like Aunt Jane.”
She grasped Miss Winthrop’s hand as she spoke, to take away any idea of teasing.
They all looked at the bronze bust.
It was the well-known portrait of Dante, with his old-womanish face and what looked like cap strings dangling.
The bust stood on a tall pedestal, and as it was very heavy it never was moved. Its place, at one end of the fireplace had been the same for years and years.
“Isn’t it like her?” Eunice repeated, and the men saw that it was, though they refrained from saying so.
“Well, in my opinion,” Stone went on, slowly, “friend Dante is the custodian of your treasure, Mr. Cross.”
“Will he give it up?”
“That remains to be seen. Betts, can you and Peter together lift that bust from its pedestal?”
“It’s mortal heavy, sir,” Betts said, “but we’ll try.”
The bust was not made with a foot or standard. It was cut cleanly off below the shoulders, and it was larger than life, rather of heroic size. The great pedestal was of black marble, and the top was fully wide enough to accommodate the enormous work of art roomily.
“Be very careful,” warned Stone, as the two men acted at his orders. “It must be lifted straight up, not slid or slanted. It is hollow, you know, all real bronze busts are.”
“Some job!” grunted Peter, not with impertinence, but as if the comment was forced from him.
At last the two men lifted the great bust clear of the pedestal, and at Stone’s command higher yet, until there stood revealed a round, globe-shaped gold urn, with handles and cover.
“How lovely!” cried Eunice springing up and going toward the vase.
“Don’t touch it,” Stone said, sternly. “It is Mr. Cross’s property.”
Jed looked like a man stunned. He stared at the object thus brought to his notice.
“Pick it up, man,” urged Stone. “Pick it up, so those poor chaps can put their heavy burden back in place.”
Slowly Cross rose, and going to the pedestal, took the golden vase in his hands.
“Now, Betts, back with the bust,” Stone directed, and gladly enough the butler and the footman replaced the great head of Dante.
Jed held the vase reverently, and seemed fairly speechless with emotion of some sort.
“What is it?” cried Eunice, curiously. “What is in it?”
The two servants left the room, and the ones that were left drew together round Cross and his treasure.
“I will tell you,” he said, in a low tone.
“Let us guess,” said Eunice. “I’ll bet it’s jewels.”
“Wrong,” Cross said. “But you’d never guess. I’ll tell you. It is the cinerary urn of my great great grandfather.”
“Good Lord!” said Stone, really amazed for once in his life.
“Yes. When Gideon Converse died,—he was the first of the line over here,—his body was cremated, although then cremation was a most unusual thing. Well, half the ashes were put in one vase and half in another.”
“Why?” said Jane, leaning forward in her interest.
“Because there were two sons, and each was given half the ashes. Each had a beautiful golden urn made for his share of his father’s dust but somehow a tradition sprang into being that no good luck would be the fate of a Converse unless or until he could bring both portions of his ancestor’s ashes under one roof. Ever since the family has sought for the missing urn. This is it.”
“Have you the other one?”
“Oh, yes. That has long been in my possession. Now, Miss Winthrop, may I take this as mine?”
“Who am I to say you nay,” returned Jane, with a look of solemnity. “I have no right or title to the urn.”
“No, but I ask your permission to claim it.”
“You have that of course, and freely. I like you, Jed Cross, and I’m glad you have your treasured possession. How did you know it was there, Mr. Stone?”
“Only because there was no other place for it to be, if it was in this house. And as a Converse, if not the last of the line, I think none can dispute Mr. Cross’s right to it. You make no claim, I understand, to the Converse fortune?”
“None at all,” declared Jed. “I have my own income, not a princely one, but sufficient.”
“Well, well,” Jane put in, “we’ll have to see about such matters later on. I’ll have a session with Mr. Randall, and it may be—well, who knows what may be?”
“Don’t forget your little adopted daughter, Auntie,” Eunice whispered, snuggling close to Miss Winthrop. “Save a slice of the fortune for her.”
“Plenty for all,” smiled Miss Jane, but she gave the girl a surprised glance.
“Oh, yes, of course,” and Eunice caressed the cheek of the long, stern, rather gaunt face, that did bear a likeness to the great bust of Dante.
The inquest on the body of Stacpoole Meade was in progress.
Coroner Littell, somewhat subdued by the criticisms and advice he had received from many sources, was doing his best to be dignified, careful and correct in his demeanor.
The jury, of course a different set of men from those who had served before, were absorbed in adjusting themselves to the responsibilities of their position, and sat, gravely listening for instructions.
But the proceedings were purely formal. The only emotional ripple was caused when Clementina Fair was asked to give an account of Meade’s last moments.
Clem was sitting at her father’s side, his arm was round her, and he showed no intention of letting her leave him.
The coroner tactfully did not press the girl to come to the witness box, but questioned her where she sat.
But Clem had no story to tell. As she had said earlier, she was not looking toward Meade, she was chatting with Mr. Claibourne. Then, when she heard Maisie scream, she naturally looked toward her, but saw no sign of Meade.
Of course, at first, this had not struck her as strange, but in a moment, the men lifted his limp body from the waves, and Clem knew that something had happened to him. After that, of course, it was all excitement and rushing about, and the crowd had involuntarily drawn together, as they would in such a dire emergency.
“Who was nearest you, Miss Fair?” asked Littell, watching her closely.
“Mr. Claibourne and Doctor Cutler and Eunice—”
“Miss Church? Oh, no, she was some distance away.”
“Then she had just gone there. For I was speaking to her a moment before.”
“You’re mistaken, Clem,” Eunice said, in her calm, low voice. “I was up farther, with Adrian and Roger. Wasn’t I, Ad?”
“Yes,” Payson said.
“Those matters will be inquired into later,” the coroner said. “Now, we’re just getting the main facts. By the way, though, Miss Fair, did Mr. Meade ever tell you why he buried the setting of the diamond necklace in the sand?”
Clem looked her surprise at this seemingly irrelevant question, and said slowly:
“Yes, he did.”
“And why was it?”
“It was an odd thing, Mr. Littell. It seems he was in his room at the Club, dressing, that morning, and he saw Eunice go down for an early dip. As he looked, he saw her bury something in the sand, and scrape it around with her foot. He went down there, and Eunice was not there. He scraped around in the sand for himself, and found the platinum setting. When he saw what it was, he put it back where he found it, scraped the sand over it and left it there.”
“That story is not true,” Eunice said, coldly. “Miss Fair may think it is true, Mr. Meade may have told it to her that way, but it is false. I had nothing to do with the setting of the necklace.”
“We will leave the whole matter to be gone into later,” said the coroner, sorry now that he had brought up the subject.
So the necessary questions were asked, the necessary affidavits taken and the medical evidence given and then the inquest was adjourned for further inquiry and investigation.
It was a quiet, awed crowd who left the room, for there was a feeling that the net was closing round Clem Fair and this time it would tighten cruelly.
“A woman couldn’t be capable of all that deviltry,” exclaimed one of the interested spectators.
“Indeed she could!” said another. “Look at the women of history, the Borgias and Messalinas. And always poisoners. That’s the feminine weapon.”
“But they were older. I can’t think a mere girl—”
“I’ll bet you haven’t the slightest idea how old Lucrezia Borgia was. I haven’t, myself, but I know she was young. And, my good Lord, the young people nowadays are capable of anything, and sometimes I think the girls are worse than the boys.”
“Yes, I’ll agree to that. And they do say that Clem Fair was called the Wasp, because she had such a stinging tongue and such a vicious temper. So when poor Janet called out ‘The Wasp did it!’ of course, that was Clem Fair. Now, most likely, she had to do poor Meade in, because he knew her secret—”
“Oh, you’re romancing. Come on, forget it, and let’s go in the surf.”
Easy enough for the disinterested public to forget the tragedy, that’s the way of the world at all times. But the principals had grave problems to meet. Fleming Stone made his way to Clementina.
“Miss Fair,” he began, without preamble, “did you girls who haven’t a car sometimes borrow cars for a drive?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. Mr. Meade often let us have his car and Henry Betterton was willing we should take his whenever we liked.”
“Did you take any car lately, for a drive up through New England?”
“No, we never go as far as that. Just around the seashore places, you know.”
“Yes, I see. Good morning.”
Stone went straight to the Betterton house, and interviewed the chauffeur.
He learned what he wanted and what he expected, and then went to the house to request the loan of the Betterton car.
This was willingly granted, and taking a young detective sergeant with him, Stone directed the chauffeur to drive to Mohawk College, giving him the Massachusetts address.
“You see, Bennett,” Stone said to his traveling companion, “this is a critical issue. Either we save or we lose Miss Fair’s chances of freedom. We are going to find out the identity of the Wasp, and—”
“But I thought it was an assured fact that the Wasp is Miss Fair.”
“Assured by whom?”
“I can’t tell you that, sir. I only know what is generally known at Headquarters.”
“Yes, of course, Bennett. Well, we’ll see what an assured fact is worth, when it’s attacked by an unbeliever.”
The ride for the most part was in silence. It was a delightful summer day, the roads were perfect, the car and driver first class, and Fleming Stone gave himself up to a period of rest and relaxation.
He was taking Bennett along as a witness and as a representative of the police, and though an intelligent young chap, he had little real interest for Stone.
At last they drove into the college grounds, and though it was vacation time, many of the offices were open for the benefit of summer students.
Stone hastened about his business and soon was in the presence of Miss Brent.
“I’ve come,” he said, “to ask a question or two about a class of a few years back. The class that contained Miss Fair, Miss Church and Miss Ames.”
“Yes?” said Miss Brent, non-committally and not at all encouragingly.
“I’m told one of these girls was nicknamed the Wasp. Will you tell me which one was?”
“Miss Fair,” said the teacher, snapping out the words with a click.
“You’re sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure.”
Stone remembered that this woman was said to be very sure and positive, and he found this was so.
“Now, Miss Brent,” he said, in his suavest way, “how much were you paid to say Miss Fair was called the Wasp, when you know she was not?”
Miss Brent sat bolt upright, her gray eyes fairly glared at the speaker, but every vestige of color was drained out of her face.
As white as a sheet of paper, she strove to control herself, but only succeeded in whispering in a trembling voice;
“What do you mean? How dare you? Leave my presence instantly!”
“Not till you answer my question. Come now, how much were you paid?”
“Not anything. I wasn’t paid at all. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, yes, you do. I’m talking about the person who came up here to see you a few weeks ago, and who promised you—how much was it? If you would say the Wasp was the nickname of Miss Fair. If you would say it surely and positively and stick to it through thick and thin. If you would not waver in your declaration, nor budge from your statement. Now, answer me, how much did she pay you?”
Whether it was the ferocity of Stone’s glaring eyes, or whether the sudden alertness of the young policeman had something to do with it, at any rate Miss Brent was cowed,—was so frightened that she involuntarily spoke out the truth.
“A thousand dollars,” she said.
“My Heavens!” exclaimed Stone, “you don’t mean it! Really?”
“Oh, what have I said! I didn’t mean that!” The poor woman broke down and began to sob hysterically.
“Calm yourself, Miss Brent. You’re in this now, up to your neck. You’d better make the best of it. Did you take the money?”
“Yes, but I’ll give it back! Oh—”
“Keep quiet. You can give the money back or not, as you like, but we must have your story. Were you here when this class was in college?”
“Oh, yes, I was the chemistry teacher.”
“Who were your best pupils?”
“Strangely enough, my best pupils were girls. Miss Fair and Miss Church were way ahead of the young men in their lessons.”
“I see. Now, who was really designated by the name of the Wasp?”
“I don’t know. I never heard the term applied to anybody.”
“Yet you—why did you take that money? Why was it offered you? I don’t get this exactly.”
“Well, you see, one of the old pupils,—”
“Call her Miss Smith.”
“Very well, Miss Smith came to me and told me that Miss Fair was called the Wasp. And that it was possible that somebody might come up here and ask about it. If so, I was to say it was Miss Fair’s nickname, and if nobody came, nothing need be said. In either case I was to keep the money. I didn’t think the matter was serious.”
“It has turned out to be. Who came, then, and asked you about it?”
“A man named Mr. Holt. A pleasant but rather queer person. I told him the Wasp was a nickname of Miss Fair’s, and he seemed terribly downcast about it. But I had to stick to it, of course.”
“And no one else ever came to see you about it?”
“Not until now that you are here.”
“I’ll leave Mr. Bennett here to take down your story, and I’ll see the principal. Is he here?”
“I think so,—but he won’t see anybody.”
“He’ll see me,” said Fleming Stone and rising, he left the room.
He soon found some attendants and after judicious arguments succeeded in getting audience with the president of the college.
The interview was extremely short but satisfactory to the detective, and collecting his sergeant, they started back to Yellow Sands.
It was already dusk, and Stone ordained that they stop en route for supper, but they made as speedy a meal as possible.
Even so, it was after midnight when they reached their destination, and leaving the sergeant at headquarters, Stone went to make his peace with Betterton for keeping his car so long.
Henry waved aside all apologies, anxious, however, to know what it was all about.
Stone told him everything, and left him, a saddened man, to brood over the strange developments detailed to him by the detective.
Late though it was, Stone stopped in to see Cutler, and then was closeted with Hambidge till an even later hour.
At last, his errands concluded, Fleming Stone went to Twin Turrets for what was left of the night.
He still carried his latchkey, still was looked upon as a member of the family, and though the lights were out and the household all in bed, the detective found a low glimmer here and there to guide him on his way.
Weary and exhausted, he soon fell into a deep, dreamless sleep and greatly refreshed, he rose next morning full of regret yet with no question as to the course he must pursue.
To his surprise both Miss Jane and Eunice were at the family breakfast table.
On his remarking this, Eunice nodded at him brightly.
“It’s a great day for me,” she said, “Mr. Randall is coming to—to what, Aunt Jane?”
The smile on the lovely face as it turned to Jane Winthrop was almost seraphic. Fleming Stone, though not an admirer of the average pretty girl, admitted to himself that no one could be more beautiful than Eunice. Her roseleaf complexion, only a trifle deepened by the golden tan the sun had given her, needed so little make-up, that she used almost none. Her great violet eyes were soft with happiness as she looked lovingly at Jane, and her small expressive hands were clasped in an ecstasy of joyous anticipation. According to her habit, each thumb was tucked in her rosy palm, and her soft, dimpled chin rested on her curled fingers as she sat with her elbows on the breakfast table.
Jane Winthrop looked at her lovely guest.
“Mr. Randall is coming for a little business talk,” she told Stone, “the purport of which is the question of my adopting our Eunice to be my real daughter.”
“Don’t call it a question,” and the girl pouted a very little. “It’s really a settled fact, isn’t it?”
“Practically, yes,” and Miss Jane smiled at her fondly.
But less than an hour after that, although Randall had come, and several others had put in an appearance, the subject of the adoption had not yet been brought up.
“What is going on?” said Eunice, for the second time, as nobody had answered her first query.
And then, Clem Fair appeared and with her Henry Betterton.
Doctor Cutler turned up, too, and last of all came Inspector Hambidge.
The whole crowd was ushered into a large reception room, and the doors were shut.
“I have some business with some of the people here,” Hambidge said, speaking heavily, as if unwilling to proceed.
“With me?” asked Randall, alert to possible developments.
“With me?” asked Jed Cross, almost simultaneously.
“Not directly with either of you,” said the Inspector.
“With me?” asked Clem Fair, who was quite evidently so nervous she couldn’t refrain from talking.
“With you indirectly,” Hambidge said. “Miss Fair, were you the one who was nicknamed the Wasp?”
“No,” said Clem.
“Who was? Do you know?”
“I know, but I refuse to tell.”
“It is not necessary. I’ll tell myself. The girl who, at college, was called the Wasp, is Miss Eunice Church.”
“That’s a lie,” said Eunice, quietly, “a base, black falsehood. It is not true.”
“Yes, Miss Church, it is true, I have the word of —” he paused, and Eunice sat, breathlessly waiting.
“Of whom?” she said, indifferently.
“Of the president of Mohawk College.”
The girl turned perfectly white and slipped down in her chair as if about to faint.
Cutler sprang to her side, but she sat up quickly, and regained her self possession.
“I’m all right,” she said, “I was just bowled over by that preposterous statement.”
“Not preposterous at all,” Hambidge went on, calmly, “Miss Brent also has turned state’s evidence—”
This time Eunice lost control of herself utterly.
“Stop!” she cried loudly. “I won’t be slandered like that! Do you know who I am? I am the adopted daughter of Jane Winthrop! She will not allow these slanders!”
But Jane Winthrop had suddenly had her eyes opened.
She well remembered going up to Mohawk college, when she was masquerading as Humphrey Holt, and she remembered too, the manner and words of the chemistry teacher who had told her so surely and positively that the Wasp was Clem Fair.
She had felt then that the declaration was too sure and positive, but she had then no choice but to believe it.
Now, what was this she was hearing?
“Yes,” Hambidge went on, his voice inexorable now, “you are the one, Miss Church, you are the Wasp, and you are the one Miss Converse meant when she cried out in her death agony, ‘The Wasp did it!’ Have you anything to say?”
“I have everything to say! I am not the Wasp, I swear it! Clem Fair is the Wasp—”
“That will do,” and Hambidge’s fist came down on the table with a thump. “Don’t perjure yourself unnecessarily. We have the word of the president of the college as well as the teacher you bribed, with an enormous sum, to lie for you. Say no more, unless you can speak truth.”
“All right, then I will speak the truth,” Eunice’s voice rose to a shriek. “I did kill Janet, I’m glad I did. She had everything,—beauty, wealth, a happy home, everything, and I had nothing. Then, she had the love of Stacpoole Meade. That’s why I killed her. When I heard they were engaged, do you think I could stand it? Indeed, no! He loved me first, she won him away from me, and he thought he cared for her. I had to have him,—I tell you, I had to! I couldn’t live, knowing he was to marry her! So, I— oh, of course, I killed her! Why not?”
The girl’s eyes gleamed with a demoniac fury. She was almost, if not quite, insane.
Doctor Cutler tried to quiet her, but she shook off his restraining hand.
“Let me alone! Don’t dare touch me! I killed her, I tell you, and I’m glad, glad, glad! Then,” and now her voice sank to a mere whisper, “then, I thought Stack would love me. He had loved me before. I thought with Janet gone, I could win him back and be happy again.
“But he shook me—shook me like an old glove. And—” she just breathed the words, “he knew—he knew—”
“He knew that you went up to the college in his car, and he knew you bribed Miss Brent to say that the Wasp was Clem and not you.”
She stared at Hambidge.
“How did you know all that? Yes, it’s true. I had to fasten it on Clem or be discovered myself. And Stack knew,—he found out, you see, and he was going to tell on me—”
“Why did you have to pay Miss Brent such a large sum?”
“To make sure of her. She didn’t want to do it at all, and I only persuaded her by offering a huge price. Then she agreed. Oh, I’ve been clever, Mr. Hambidge, but the fates were too much against me. And now, just as I’m about to be adopted—”
“Hush your nonsense,” spoke up Miss Jane, sharply. “Do you suppose I’d take you in now that I know you for the wicked thing you are?”
“And you stole the diamond necklace?” pursued the Inspector.
“Yes, but Janet had told me she’d leave it to me in her will,—really she had. So, it was mine—in a way.”
“In a very crooked way. And why did you hide the stones in the ice cubes?”
“Because you were everlastingly searching my rooms,—or, I thought you were going to. It’s all the same. Then that smarty-cat detective had to come over to my house and ask for cocktails. I thought he was taking a great many—”
“Yes,” said Stone, coolly, “I wanted to hear the diamonds rattle after the liquid was all gone. And I did, too. And I noticed how careful you were to put the shaker away safely, until you could look after it later.”
“I suppose Stack caught on then, too,” Eunice wearily passed her hand across her forehead. “He, somehow caught on to everything. He knew from the beginning that—”
“He knew you killed Janet—” Fleming Stone said this.
“Yes,” she seemed almost hypnotized, “yes, he knew I killed Janet, and he was going to tell— So,—”
“So you killed him,” supplied Hambidge, in a stern, incisive voice.
“Yes,—I killed him,—I did—I did!” again her voice rose to that shriek, the scream of the maniac.
“Do you regret that?”
“No! I regret nothing. I had to kill him or he would tell—”
“How did you do it? You were at some distance from him—”
Hambidge knew the vanity of the murderer. Nine times out of ten the killer is proud of his deeds and loves to exploit them.
Eunice smiled with the leering cunning of the mentally unbalanced.
“Yes, you all thought I was at the other end of the beach with Adrian and Roger, and so I was. So I was, but I had been there only a minute. I did for Stack, and then I ran quickly and joined Adrian and Roger, and they didn’t think but what I’d been there some time. We were all gay, you know.”
“You got your stuff from Doctor Cutler’s office?” Stone asked, bluntly.
“Of course. He never locks anything up. We can all get anything we want out of his offices.”
“I keep my poisons under lock and key,” Cutler said.
“Pooh, I can get at ’em. And what’s more, I’ve got enough left for myself.”
“Stop her!” cried Cutler, but he was too late.
With a quick gesture, Eunice dragged a hypodermic syringe from her breast pocket, under pretense of pulling out her handkerchief.
She thrust the tiny plunger into her own hip, through the flimsy gown she wore, and with a lovely smile on her always beautiful face, she sank back in the big chair she occupied.
“Save her,” cried Jane, but Cutler shook his head.
“Impossible,” he said, “and anyway, it is better so.”
Most of them agreed to that, but Clem began to cry so violently and hysterically that Betterton took her away, saying he would take her home.
“Do,” Cutler advised. “She’ll be all right; give her a walk in the air and then send her to bed.”
Eunice lived but a few moments and the end was peaceful.
No one spoke as Cutler bent over her, and after a moment, he called Hambidge to help him and they laid her on a couch.
“We must tell her mother,” Jane said. “Oh, I can’t believe the whole dreadful business! Mr. Stone, how did you conclude Eunice was the criminal?”
“There were many pointers, Miss Winthrop, but I was most surely convinced when I noticed the indications in her physical make-up. Many scoff at such things, but I’ve seen too much of them to scoff.
“Perhaps you’ve noticed her mannerism of tucking her thumbs into her curled fingers, look, they’re that way now. That is a sure sign of weakness of character, degeneracy, and even criminal tendency. Then, her head is flat at the back. That is positive proof of hatred, revenge and jealousy. Especially the last. Eunice was beside herself with jealousy. It overpowered all reason and all sane thought. Not an ordinary everyday jealousy, but the cancerous sort that ate into her very soul. That is the explanation of her acts.
“And one day, I sat behind her, and I noticed her ears. Pointed at the top, broad and heavy lobes, and a thin helix,—you can see all that, Doctor Cutler. It all points toward a criminal nature, the possibilities of a murderous instinct.
“Then her thin lips, her eyes, steel blue at times, though often violet, and her prominent muscular jaw, in spite of her soft chin, all meant homicidal mania that was sure to break out upon provocation. Had she lived her life as she wanted it, no obstacles in her way, these tendencies might never have been shown or known.
“Her vanity and egoism kept her from seeing how wrong she was, kept her from knowing her own proneness to evil. She had no conscience or moral sense, because she thought of no one but herself, and her will was law.
“She had the devilish ingenuity to devise and carry out her awful plots. She planned for Janet’s murder, and later, for Meade’s. Always fearful of a possible exposure, she carried with her a way out for herself. If she could have pinned these murders on Miss Fair, she would have let herself be adopted by Miss Winthrop, and actually lived happy ever after.
“She was a terrible character. Self love and vanity in their most acute manifestation. It is far better that she is gone, as she is, for the case was an open and shut one against her, and she must have suffered a dire penalty whatever happened.”
“I’m sorry for her mother,” Jane said, “but after all, Mrs. Church is better off without such a monster of a daughter. Let us go in another room. Inspector and Doctor Cutler, will you take care of details. Mr. Stone, you have fully justified my faith in you, and I will see you again later on. I feel I must retire for awhile, will somebody please call Mrs. Mulvaney.”
And the faithful Molly came, and went away with her charge, leaving the men to take up the burden of the necessary arrangements.
Jed Cross stood looking at the lovely face, sweet and peaceful in its death pallor.
“What a pity,” he said, shaking his head, “such a beautiful girl—and such a bad one!”