NEDL TRANSEL | HN 13E + K3163 03 Boston Library Society, No. 18 BOYLSTON P 114. NEWBURY STR ADDED TO THE LIBRARY day of... YU . . 1884 ta To be returned in.... le......... . A fine of Three Cents will be incurred for each day this volume is detained beyond that time. CANBELEED 1940 B Week 1890 8.83 Mr 6 wir 10 18 2% a 41 5921. Ja 41 2 380 7221 I 38 1896 38 0 21 1. 3. 3 NON 1905 5 14 AUG 5 AUG 19 --- 1921 14 NOV 28 DEC 31 24 FEB 18 FEB 2 3 - 1928 1650 SEP 3 SEP 18 1922 LU GER URSOS KD3163 Tober A fine of 818 dan SILKEN THREADS. GEORGE AFTEREM is the appropriate name or nom de plume of an author who has written a very clever, original and en- tertaining detective story, called 'Silken Threads.' (Cup- ples, Upham & Co.) It is one of the best of the many we have had lately, not being in the least an imitation of suc- cessful French methods, but having original 'threads’ of its own to be disentangled after being ingeniously interwoven to a web of circumstantial evidence which goes far to crimi- nate three different persons. The only flaw in the manage- ment of the story is that the author tacitly, and quite need- lessly, 'gives himself away’ in the seventh chapter. It must be a very inexperienced reader, indeed, who does not foresee then the real criminal, though not the means by which the crime was accomplished. It would have been perfectly easy to deepen the mystery a little by omitting the incident of Margaret Fullerton's meeting Dalton on the street ; but in spite of this mistake, one's interest in the story does not slacken. SILKEN THREADS. A Detective Story.unionen ECCLETE BY Haraid the a. . d .. GEORGE AFTER E M. fübid.) BOSTON: CUPPLES, UPHAM, AND COMPANY. Old Corner Bookstore. 1885. KD3163 +467205 HRVARD UN!!!'SITY LILRARY SEP 8 1941 Copyright, 1885, BY CUPPLES, UPHAM, AND COMPANY. All rights reserved. Unibersity Press: JOHN WILSON AND Son, CAMBRIDGE. CONTENTS. · · · · · · I. SUNSET. · · · · · · · · · · · 7 II. THE HEIR-AT-LAW .... III. MR. CORONER JUDD .... IV. MARGARET FULLERTON ... V. THE INQUEST . VI. DAVID KEENE ..... VII. A WAGER. . . . . . . . . . VIII. THE SILKEN THREADS ....... IX. THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE . . 98 X. A DISCOVERY . . . . . . . . . 114 XI. THE MAN BEHIND THE CHAIR ... XII. SLIPPING THE LEASH . . . . . . . 132 XIII. DUNCAN MAKES A POINT . . . . . 137 XIV. LESLIE DANE . . . . . . . . . XV. A BRAZEN IMAGE . . . . . . . . XVI. A YOUTHFUL EAVESDROPPER · · .. XVII. NUMBER 48,579 . . . . . . . . . 172 CONTENTS. PAGE XVIII. ELEY'S DISCOMFITURE . . . . . . 183 XIX. WHAT WAS DONE?. . . . . . . 192 XX. MR. CORONER JUDD AGAIN ... XXI. IN THE GARDEN . . . . . . . . XXII. THE ARREST .......... 226 XXIII. THE BILL OF INDICTMENT . . . . 237 XXIV. THE TRIAL . . . . . . . . . 250 XXV. THE TRIAL (continued) ...... XXVI. THE TRIAL (concluded) ..... XXVII. A LETTER FROM KEENE ..... XXVIII. ANOTHER LETTER . . . . . . . XXIX. THE INVITATION. . . . XXX. THE RACONTEUR ....... 321 XXXI. THE DEATH ......... 334 XXXII. CONCLUSION ......... 339 SILKEN THREADS. CHAPTER I. SUNSET. TN Dashford, where the club-houses are 1 more numerous and magnificent than the churches, and infinitely better attended, there is one club-house conspicuous beyond all the others for the beauty of its building, the splen- dor of its equipment, and the wealth and fash- ionable standing of its members. It is called the Epicurean Club. Hither the gilded youth of Dashford betake themselves at certain hours, – at certain hours, I say, because at other times the club-house is populated by the “old fogies,”— the worn-out old beaux who read their papers, smoke their cigars, drink their brandy- and-sodas, and tell their time-worn stories in contemptuous oblivion of the world beyond. Two o'clock in the afternoon was evidently one of the hours when the young men were accustomed to congregate there; for at two SILKEN THREADS. o'clock on Tuesday, the 22d of May, 1883, the spacious rooms of the Epicurean Club-house were liberally furnished — I cannot say deco- rated — by several groups of men, all of whom were young and fashionably dressed. One group, collected together in a window of the morning-room, which looked out upon the avenue, was particularly noticeable, being com- posed of three young men, each of whom was remarkable in his way. Dr. Sedgwick, the shortest and stoutest of the group, was the speaker. He was an unusually stout man for his years, which seemed to be not more than seven-and-twenty, with a fine clear skin and brilliant color; his upper lip was sur- mounted by a flaxen mustache which curled upward at either end after the fashion then in vogue amongst the members of the Epicurean Club. He was speaking slowly, in a melodious bass voice which seemed to issue from the very bottom of his deep, broad chest. “Yes," Sedgwick was saying. “He's put his foot in it at last; the engagement is to be announced to-day.” “I never was more surprised in my life than when I got Barclay's letter announcing the fact,” said Thurston Prose, a youthful lawyer, SUNSET. who, smoking a cigarette with a languid grace, was gazing from the window with his back half turned towards Algernon Sedgwick. “Barclay wrote me of his engagement last night. He is to meet me here at two o'clock to-day.” “ It must have been kept awfully quiet, you know,” said Reginald Candage, a supercilious, inquisitive-looking man, slightly younger than either of his companions, but dressed with the same faultless precision. Reginald Candage was chiefly known among the frequenters of the club-house as a collector of etchings and a re- tailer of gossip, in both of which specialities he had acquired a well-deserved reputation. “Why, I never heard that Barclay was attentive to Miss Fullerton, you know; much less that he was devoted to her.” “What are you three fellows discussing?" asked a tall, dark man, with flashing eyes and nervous manner, who now sauntered across the room and joined the group. He was a handsome man except for the pale, sickly complexion which seemed to betoken either over-work or extraordinary dissipation. “A new titbit of gossip, eh, Candage?" re- marked the new-comer. And with these words he turned his flashing eyes upon Candage. To SILKEN THREADS. “Yes,” responded Reginald Candage, swelling with importance, “Bryce Barclay is engaged to Miss Margaret Fullerton; ” and Reginald Candage looked steadily at Hubert Dalton as he spoke, for Candage never forgot a bit of gossip, and Rumor had at some former time connected the name of Hubert Dalton with that of Margaret Fullerton, or Candage was very much mistaken. Dalton, however, did not manifest the least uneasiness at the other's look. He merely showed surprise. “ Indeed!” he exclaimed, “I had not heard of it before! When did it come out?” “To-day,” Candage eagerly responded; and he was about to regale Dalton with the particu- lars he had gleaned, when Prose, who had been an amused spectator of the scene, now suddenly sprang from his seat in the window. " Here comes Barclay now!” he cried; "and ten minutes late too!” he continued, glancing at his watch. “Yet Barclay used to be the most punctual man in Dashford before he was engaged.” A deep silence now settled itself over the group in the window, as Bryce Barclay ran up the steps of the club-house and entered the SUNSET. II crowded room. Barclay had always been the hero of the hour because of his great wealth, his dignified bearing, and his extraordinary physical beauty. Now he was more than ever conspicuous because of the fact of his engage- ment to Miss Fullerton, the reigning belle of the last winter's season; and there was an air of self-consciousness about the man as he entered the room, not to be wondered at, perhaps, under the circumstances, yet none the less apparent in spite of the cause. Barclay was accused by his enemies of study- ing effects. If, indeed, effects had been the sole study of his life he could not have made a more effective entrance into a room than was the case in this present instance, as with dignified strides and stately bearing he majestically made his way through the sumptuous apartment; his broad-brimmed silk hat set back upon his curly black head, his silver shepherd's-crook cane under his arm, and one of his neatly gloved hands thrust deep into his trousers' pocket. Bowing to the right hand and to the left with arrogant composure, like a king dispensing his patronage, Barclay crossed the morning-room of the club-house, and approached the group that awaited him in the window. I 2 SILKEN THREADS. As he joined his friends his manner lost something of its air of haughtiness, and he frankly held out his hand to each of the four men in his turn, accepting the congratulations that were offered him with the self-satisfied air of one who believes that everything he does is right. Prose he greeted last. “I trust I have not kept you waiting,” he said, smiling down upon his friend. "Only ten minutes,” Prose answered. “Time is money, I know," he continued quickly, with a deprecatory gesture as Barclay was about to speak; “but ten minutes is not a fortune even to a poor work-a-day beggar like me.” Yet Barclay knew that it was no light favor he had asked of his friend that he should relin- quish an hour in the busiest portion of his day in order to meet him. Barclay's appointment with Prose, however, partook of the nature of business. Prose was his legal adviser, and Barclay felt no more hesitation in sending for his lawyer than he would have experienced in summoning his harness-maker or his groom. It made no difference to him that he was a lawyer; or that being a lawyer he happened to be his best friend. He was none the less his servant so long as he chose to employ him. SUNSET. 13 “Have you brought the document?” he asked abruptly. “No,” Prose answered, “I must have a half hour's conversation with you before I can draw it up. Your directions were not sufficiently ex- plicit. Where are you going now?”. “Home,” laconically replied Barclay. “Then I will walk down the street with you. You can give me your instructions on the way.” Barclay, nodding his assent to the lawyer's proposal, now turned to address Candage, who was regarding him with open admiration, and a brisk general conversation ensued, after which the two young men prepared themselves to go; when Sedgwick, who had not participated in the conversation, now roused himself from the reverie in which he had been plunged, and suddenly rang the hand-bell which stood on the table by his side. “Look here, fellows,” he said quickly, “we can't let Barclay leave us without drinking his health.” And then, when the waiter appeared in answer to his summons, he continued with praiseworthy brevity: “What will you take?”. Each of the young men expressed his prefer- ence, and as the waiter disappeared to fill their orders, Barclay laid his hand on Sedg- 14 SILKEN THREADS. wick's arm and drew him into the shadow of the deep bay-window. “ Algernon,” he said stiffly, “I think it only right for me to say that I am about to execute a will in favor of Miss Fullerton. Of course only half my property is at my own disposal; the other half must go to you in the case of my dying without issue. But one half of my fa- ther's estate, you will remember, was left to me outright. This portion of my property I pro- pose to bequeath to Miss Margaret Fullerton.” Barclay spoke pompously, in tones which were loud enough to be distinctly audible to the others of the group, and a meaning glance passed between the three listeners as they noticed the expression of embarrassment which came over Sedgwick's flushed face while he listened to his cousin's words. After Barclay had left the club-house, this speech of his was universally condemned as being in execrable taste, - not only as unnecessary, but also since it was de- livered in a condescending manner which must have been extremely distasteful and galling to Sedgwick. Sedgwick, however, was relieved from answer- ing his cousin's remark, by the entrance of the waiter with the tray of glasses, and by the flip- SUNSET. pant voice of Reginald Candage, who said in rather loud tones, – “Come, fellows, select your poisons.” Sedgwick stood nearest to the table upon which the waiter had placed his tray. “What did you order, Bryce?” he questioned, looking at his cousin with an expression of dis- comfiture and embarrassment evident to all. “Sherry and bitters," Barclay answered, un- conscious of all but his own perfection; and the young man stretched out his gloved hand for the glass his cousin held. “Wait a moment, there is a piece of cork in it,” said Sedgwick quickly, and he set the glass down upon the tray again, and with the handle of a spoon awkwardly removed the offending particle before he handed the glass to his cousin. The four young men took their glasses and clinked them against that which Barclay held. “Health and long life to Bryce Barclay!” Sedgwick cried, and in the echo of the senti- ment the toast was drunk, and Prose and Bar- clay prepared themselves to go. Before they were fairly clear of the club- house, however, another episode occurred. As the two young men lingered on the marble 16 SILKEN THREADS. steps of the building, – a time-honored custom amongst the Epicureans, instituted, no doubt, in order that the uninitiated might thus identify its members with this haunt of fashion, - a tall, thin, wiry man came rapidly up the street, and recognizing Prose and Barclay, paused irreso- lute on the sidewalk before them, confronting them face to face. The costume of the young man upon the sidewalk presented a forcible con- trast to the fashionable attire of the two men on the step above. His worn and shiny black coat was ill brushed and spotted; his loose trousers, projecting at the knee, seemed to have shrunk away from the square-toed unblacked boots below; and his black silk hat, drawn down over his eyes, seemed roughened by the storms of by-gone summers. In short, it was evident from his whole aspect that he was not a member of the Epicurean Club. He appeared the picture of respectable poverty, while Barclay and his companion might have represented wealth. Barclay looked down upon the new-comer for a moment with insolent curiosity. Then he spoke. “How do you do, Mr. Edgerton?” he said in formal accents. The new-comer did not answer. He looked at his interrogator with an SUNSET. expression in which fear, hatred, melancholy, and indecision were strangely blended, and his lips moved, though not in audible reply. Then suddenly he turned his back on Barclay, and with an excited nod at Prose, he continued on his way up the street. "Surly beggar!” Barclay remarked to Prose as they leisurely sauntered down the street. “A man who cannot control his temper better than Edgerton deserves to be horsewhipped.” " It seems to me you have made a bitter ene- my in Masters Edgerton most unnecessarily," Prose answered, with a shade of sorrow in his voice. “They say down town that Miss Dane has jilted him because of your attentions to her." Barclay laughed; not loudly, but with an air of insufferable self-conceit. He was a vain man, and Prose's remark seemed to him of compli- ment rather than reproach. "Nonsense,” he lightly answered. “I can't refuse to speak to a pretty girl because Masters Edgerton happens to be engaged to her.” “No,” Prose gravely answered, “you cer- tainly can't refuse to speak to her, but you might reasonably be expected to consider the possible effect of what you say.” 18 SILKEN THREADS. Barclay laughed again; but this time with a slight contraction of the muscles about the eyes, which showed that his anger was aroused. Barclay was not the man to submit quietly to rebuke. “Now let me give you my instruc- tions about the will,” he said, with a haughty twirl of his dark mustache. “If I pay you for advice," he continued, with a cold smile, “ I must at least reserve to myself the privilege of asking for it. I propose to leave everything at my disposal to Miss Margaret Fullerton.” Thus in the discussion of the will the two men proceeded amicably down the street together. As the pair reached Barclay's door, Prose halted, in spite of his friend's earnest solicita- tion that he should enter. Barclay's house was a large corner mansion, built of brown sand- stone, with a short flight of steps leading from the sidewalk to the door. Before the steps Prose halted. “I shall not have time to come in,” he answered, in reply to the invitation of the other. “It is now three o'clock. If I am to be back here at five with the will I must go to work at once. Who will act as witnesses ?”. “Three of the servants,” Barclay answered. “Good,” said Prose. “Then it is understood SUNSET. 19 that you are to provide the witnesses, and that I am to return with the will at five o'clock?” “ Yes." Bidding his friend au revoir, Prose hurried down the street. As he glanced back over his shoulder, he saw Barclay ascending the steps of his house, preceded by a stout man carrying a large paper parcel under his arm. At five o'clock punctually, true to his ap- pointment, Prose hurried up the steps of Barclay's mansion. His ring at the bell was answered by Parsley, the English butler, who stood aside for the visitor to enter. "I have an appointment with Mr. Barclay," Prose explained. “Yes, sir,” responded the butler. “Mr. Bar- clay is hup in his studio, sir. He left horders that you was to be shown hup, sir." Barclay's house was peculiar. No one would have imagined its unusual internal arrangement from the staid appearance of its conventional exterior. Barclay, as I have said, was a bachelor and rich. He had rearranged this house to suit the eccentricities of his own luxurious tastes. The ground floor, which had been entirely remodelled when the house was purchased, was now devoted to the servants' quarters; 20 SILKEN THREADS. SUIT, comprising, besides, a reception-room, a hall, a staircase, and an elevator, which latter ran to the studio and picture-gallery in the roof. By this arrangement of his house, Barclay, alone and undisturbed, dwelt in the upper four stories. Moreover, the highest story of the building, with its wealth of sun, was thus rescued from the menials to be devoted to the picture gallery and the studio, for Barclay was not only a col- lector of paintings, and an artist of no mean talent, but also he was an amateur photog- rapher, an occupation which demanded the co-operation of the sun. Prose entered the elevator, followed by the obsequious butler, and had hardly seated himself in the smoothly running vehicle before it came to a stand-still at the highest story of the house. The butler, with his ever-ready apology, preceded his master's guest through the richly carpeted hall, by the broad staircase, and knocked at the door of the room which Barclay had converted into his studio. There was no answer. “Very hextraordinary," muttered the servant. “Mr. Barclay left special hinstructions, sir, he would be at 'ome at five o'clock, sir.” “Perhaps he is in the gallery,” Prose sug- gested. SUNSET . 21 Acting upon this suggestion, the butler led the way across the hall again and knocked at the door of the gallery, which occupied the front of the house. But here again there was no answer, and the man paused and looked at Prose as if in doubt as to what should next be done. Prose, knowing Barclay's habitual severity with his servants, now took the matter into his own hands. If any one should incur blame, let it be himself; and motioning to the butler to stand aside, he opened the door of the picture- gallery and peered in. The room was empty except for the wealth of art displayed upon its walls and easels. Prose quickly closed the door, now showing surprise and agitation for the first time. "I will look in the studio,” he said, and hurry- ing across the hall, he softly opened the door of Barclay's atelier. Then he stood upon the threshold of the open door, almost blinded by the blaze of light which issued from the work- room of the amateur. The rays of the setting sun were magnified and concentrated by the thick glass of the crystal roof. But presently his eyes became accustomed to the flood of light, and he descried Barclay, sitting with his back to the door, beside a large oil painting of 22 SILKEN THREADS. Miss Fullerton. At the further end of the room the camera stood, draped with its sable cloth. Barclay appeared to have been photographing the picture which his hands had wrought. “He is asleep,” Prose said in a low voice to the servant at his side, and with an expression of intense relief upon his face, he noiselessly entered the room, and came forward in order to awake his friend. Barclay had an engage- ment to dine with the Fullertons that night; he would arouse him. But as Thurston Prose laid his hand upon that other hand, which rested on the crimson velvet of the chair, he felt that it was cold and lifeless. Bryce Barclay was indeed asleep. But his sleep was the sleep of death. 24 SILKEN THREADS. : Thurston Prose was a man of peculiarly ex- citable temperament and active mind. He had sustained a shock in the discovery of his friend's sudden death which for a time completely in- capacitated his mind from action. He was so dazed and bewildered that he could not think. But Prose was also a man accustomed to self- control, and reason soon regained its mastery over his emotions. He withdrew his hands from his face, and sitting upright, with that alertness which often follows mental shock, he began to review the affairs of the afternoon. Barclay was dead; there could be no doubt of that. But why should he have died? Two hours before he had left him strong and well. Now he was dead; and it seemed incomprehensible to the lawyer that in this brief time so terrible a change should have been wrought. What was the cause of this sudden death? Could it be possible that Barclay had been foully dealt with? Had Bar- clay died from some assassin's act? As thoughts like these flashed through the lawyer's mind his active intellect became more than usually alert. He rose nervously from his chair, and began to make a careful inspection of the room, taking care not to disturb the position of the various objects it contained. Nothing should be moved until witnesses were at hand. THE HEIR-AT-LAW. . 25 Prose was thoroughly conversant with Barclay's studio. It was a large, rectangular room, slightly narrower than the main body of the house. It comprised the rear part of the upper story, which Barclay had altered to suit the exigencies of his dilettante occupation. The entire roof of the room was of glass, as was necessary for the use of the camera; but a greater contrast could not be imagined than the contrast between this play- room of the amateur and the atelier of a working photographer, so luxurious and costly were the apparatus and furniture of the apartment. The studio was panelled with carved pine wood painted white, and there were two doors: one leading into the hall where the stairs and elevator were situated; the other opening into a closet which Barclay used as the dark room for the develop- ment of his negatives and the preparation of his plates. In the studio there were four windows : two looking out upon an open space in the rear of the building; and two with iron galleries, looking down upon the side street. These latter windows were open. Before the door which opened into the dark closet stood the camera covered with a sable cloth; a cloth which Prose observed with a shudder. It seemed to him like a pall. Opposite the camera, in a chair of 26 SILKEN THREADS. crimson velvet, Barclay sat with his back towards the entrance door of the studio ; while beside the dead man stood the easel from which the fair face of Margaret Fullerton smiled softly down, with a smile in fearful inconsistency with the scene about her. Barclay was reclining rather than sitting in his chair, with his legs extended, his head resting upon the crimson velvet of the chair back, and with his face upturned. His eyes were shut. The attitude of his position and the expression of his face were those of a sleep- ing man. Nothing about the room indicated vio- lence. Everything was orderly and in its usual place. It seemed as if Barclay had fallen asleep there in his chair beside the picture of his be- loved, and that death had come upon him while he dreamed of her. This would account for the smiling expression of the dead man's face. Prose looked about the room and then upon his friend. It seemed to him impossible that Barclay should have died from violence. His face was too serene and calm for that. Suddenly Prose bethought himself of the dark closet. Acting upon the thought he opened the door and peered in. The closet was dark as Erebus. Most men would have been daunted by that Stygian gloom in the presence of death, - in the THE HEIR-AT-LAW. presence of the victim of a possible murder, — but Prose was made of sterner stuff. He knew where the gas-jet was, and being a smoker he produced a match and lighted the gas. The closet was totally empty. Nothing was there but the sink, with a shelf above containing a row of chemicals in bottles, and the step-ladder leading to the trap-door in the roof. The empti- ness of the place seemed to exclude the only vestige of Prose's lurking suspicions. He turned down the gas and was about to shut the door again, when he was startled by the sound of voices in the hall outside. Starting back, Prose withdrew himself into the shadow of the door, and saw Parsley enter the room closely followed by Algernon Sedgwick. For some reason or other not clearly defined to Prose's mind, the presence of Sedgwick seemed singularly inopportune. Why should he of all others come there at this time, — he, the heir-at-law, the person most interested in Barclay's death? Had he come to take posses- sion of the fortune which had so unexpectedly fallen to his lot? And Prose involuntarily shrank back into the shadow of the door again as the scene at the club-house recurred to him, and Candage's flippant remark flashed through 28 SILKEN TIIREADS. his mind. Had Barclay in truth died from poison? While Sedgwick rapidly advanced to Barclay's side and was making a hurried examination of the dead man, Prose was absorbed in the con- jectures which had forced themselves upon him. The lawyer had forgotten that he, in his own perturbation, had ordered the butler to summon the doctor, and that the doctor to the well-trained servant could indicate no other than his master's cousin. Sedgwick, having concluded his examination, turned to address the butler, when his eye fell upon Prose, who had now come forward. “It is all over,” he hastily remarked in the hushed voice that people use in the presence of the dead. Prose thought the physician's eye fell as he spoke the words; but if Prose had owned a brother, and that brother had been before him, he would have regarded him with suspicion, so great was the excitement under which he labored. For a moment a deep silence reigned. Then Sedgwick spoke. “Parsley,” he said, in the same hushed voice, but with the authoritative tone of a master, a tone which jarred against every feeling in the THE HEIR-AT-LAW. 29 lawyer's breast, —“Parsley, I shall require your assistance to move Mr. Barclay. We must carry him downstairs to his own chamber." Sedg- wick was strangely like his cousin, and spoke in the same authoritative manner that Barclay used. He seemed to ignore the lawyer's pres- ence, but the lawyer would not be ignored. “Is it wise to disturb the position of the body before the coroner arrives?” he asked in a warn- ing voice. “Coroner!” exclaimed Sedgwick in surprise. “Why coroner? ”. “Because Barclay's death was so sudden,” Prose replied with hesitation. “A coroner is not summoned in every case of sudden death,” Sedgwick coldly answered. “My own certificate is all the law requires.” Prose wondered at the other's blindness, if blindness indeed it was. Such absence of for- mality as Sedgwick proposed must inevitably in- vite the uncharitable criticism of the world. He was about to reply, when suddenly he hesitated. Perhaps, after all, in his own ignorance, he had misjudged Sedgwick. Perhaps this death which seemed to him so mysterious and unaccountable was in plain truth simplicity itself to the prac- tised eye of the trained physician. 30 SILKEN THREADS. “What is the cause of death?” he mildly questioned. Sedgwick hesitated, and Prose saw by his face that the physician was at fault. That glance confirmed him in his determination to act with firmness. He turned to the butler, who had been looking in surprise from one gentleman to the other, and said calınly, — “ Mr. Parsley, will you be kind enough to leave us. I desire to speak with Dr. Sedgwick alone.” As the door closed behind the man, Prose advanced nearer to the other and said in a low voice, — “ Dr. Sedgwick, what do you think the world would say if it became known that the heir-at- law signed the death certificate of the man who stood between him and fortune?” Sedgwick started as if he had been struck, and a ghastly pallor spread itself over his twitching features. The lawyer could not help pitying the distress he had caused, although in his heart he dis- trusted the man before him. Presently Sedgwick regained his self-posses- sion. “ Perhaps you are right,” he said uncertainly. “ Perhaps it is better that we should summon THE HEIR-AT-LAW. 31 another physician. I had not thought of the construction which might be placed upon my acting in this case. At all events,” he continued, after a short pause, “there is no necessity for summoning a coroner. That would merely give rise to unpleasant discussion and disagreeable details. No, it will not be necessary to summon a coroner.” Prose had expected that the suggestion of a scandal would disarm the opposition of the other. This continued unwillingness surprised him, and he became more than ever determined to persist. “ It is better the discussion should come now than later,” he answered, with a warn- ing in his voice that the other could not fail to notice. “I was your cousin's lawyer, Dr. Sedgwick; let me act in this matter according to my own judgment.” But Sedgwick was not disposed to yield to the arguments of the other. “You must admit,” he said, “that I, a doctor, am better qualified to judge whether a death is suspicious than are you, a lawyer. You are familiar with crime, therefore suspicious. I am familiar with death, therefore accustomed to its insidious approach. I consider the summoning of a coroner in this case a very unnecessary step. There is 32 SILKEN THREADS. nothing in my cousin's death that is suspicious; neither is there a motive for murder." Prose, however, did not agree with him. He thought of the scene at the club; he thought of Sedgwick's persistent opposition. Barclay's great wealth seemed to him a sufficient cause. In short, the death seemed to him too aptly timed not to suggest human hands, and he was well aware that people die from other violence than external force. “Could not Barclay have died by poison?” he asked. “No,” Sedgwick answered eagerly; too eagerly, Prose thought, as he watched his changing color. It was a peculiarity of Sedg- wick's transparent skin that his color came and went with every changing emotion. “There is no poison which could have killed like this. Nothing but prussic acid could have done it, and that is impossible from the nature of the case. We should have detected its char- acteristic odor with absolute certainty. Come, Prose,” he continued, speaking almost per- suasively, “I cannot bear to have my cousin's name in every mouth as the victim of suspi- cious death. You do not realize the horrible formalities that an inquest must involve. You must admit that your suspicions are ill-founded. THE HEIR-AT-LAW. 33 A coroner's inquest is totally uncalled for. You must agree with me that it is best to let the matter quietly pass.” Sedgwick stopped for breath; he had been speaking rapidly; but as Prose saw his growing earnestness his own determination increased. “No,” he answered firmly. “Then,” continued Sedgwick, “we will send for Dr. Gales, my father's physician, and be guided by his judgment.” But Prose was not disposed to accept the com- promise. Sedgwick's objections seemed to him insufficient, and his opposition was suspicious in itself. Besides, if he, Prose, was unable to discover evidence of violence, it did not follow that others must also fail. Neither did a friend of Sedgwick's seem to him the suitable person to appeal to. No, it was manifestly his duty to adhere to his point until the affair should be placed in the hands of competent authority. “ Dr. Sedgwick,” he said after a pause, in which deliberation had only served to strengthen his determination, “I shall consider it my duty to report your cousin's death to the coroner of the district. It is for him to judge the necessity of an examination, not for you or me. I shall send one of the servants, if you will permit 34 SILKEN THREADS. it; otherwise I shall go myself. In this latter case, if you should see fit to alter the position of the body, or to remove any papers or letters during my absence, I warn you that you will sub- ject yourself to most disagreeable insinuation.” Sedgwick frowned heavily as the lawyer con- cluded his speech. “I do not thank you for this officious interference,” he sternly answered, gazing steadily in Prose's face. “Still, if you persist, I suppose you must have your way;" and without vouchsafing the least attention to the apology which had sprung to Prose's lips, he turned his back upon him and seated himself by the window. Prose, nothing daunted by the other's manner, summoned the butler, and after a brief whispered conversation despatched him in search of Dr. Horace P. Judd, the coroner of the district. Then settling himself down in the opposite window, he began to review the circumstances of the day. Thus sitting in opposite windows and furtively eying each other, the two young men waited in silence for the advent of the coroner. CHAPTER III. MR. CORONER JUDD. R. HORACE P. JUDD, to whom Parsley had applied, was a by no means unusual type of the Dashford coroner. He had received his appointment to the position he held, not so much because of his professional acquirements as because of the influence he was able to exert in municipal elections. He knew little of law, and less of physic, and could conduct a caucus better than an autopsy. He was nevertheless quite as good for a coroner as the coroner's system is for the administration of justice; and if he made use of his official position for his own private gain, he did no greater wrong than many other coroners are in the habit of doing. Dr. Judd was a short, thick-set man, with a large frame and an enormous head. His head was so large, indeed, that its probable contents was a source of constant speculation among his acquaintances. His cheeks were fat, pendulous, 36 SILKEN THREADS. and very red. His thick upper lip was chari- tably concealed from view by a heavy reddish mustache, tinged with gray. I say charitably, because it not only concealed the sensuous mouth, but also the huge tobacco-stained teeth through which Dr. Judd had the habit of whis- tling. The projection of his chin was exagger- ated by a Napoleonic tuft, which was twisted between the thumb and finger of the coroner when he was absorbed in thought, and which was used for toilet purposes when he was not. Taken as a whole, Dr. Judd was not a pleasant object to gaze upon; but, as I have said before, he was by no means more objectionable than is the system of which he was an exponent. Dr. Judd obeyed the summons he had re- ceived with feverish haste. He was as excited by the suggestion of a murder as is a hound which has slipped its leash. He had sniffed the possibility of gain upon the air. A possible murder in Gainesboro' Avenue ! His heart bounded at the thought. Think of the notoriety he might gain! Indeed, Judd had almost made up his mind that an inquest would be necessary before he had become acquainted with the facts of the case. On his arrival in Barclay's studio, Coroner MR. CORONER JUDD. 37 Judd's face was redder than ever from the haste he had shown upon the road. He sank down into a chair, panting heavily; his labored respi- ration was plainly audible in every corner of the room. He was a strange picture as he sat there struggling for breath, and endeavoring to look wise under these distressing circumstances, and it was a long time before he could regain his breath sufficiently “to take a view,” as the law expresses it. This silence upon the part of the coroner, Prose seized upon for an explanation of his own position. He described how he had left Barclay at three P. M., in order to draw up his will, and how on his return, at five o'clock, he had found him dead. Of the incidents which had occurred at the club and of his own suspi- cions, the lawyer made no mention. He felt that he must do nothing to prejudice justice. Dr. Judd's waistcoat was rising and falling with its accustomed regularity when Prose con- cluded his recital, and he spoke with a solem- nity becoming his high official position. “Who may that gentleman be?” he asked abruptly, pointing with his short, thick fore- finger at Dr. Sedgwick, who still remained in his place at the window. “Dr. Sedgwick," Prose responded, — "Dr. Al- 38 SILKEN THREADS. gernon Sedgwick, Mr. Barclay's nearest relative. We thought it best to send for Dr. Sedgwick as soon as we discovered his cousin's death.” “Quite right, quite right, too,” murmured the other, and crossing the room, he laid his fat hand on Sedgwick's shoulder. “Happy to meet you, Doc.," he said famil- iarly. “Happy to meet you, though it ain't exactly what one might call a cheerful occasion.” Then, as Sedgwick did not respond, he contin- ued, as if by way of explaining his pleasure, “I'm always glad to meet a fellow doctor. I don't stop to inquire whether he's a homeopath, or an allo- path, I don't. So long as he's a doctor, devotin' himself to sufferin' humanity, that's enough for me. I'm glad to have the benefit of your science if you are young. Give us your hand.” Sedgwick haughtily withdrew himself from the other's touch. “Sir,” he stiffly said, “I have no wish for your acquaintance nor your presence. It was contrary to my desire that you were summoned. Now that you are here, I beg you will conclude your examination as speedily as possible.” A shade of sullen anger swept across Judd's heavy features as Sedgwick uttered these ill- judged words. MR. CORONER JUDD. 39 “As you please,” he said with clumsy dignity, and turning abruptly from Sedgwick, he began the task before him without further prelimina- ries, applying to Prose, from time to time, for such information as he desired. In spite of the evident illiteracy of the man, the duties of his position were very familiar to him. Nothing seemed to escape his notice, and an hour was consumed in taking notes and ask- ing questions. At last Judd shut his note-book and turned to Prose. “Let nothing be disturbed,” he said. “I shall deem it my duty to summon a jury.” Sedgwick, who had been sitting in his chair by the window, a silent spectator of the scene before him, now sprang to his feet. “What !” he exclaimed. “I shall hold an inquest,” Judd shortly answered. “Why?" “I don't feel called upon to give you my reasons. However, if it's any satisfaction to you to know, then I will say that in my opin- ion Mr. Barclay has died under suspicious circumstances.” Sedgwick had now become composed. His manner towards the coroner was civil although SILKEN THREADS. curt. It seemed as if he regretted his former hasty anger and wished to atone for it. “My cousin's death was sudden, I admit,” he said slowly, “sudden, but not suspicious. I see no circumstances which suggest a suspicion of foul play.” “There I differ from you,” answered Judd imperturbably. He saw that Sedgwick regretted his former rudeness, and was not sorry to profit by this opportunity for galling him. “What do you suspect to be the cause of death?” Sedgwick demanded after a short pause. “Poison,” Judd answered shortly. “What poison?” “Opium — " “But," interrupted Sedgwick eagerly, “that is impossible. In opium poisoning we should ex- pect the pupils to be contracted, the skin to be discolored. There would be some signs of —”. "Perhaps it was aconite," suggested Judd, watching the other. “That is also impossible. The position of the body, the absence of convulsions, the —" “Or strychnine,” again interrupted Judd. “Which is also impossible," again returned Sedgwick. “In poisoning by strychnia there is convulsion. We should expect a countenance MR. CORONER JUDD. of distress, distortion of the face, some signs of a struggle. Instead of that my cousin was found sitting in his chair, with a smile on his face like a person in his sleep.” “You seem to be pretty well up on the action of poisons for a practising physician,” dryly re- marked the coroner, now regarding Sedgwick with ill-disguised suspicion. " It is my specialty,” Sedgwick quickly an- swered. “I am a toxicologist and medical chemist.” “Whew!” whistled Judd, now showing his fangs and whistling through them after his habit. “Then if you are a toxicologist I dare say you can tell Mr. Prose, here, what your cousin died of better than I can," and without waiting for Sedgwick to reply he turned his back upon him and began to issue such orders as were necessary for the prosecution of his duty. Perhaps the prospect of personal gain, and the opportunity for revenge upon Sedgwick for the slight he had put upon him, had actuated Judd in the course he had pursued; but as Prose walked down the street, with his hands behind him and his head bowed down upon his chest, his innermost conviction told him that Bryce Barclay had been foully dealt with. CHAPTER IV. MARGARET FULLERTON. THE report of Bryce Barclay's death, gain- ing in substance and detail by every repe- tition, spread like wildfire through the city. Barclay's wealth and display had made him a person of prominence; the story of his sudden death was in every mouth, and the so-called suspicious circumstances had become greatly exaggerated. Charles Fullerton, stock-broker, the father of Barclay's fiancée, was upon the point of leaving his office when the rumor came to him. At first he was incredulous. He had seen Barclay the night before, when he had estimated the probable value of the diamond in the engage- ment ring which Barclay had presented to his daughter. He had seen him glowing with the glory of his robust manhood; he had admired his stalwart figure and sunburnt face, his broad shoulders and powerful frame. He had envied MARGARET FULLERTON. 43 him for his wealth and he had admired him for his beauty, although in his heart he had never liked the man. But to say that Barclay was dead! That was ridiculous! and the stock- broker gave so little credence to the report that he decided not to call at the house of his future son-in-law on his way up town. Besides, it was now nearly seven o'clock, Fullerton fur- ther reflected, and Barclay was to dine with him in half an hour. It surely was not worth his while that he should go out of his way when he should see Barclay in so short a time. So, thinking of this and many other things, - of the stringency of the money market and the pertinacity of the bears; of the mutability of human affairs, and the unexpected fall of a certain stock in which he was deeply inter- ested, — the stock-broker hurried home, made a hasty toilet, and came downstairs. His daugh- ter was already in the parlor. It was now half-past seven, their usual dinner hour; Mr. Fullerton's business had detained him at his office frequently of late. Margaret Fullerton was a superb creature, more than commonly tall and mature for a girl of seventeen years, with a noble head and queenly presence. Unlike her father, she was 44 SILKEN TOP SILKEN THREADS. dark, with lustrous brown eyes and glowing cheeks. She might have represented Cleopa- tra or Medea, as, with her hand resting on a chair, she stood in the luxurious room, waiting for her father. "Mr. Barclay is late,” she said impatiently, as Fullerton entered the room. “No,” replied her father, “it is not dinner- time yet. Mr. Barclay is not late. It is only your anxiety to see your lover that makes you thus impatient.” Margaret Fullerton answered only by an im- patient tap of her slipper on the floor. There was little sympathy between the father and his daughter. The girl had lost her best friend when her mother died. Mr. Fullerton was a cold and worldly man. His was a stern, hard nature, accustomed to make all things subservient to his own ambitious dreams. Margaret, on the contrary, was a crea- ture of the emotions, passionate and impulsive. It was not strange that the two should always be at variance. Fullerton affected to ignore his daughter's petulance. Casting a furtive glance upon the girl, he seated himself by the table, and with a careful regard as to the disposition of the light, a crea- MARGARET FULLERTON. 45 he began to scan the finance columns of the “Evening Times.” Money and stocks seemed to him the only things worthy the attention of human intelligence; art and culture, benevo- lence and fame, he heartily despised. Money would buy them all; money, after all, was the frame-work that all was reared upon. “You know perfectly well that Mr. Barclay is not my lover," said Margaret, at length, who, after looking coldly at her father, had now seated herself at the opposite side of the table. "On the contrary, I thought him the very model of a lover,” Fullerton replied, looking up from his paper, and smiling upon his daugh- ter in such a manner as to display his fine white teeth to great advantage. “But you know that I do not love Mr. Bar- clay,” retorted his daughter. “That may be," Fullerton answered, again smiling, and again showing his teeth. “That may be, my dear. Young girls seldom do love the men they marry, at first. But you will love him in time." “Never !” the girl cried passionately. “I shall never love him! I shall marry him be- cause I have promised, — because you have per- suaded me, – but I can never love him, never!” 46 SILKEN THREADS. and Margaret Fullerton pressed her handker- chief to her eyes. Fullerton laid aside his paper and glanced at his watch. It was now quarter before eight. Strange, he thought, that Barclay did not come. Perhaps, after all, there might be some truth in that rumor he had heard down-town; perhaps Barclay might be ill. Such reports seldom arose without some foundation. But, no; there could be nothing in it. Of course he would have been notified if anything had happened to his prospective son-in-law. No, Barclay would come; but when he did come, it must not be that he should find his fiancée in tears. Fullerton took up his paper again, and neatly folded it with a careful regard to its former creases. It was a peculiarity of Fullerton that he thought first of his own comfort. Later on he would need the paper, he thought to him- self, when the communion of the lovers should leave him to his own resources. So he folded his paper and laid it aside; and thus having provided for his own comfort, he directed his attention to his daughter, who still was sobbing. “Margaret,” he said in a smooth metallic voice which contained no trace of sympathy or MARGARET FULLERTON. emotion, “ do not give way to your feelings in that childish way. No one attains success in this world without making many little sacrifices. You may not love Mr. Barclay now, but you will love him in due time. And think what you gain by sacrificing your inclinations, — wealth, position, and a grand old name! There is not a woman in Dashford who will not envy you your conquest. Come, my child, dry your tears, and be a brave girl. You ought to have sufficient self- respect not to let Mr. Barclay find you in tears." Margaret Fullerton dried her eyes and looked up bravely at her father. She was intensely proud. Mr. Fullerton had touched the right chord when he had appealed to that pride, al- though it was not, as her father believed, the pride of conquest that had moved her. She was more beautiful than ever as she looked up at her father with the dew of tears still lingering upon her long eyelashes; and there was an expression of feminine softness and sweetness upon her face strangely at variance with the mercenary senti- ments uttered by her father. Indeed, her face seemed the countenance of patient resignation. Toying with her handkerchief and striving to master her sobs, Margaret sat with downcast eyes, when suddenly she started as the door-bell 48 SILKEN THREADS. rang, and Fullerton hastened out into the hall to meet his delinquent guest. But it was Thurston Prose her father greeted. Margaret recognized his voice, although he spoke in guarded tones. “I am the bearer of unhappy tidings,” she overheard Prose say in hushed conversation with her father. : “What !” rang out the metallic voice of Ful- lerton. “I have just come from Barclay's house," Prose explained. “I am the bearer of painful tidings.” . “Barclay is not dead?” “Yes. He died very suddenly this afternoon.” “Then he has been murdered !" Fullerton cried in an outburst of sudden fury; and Prose heard a low cry, followed by a soft fall. Margaret Fullerton had fainted; and yet she had declared that she did not love Bryce Barclay. Fullerton paid no heed to his daughter's cry. Indeed, it was a cry so faint and low that it might easily have escaped his notice, for Ful- lerton was now intensely excited. Nervously clutching his visitor by the arm, he drew him into the reception-room on the opposite side of the hall, and slammed the door with angry violence. MARGARET FULLERTON. 49 “Barclay has been murdered!” he fiercely cried. There was no smile now on the cold, complacent face. Nothing was there but the hard, firm lines of rage and disappointment. “He died very suddenly,” Prose conceded; and wondering at the expression of the other's face, he began briefly to acquaint Fullerton with such details of Barclay's death as had come to his knowledge. When Prose in his narrative came to the subject of the will Fullerton ground his teeth together in an access of rage and disappointment. “That Sedgwick has murdered him!” he cried, -“murdered him for his money. Sedgwick has robbed my daughter, and he shall swing for it as sure as there 's a God in Heaven !” and Prose shuddered as he looked upon the malig- nant countenance before him. There he could read no mercy for the murderer, if a murder there had been. “I cannot think there has been violence," he slowly answered, gazing upon Fullerton with dis- trust and fear. “I know it ! ” Fullerton cried. “I am sure of it! It is too opportune for mere coincidence. Who did you say the coroner was?” Prose answered; and Fullerton, barely spar- 50 SILKEN THREADS. ing a moment to acquaint his daughter with the fact of her lover's death, hurried off in quest of Judd. He would pursue the man who had robbed his daughter of her lover, to the very death. CHAPTER V. THE INQUEST. URING the short time which elapsed between the finding of Barclay's body and the convening of the coroner's jury Horace P. Judd had not been idle. He had considered the matter of Barclay's death in every light which presented itself to his narrow vision. He had come to the honest conviction that Bryce Barclay was the victim of a tragedy, and he had made up his mind that he would leave no stone unturned until he should probe the mystery of this sudden death to its very bottom. Aided and seconded by Charles Fullerton, Judd had worked the livelong night; and by the morning of the following day the two men had collected a mass of evidence of the utmost importance. The coroner's jury was assembled at Bar- clay's house, and enacted its judicial farce in the picture gallery, opposite the studio in which the 52 SILKEN THREADS. dead man had been found. Rembrandts and Raphaels, Dolces and Dürers, in golden frames, looked down with angelic surprise upon the strange scene which desecrated their hallowed ground. Judd, acting upon the advice of Charles Ful- lerton, had determined to summon many wit- nesses; the picture gallery was consequently crowded, and with a motley throng. Like two fates, at the opposite ends of a long table, sat Horace P. Judd and Charles Fullerton. By facing each other in this wise they looked in opposite directions, and nothing which occurred in the room could escape the attention of one or the other of the two men. Thurston Prose was the first witness. Prose described how he had left Barclay at three o'clock in order to prepare his will; how upon his return at five o'clock he had found him sitting in his chair, dead. “What was the character of Mr. Barclay's intended will?” “He proposed to leave his property to the lady to whom he was engaged.” “Was that property large?” “ It was in the neighborhood of three quarters of a million." THE INQUEST. 53 “Was it Mr. Barclay's entire fortune?” “No, it was half his property. The remaining portion was left to him in trust.” “But such of his property as was at his dis- posal he proposed to leave away from his heir- at-law? ” “ Yes." “Who was his heir-at-law?" “His cousin, Dr. Algernon Sedgwick.” “Was Dr. Sedgwick acquainted with the in- tention of the deceased?”. “Yes, Mr. Barclay announced his intention to him in my presence.” “Were there other witnesses?" “Yes.” “ Did you observe anything peculiar in Dr. Sedgwick's manner when the deceased an- nounced his intention to him?" “Dr. Sedgwick was embarrassed, but his con- fusion seemed to arise from the publicity of his cousin's announcement rather than from regret;” and Prose explained at some length how Barclay had spoken before the group of men at the club. “What did Mr. Barclay do after this con- versation?” “He left the club-house in my company." “Immediately?" 54 SILKEN THREADS. “We drank his health first.” “At what time was this ? " “At about half-past two." “Did the deceased drink anything?” “Yes, he drank a glass of sherry and bitters.” “That is to say, the deceased partook of sherry and bitters less than three hours before his death ? " “ Yes." “Did he mix the sherry and bitters himself ?” “No. Mr. Barclay's glass was brought into the room on a tray with the others, and placed upon a table.” “Did the deceased take his glass from the tray himself ?" “No, it was handed him by Dr. Sedgwick.” “ You are sure?” “Yes, I am positive upon this point, because there was a piece of cork in the glass. Dr. Sedgwick removed this cork before he handed the glass to his cousin.” “Did you see the cork?” “No. I was not sufficiently near the table to have seen it.” “Did you notice anything peculiar in Dr. Sedg- wick's behavior when he removed the cork?" “No. He was embarrassed, but I attributed THE INQUEST. 55 that embarrassment to Barclay's open declara- tion about the will. Sedgwick seemed to be conscious that we were thinking of it.” Judd now abandoned the scene at the club- house to interrogate Prose upon Sedgwick's behavior when he had at first become acquainted with his cousin's death. “Did Dr. Sedgwick seem surprised or grieved when he knew of his cousin's death?” “Yes." In his secret soul Prose thought that Sedg- wick had displayed a terrible indifference at Barclay's death; but he did not feel called upon to say so. His testimony was damaging enough against Sedgwick as it was. After all, Sedgwick was a physician, and familiar with scenes of sudden death. Perhaps if he, Prose, had been a physician too, he would have displayed no greater feeling than had Sedgwick. After several unimportant questions Prose was permitted to withdraw, and Messrs. Candage and Dalton were examined, both of whom corroborated Prose's testimony, although they established no new facts. Parsley, the butler, was the next witness. Parsley testified that Mr. Barclay had let himself into his house at three o'clock on the 56 SILKEN THREADS. previous afternoon; that he was attended by Mr. Brown, a photographer, who had accompa- nied Mr. Barclay up to his studio and had re- mained there for half an hour. Parsley had met him as he came downstairs and had opened the door for him. He was sure it was no longer than half an hour because he had noticed the clock when Mr. Edgerton called. At the men- tion of Mr. Edgerton's name the jurymen pricked up their ears. If any violence had been directed against Barclay that previous afternoon it must have been during the hour and a half interven- ing between the departure of the photographer and the return of Prose. “Who is Mr. Edgerton ?" demanded the coroner. “Mr. Masters Hedgerton." “Was he a friend to Mr. Barclay?" “No, sir. Mr. Barclay knew Mr. Hedgerton, but I can't say as they was hexactly friends." “What do you mean by that?” “I mean that I don't think there was hany love lost between Mr. Barclay and Mr. Hedger- ton, sir.” “What makes you think that?". “What makes servants halways think such things, sir? They sees and they listens." THE INQUEST. no one V “Did Mr. Edgerton see Mr. Barclay?” “No, sir. I hexplained to Mr. Hedgerton as 'ow I 'ad positive horders no one was to be shown hup, sir." “Did Mr. Edgerton then leave the house?” “No, sir. He seemed hangry, sir, when I re- fused to tell Mr. Barclay he was waiting, sir. He hargued with me, and when I told him my horders were positive he said he would come in and write to Mr. Barclay. He came into the reception-room, sir.” “Did you remain with Mr. Edgerton while he wrote his letter? ” “No, sir. I went off to speak to one of the lads, and when I came back Mr. Hedgerton was gone." “Did you not consider it strange that Mr. Edgerton should leave the house without sum- moning you?” “No, sir. People hoften do that, sir. Why, that very same morning a young woman stepped in and waited for Mr. Barclay, and then went off without me seeing her.” “At what time was that?”. “ About one o'clock, sir.” “How long a time elapsed before you returned to the reception-room?" “I beg parding, sir.” 58 SILKEN THREADS. “How long was it before you came back to Mr. Edgerton ?” “ It might ’ave been ten minutes, sir.” “Not longer?” “No, sir.” After some beating about the bush Mr. Pars- ley averred that it could not have been longer than fifteen minutes at the very most. This, then, brought them up to quarter to four. “ You can swear that it was not longer than fifteen minutes ?” “Yes, sir." “Did you take Mr. Edgerton's letter imme- diately up to Mr. Barclay?" “ There was n't hany letter, sir.” “What?” “There was no letter, sir. When I came back and saw Mr. Hedgerton was gone I looked about for the letter. I ransacked the whole room and looked in the 'all, sir; but I could n't find hany letter.” “Did that surprise you?” “No, sir. Mr. Hedgerton was very much hex- cited when he came in, sir. I thought maybe while he was writing he had cooled down like and made hup his mind to leave the 'ouse with- out writing." THE INQUEST. 59 “Why did you think he had left the house?” “What helse would the gentleman do, sir?”. “Could he not have gone upstairs while you were speaking with the lad?”. “Why, yes, sir, I suppose he could. There was nobody there to hinder him.” “What did you do when you found that Mr. Edgerton was no longer in the reception-room?" “I sat down in the 'all, sir.” “So that Mr. Edgerton could not have come downstairs without your seeing him?" “ Certainly not, sir.” “And you remained in the hall until Mr. Prose arrived ?" “Yes, sir." “What did you do while you sat in the hall?” “I read, sir." “ You did not fall asleep?". “No, sir, I was reading all the time.” “Could you not have become so absorbed in your book that some one might have come down the stairs and passed out without your seeing him?" “No, sir ; I was reading 'Sweet Peas,' by the critic of the ‘ Daily News,' sir.” The coroner seemed to consider this answer conclusive and pursued this theme no longer. SILKEN THREADS. “And no one came to the house between the visit of Mr. Edgerton and the return of Mr. Prose?" “No, sir." Here Mr. Parsley stood down and wiped the perspiration from his face with the napkin he carried in his hand, greatly relieved that the trying ordeal was over. Algernon Sedgwick was the next witness. He was dressed in deep mourning, and his face was extremely pale. He seemed conscious that he was regarded with suspicion, and his manner was aggressive, the most unfortunate deportment for a witness. “You are the nearest relative of the deceased?" “ Yes.” “You are also aware that your cousin pro- posed executing a will which should leave such property as was at his disposal away from you?” “ Yes.” “When did you first become aware of the deceased's intention?” “At two o'clock yesterday.” “What was your feeling when this intention became known to you?" “ Annoyance. I was annoyed that my cousin should speak of so private a matter in so public a way.” THE INQUEST. 61 “You were not disappointed when you learned that the deceased proposed leaving to Miss Fullerton a large fortune, which must otherwise have come to you?” “No. I never expected that my cousin's for- tune would come to me. I was simply annoyed that he should have been guilty of such a breach of good breeding as to declare his intention in the presence of others.” “You are a physician ? " “Yes." “By specialty a toxicologist and medical chemist?” “Yes.” “May I examine your ring?" Sedgwick, becoming slightly paler than before, withdrew a large seal ring from his finger and handed it to the coroner, who turned it about carefully in his hands endeavoring to displace the seal. “Does this ring open?” he asked at length, when his efforts to displace the stone had proved unavailing. “Yes. If you press the knob at the side, the stone can be made to swing outward upon a hinge.” The coroner, following Sedgwick's direction, SILKEN THREADS. pressed the knob and swung the stone out- wards. Its displacement disclosed a small cavity beneath the setting. This enclosed space was empty. “What is the purpose of this secret chamber?" “ It was made for a picture.” “Have you always used it for this purpose?” “No. It is no secret that I was foolish enough when a medical student to carry a small quantity of aconitine in the space originally intended for a picture, and that I boastingly showed the poi- son to my friends. It is needless to say, how- ever, that there has been no aconitine there for the past four years." “Nor any other poison?” “Nor any other poison.” “How did you acquire this aconitine?” “I extracted it myself.” “And you could extract it again?". “Certainly.” “And you have other and various poisons at your disposal ? " “ Certainly. As is the custom among med- ical chemists I have in my laboratory a sample of nearly every known poison." “ Could this ring contain sufficient aconitine to cause the death of an adult?" THE INQUEST. 63 : “Yes, it could contain aconitine enough to cause the death of four men.” “Is it not possible that some of its former contents might have adhered to the sides and fallen into your cousin's glass when you removed the cork?" The coroner asked this question firmly. Sedgwick answered as firmly, “No. There has been no aconitine nor any other poison in the ring for several years." “You are sure?” “Absolutely." “ And the receptacle has been cleaned?" “Thoroughly." “So that upon analysis it would reveal the traces of no poison?”. “So that upon analysis it would reveal the traces of no poison. It was cleaned with acid four years ago. It is impossible that it should contain any poison." “Is death by aconitine discoverable by chemical analysis or by any post-mortem ap- pearances ?” “No, I believe not.” "Have you ever remarked that it was in your power to cause death in such a manner that the cause of death could not be discovered? You 64 SILKEN THREADS. may decline to answer these questions if you desire.” “I have no wish to decline. If I have ever said anything of the kind it would simply have been what almost every physician must some- time have said." “And would such a statement have been true?” “Yes. It is possible that a man might die from a disease which had been caused by the administration of some poison, but in such a case there must be an illness. I know of no poison which could cause sudden death, and yet leave no trace of its presence." “And yet you say that aconitine cannot be detected by chemical analysis or by post-mortem appearances?” “The administration of aconitine is followed by convulsions. The absence of convulsion would absolutely exclude it in the present case.” “Is the same thing true of prussic acid ?" “No, not necessarily. But prussic acid has a strong permeating odor, and the absence of this odor in the present case would be almost conclu- sive evidence against its employment. Of course it is conceivable that my cousin may have died from the fumes of the strong acid, administered THE INQUEST. 65 to him in his sleep, or during unconsciousness, but that I consider extremely improbable.” “Is there no poison which can cause sudden death without convulsions?". “Yes. It is possible that woorara might cause such a death, though I doubt it. I do not be- lieve that woorara could cause death in three hours; certainly not in a shorter period. Yet my cousin had been dead some time when he was discovered by Prose and the butler.” “Do you recall to mind any cases of poison- ing by woorara?” “No." Masters Edgerton was the next witness. In response to the questions of the coroner he ad- mitted that he knew Barclay, but that they were not friends. “Were you then enemies ? " “No." “You visited Mr. Barclay at his house at 3.30 on the 22d of May." “ Yes.” “What was the object of that visit.” “Business of a private nature.” “Do you decline to inform the gentlemen of the jury of the nature of this business? " “Yes.” 66 SILKEN THREADS. Edgerton's manner was nervous and excited, and this denial upon the part of the witness cre- ated no little surprise. He was the first witness who had declined to answer a question which had been put to him. As the bad impression caused by his denial seemed to dawn upon him, he continued, - “My business with Mr. Barclay was of a pri- vate nature, having no bearing whatever upon the present case. I should regret extremely to speak of it, unless the occasion should absolutely demand it." “Your business with the deceased was of importance?” “Yes.” “So important that when you were told you could not see the deceased you entered the house in order to write to him?” “Yes.” “What became of this letter?” “I put it in my pocket before it was fin- ished. I decided not to write to Mr. Barclay. I decided to wait until I could see him personally.” “What did you do after you had decided not to write to the deceased ? " “I left the house." THE INQUEST. “Immediately?” “Yes.” “How long a time had you remained in Mr: Barclay's house?” “Five minutes perhaps. Certainly not more." “Had you ever been in the house of the deceased previous to the 22d of May?” “Yes.” “Many times?" “Yes.” “You were familiar with the peculiarity of its arrangement?" “Yes." “You say that latterly your relations with the deceased had not been friendly?”. “Yes. Mr. Barclay and I ceased to be friends six months ago.” “Report says that you quarrelled about a lady. Is this true?”. Edgerton was now greatly excited. He shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other and looked at the coroner with indecision. Finally he hesitated no longer. “Yes, we quarrelled about a lady.” “And it was in regard to this quarrel that you called upon the deceased upon the after- noon of the 22d of May?” 68 SILKEN THREADS. “ Yes." “Why did you not say so before?”. “ Because this was a private matter which could have no possible bearing upon the present case.” The following witnesses were the medical ex- perts who had conducted the autopsy. These gentlemen, in the voluble technical language at their command, testified that Barclay had died of no organic disease; that his death had re- sulted from shock or paralysis of the heart. To what this shock or paralysis was due they could not say. The chemical expert testified that he had made a preliminary chemical examination, but with negative results. He could detect no traces of any poison. All that had been said by Sedgwick he fully corroborated. He was of the opinion that woorara or concentrated prussic acid were the only poisons which could have caused the death of Bryce Barclay. Of woorara, he testified, little was known. It was a substance prepared by certain tribes of Indians for poison- ing arrows. It was equally poisonous whether administered by the mouth or under the skin. In the former case its action would be less rapid. It could not be detected by chemical analysis by any method known at that time. THE INQUEST. 69 It was possible, he admitted, that the deceased had come to his death by some unknown poison. In answer to the question of the coroner, the witness was of the opinion that the taste of woorara or aconitine in wine would be disguised by the addition of bitters. No other evidence of importance was adduced, and after the examination of several unimportant witnesses the jury withdrew. No decision, how- ever, was arrived at. As is usually the case among coroners' juries, its members disagreed, five believing that the deceased had come to his death by poison, the remaining seven attributing his death to natural causes. The true cause of their disagreement, however, was the testimony of Sedgwick. Seven of the jurymen believed that Sedgwick was unhappily surrounded by a net-work of circumstantial evidence. The dis- senting five believed that he had been too frank in his admissions. They believed that he had administered some mysterious poison to his cousin in order to obtain his fortune. The verdict rendered was “ Cause of death unknown," and the evidence obtained and the report of the inquest were handed over to the district attorney. CHAPTER VI. DAVID KEENE. THAT night Algernon Sedgwick was arrested for the murder of his cousin, though it was by no means certain that Barclay had in truth been murdered. The presumption of murder, however, was very strong. The autopsy had proved that Barclay had suffered from no organic disease. It had shown that he died from shock or paralysis of the heart. Now nothing, it was claimed, could cause a man of robust health, and without organic disease, to die of shock or paralysis of the heart unless it should have been poison or external violence of some sort. Sudden fright or fear, or in fact any violent emotion, might cause a heart to pause forever in its rhythmical march; but this, it was contended, was a very unlikely thing to happen to a man of Barclay's temperament; still more unlikely when one recalled to mind the smiling expres- sion of the dead man's face. On the whole, the DAVID KEENE. 71 weight of opinion favored the theory of poison. Barclay had drunk of sherry and bitters less than three hours before his death; bitters which the expert had testified would disguise the taste of almost every vegetable poison. The glass containing the suspected potion had been taken from the hand of Sedgwick; an opportunity being thus afforded to the latter to administer poison to his cousin had he been so disposed. Sedgwick, the heir-at-law, was the person most interested in Barclay's death. Sedgwick, famil- iar with all poisons, had a complete supply of them at his disposal. Sedgwick had been averse to the inquest, and had boasted that he could cause death without incurring risk of detection. Thus the evidence was strong against him, and he had a relentless pursuer in Charles Fullerton, who could ascribe no motive as sufficient for a murder other than the desire for gain. So Algernon Sedgwick had been arrested on sus- picion and committed to jail. At this time David Keene, of the firm of Keene and Eley, was the most prominent detec- tive in Dashford. Keene was not a detective of the conventional type. Having received an ex- cellent education, he had begun life as a news- paper reporter. At the age of twenty-two he 72 SILKEN THREADS. had been detailed by his employers to write up the circumstances of a mysterious murder which had set the city agog some eight years previous to the opening of our story. In the pursuance of this task Keene had become imbued with an irresistible desire to penetrate the secret of the crime. He had relinquished a lucrative position on the staff of the newspaper, and had devoted himself body and soul, as the saying is, to solv- ing the problem of the murder. This effort had been crowned with success. In the face and eyes of the most noted detectives in the city, David Keene, newspaper reporter, while but twenty- two years of age, had discovered the assassin and caused him to pay the penalty of his crime. The success of this venture had opened up a new field for the young newspaper reporter. He had adopted this new calling, bringing to bear so much of energy and sagacity that in a short time he had come to the front ranks of his new associates; and two years previous to the present time, he had entered into partnership with Willis Eley, a veteran detective of the old school. Willis Eley was a man of a different stamp from his partner Keene. Bred up in the ranks of the Dashford police, Eley had passed his youth among the outcasts of society and offenders DAVID KEENE. 73 P. against the laws, rising slowly in his work by the regular promotion until, at the age of forty, he stood foremost among the detectives em- ployed by the State. At that time he became acquainted with Keene; and the two men, utterly different from each other both in nature and edu- cation, had joined hands in a mutual admiration and friendship. Of this friendship and admira- tion the detective bureau of Keene and Eley was the eventual outgrowth. Eley was a rough- and-ready detective. Keene was a genius of the highest stamp. Such, then, was the detective, David Keene, whom we must now introduce to the reader as the smaller of the two men sitting in the snug private office of the district attorney. He was a man rather below the medium height, thin and wiry, of sandy complexion, and with a face which must have been insignificant had it not been for the penetrating glance of its small gray eyes. His companion, Alford D. Bailey, district attorney of Dashford County, was a burly man, with thoughtful face and deep bass voice. "Well, Mr. Keene,” the lawyer was saying, in a voice which seemed much too deep and full for the small, low room, — "well, Mr. Keene, have you finished the report?” 74. SILKEN THREADS. “Yes,” replied the other, laying the report of the coroner's inquest upon the table before him, and drawing his chair up nearer to the desk at which the lawyer sat, “I have finished it. The evidence is certainly strong against Sedgwick; but it is purely circumstantial. You could never convict a man of murder upon that proof;” and Keene laid his hand upon the report of the in- quest with a gesture of infinite scorn. “No,” Mr. Bailey replied. “But we rely upon you to furnish us with stronger proofs." “But there is no evidence here to show that a murder has been committed." “No,” Mr. Bailey answered again. “But we trust to you to clear the matter up. Popular prejudice has become so strong against Sedg- wick that I have been obliged to consent to his arrest. I shall rely upon you to clear up the mystery.” "A coroner's inquest is a great thing for the criminals,” remarked the detective. “It acts as a warning to a murderer to cover up his tracks." “That is true,” the lawyer assented dryly. It was particular information he desired from the lips of David Keene. Generalities might wait until some more favorable time. DAVID KEENE. 75 “It has done more harm than usual in the present case," Keene continued, looking thoughtfully at his companion. “I have seldom seen an inquest conducted in so bungling a manner.” “How so?” the lawyer queried. “It seems to me that Coroner Judd has collected an ex- traordinary mass of evidence against Sedgwick in a surprisingly short time. He has cer- tainly brought out the main facts in a masterly manner.” “The facts you speak of should have been re- served," objected the detective. “They should have been elicited from witnesses, not from the suspected party. Sedgwick's frankness at the inquest weakens the evidence against him. That testimony about the ring, elicited from third parties, would be strong evidence against him; as an admission of the accused it is value- less. No man as conversant with murder trials as Sedgwick must be, would have made such an admission as that if he had been guilty." “How do you account for his opposition to the inquest?” “I don't consider that strange. Many physi- cians are peculiarly averse to post-mortem ex- aminations of their relatives. Sedgwick is a i 76 SILKEN THREADS. gentleman. Probably the idea of Judd's approach- ing his cousin was extremely distasteful to him." “You believe him innocent?” “Yes.” “ And you think Barclay died a natural death?” “No. On the contrary, I believe he was murdered.” The district attorney heaved a heavy sigh. He had feared lest his action of causing the arrest of Sedgwick had been too precipitate. Now that so experienced a person as David Keene also suspected that a murder had been committed, he felt that he had acted rightly. His face brightened and his manner became more animated. “Whom do you suspect?” he eagerly asked. “I have not decided,” Keene slowly answered; "but I certainly feel the utmost doubt as to Sedgwick's guilt.” “But consider his motive,” argued the lawyer. “True," Keene answered. “But Fullerton has the same motive. Barclay intended to sign his will at two o'clock. He went to the club- house for that express purpose, and Fullerton was probably acquainted with his intention. If he had signed the will at that time it would - - - 78 SILKEN THREADS. do we know that this person did not go up- stairs, kill Mr. Barclay, and then come down and make his escape during the fifteen minutes that elapsed while the butler was away? How do we know that the young woman who waited for Mr. Barclay at one o'clock did not secrete herself in the house, murder the victim, and make her escape while the butler was talking with the lad? How do we know that Mr. Bar- clay was not poisoned before he went to the club-house? There are many possibilities." “That is true," the lawyer answered, stag- gered by the list of hypotheses enumerated by his glib companion. “You have a vivid imagination, Mr. Keene.” "I have need,” the detective briskly answered. Then, permitting his voice to relapse into a more business-like and respectful tone, he con- tinued, “I will undertake this case, Mr. Bailey. I will sift it to the very bottom. If you will furnish me with the necessary papers, I will begin at once." The district attorney drew his chair up to his desk and wrote out the credentials which the other had demanded. When he had finished. Keene examined them carefully before consign- ing them to his pocket. Then, taking the report DAVID KEENE. 79 of the coroner's inquest and bowing respectfully to the lawyer, he left the room; and the district attorney again heaved a deep sigh of relief: in having intrusted the mystery of Bryce Barclay's death to the man who had left him he felt that he had done all that human power could accomplish. CHAPTER VII. A WAGER. TT must not be supposed that the members 1 of the Epicurean Club had permitted the mysterious death of Bryce Barclay to pass with- out discussion. On the contrary, it had consti- tuted the principal theme of conversation, in the same way that sherry and bitters had become the popular drink. Every detail of Barclay's death had been insisted upon and embellished; and the affair had given rise to so much talk and comment that several of the more timid Epicureans had been forced to abandon the blood-curdling though aristocratic atmosphere of the club-house, to take their refreshments and seek more congenial companionship in the restaurants down-town. It was the prevailing opinion among the Epicureans that Sedgwick had poisoned his cousin. Some few of the members of the club, to be sure, more loyal to their confrere, had A WAGER. 81 scorned the idea “ that a gentleman could be guilty of such a crime, and for money too!” But they were in the minority, and were soon forced to keep their opinions to themselves, in self-defence against the storm of proofs which was raised against them. Every member of the club had become learned in toxicological science; hypnotics and analgesics, depressor motors and cardiac sedatives, were familiar sub- jects of conversation; and Sedgwick's support- ers strove in vain to stem the tide of scientific evidence which was setting against them. The betting upon the murder had assumed vast proportions at the club-house. Wagers of various kinds and of as varying magnitudes had been freely offered and as freely taken. It was even money that a murder had been committed, and five to one that Sedgwick would be held upon suspicion. Then Sedgwick's supporters had backed their favorite against the field. They did not dare openly to defend him. He was too unpopular among the frequenters of the club-house for open defence. His taciturn manners and retiring disposition had made him unpopular even before suspicion had rested upon him. Now he was more than ever dis- liked, and his friends had abandoned all attempt 82 SILKEN THREADS. at open vindication. But they staked their money upon their comrade. That, after all, seemed to be all that was consistent with true fellowship. The day after the inquest Reginald Candage and Hubert Dalton lunched together at the club- house. Their lunch was finished; the two men had pushed their chairs back from the table and were engaged in discussing a bottle of wine over the all-absorbing topic. Candage was the speaker. “ It seems so awfully odd, you know," the young man was saying, “that you should have lived next door to Barclay and not have known anything about it.” “Not exactly next door,” Dalton answered. “Well, it's much the same thing, you know,” Candage persisted: "you live in the same block, and there are only four doors between you." “Four house-lots at ten dollars the foot make considerable difference,” Dalton said, with a slight laugh. Candage joined in the laugh. He held a small Russia leather betting-book in his hand, and was recording a wager he had made with his friend. “Five to one, I believe you said,” the young A WAGER. man remarked, looking up questioningly at Dalton, after he had fairly recovered from the effects of his friend's witticism. “Yes,” Dalton answered with a smile. “I give you five to one that no murder is proved.” “In three months?” added Candage. “In three months,” Dalton assented. “Goddesses?" inquired Candage. “Goddesses,” Dalton again assented. “Goddesses” were twenty-dollar gold-pieces, so called from the jaundiced face of the God- dess of Liberty, which frowns from its tawny background upon sporting young America. Candage sipped his wine, meditatively regard- ing the betting-book before him. Betting and gossip were the chief business of his life, and life was very pleasant to him when he could indulge freely in these simple pastimes. Barclay's death had proved a godsend to Reginald Candage. He had never appeared in better spirits. Not so, however, was it with Hubert Dalton. He, on the contrary, seemed morose and moody. Perhaps he was bored by the flippancy of the other. “Come, finish your wine, Candage,” Dalton said impatiently. “It's time we were starting.” Candage and Dalton were on their way up SILKEN THREADS. town together, to pay a visit to a mutual ac- quaintance who was about to sail for Europe on the following day. Candage, consigning his betting-book to one of his waistcoat pockets, reluctantly finished his wine; and the two men were soon on their way up town together, walking abreast and three feet apart, with elbows rigidly extended and with their silver-headed canes thrust behind their right shoulders, after the manner of the guns of soldiers who accompany a fallen comrade to the grave. Conversation there was none. Candage was too much absorbed in form for that, and Dalton seemed moody and preoccupied. Suddenly Candage broke the silence. “By Jove! you know," he exclaimed in suppressed tones, “there is Margaret Fullerton in colors! Does n't it seem to you awfully odd that she should n't be in mourning for Barclay?”. Dalton's dark brows came together in a heavy frown as, following the direction of the other's glance, his eye fell upon the fine figure of Mar- garet Fullerton advancing towards them; and an expression of scorn Aitted across the young man's handsome features. “She was not his wife," he said shortly. A WAGER. 85 "No," Candage admitted, “but she was the next thing to it, you know.” “There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,” Dalton muttered in a low voice. Miss Fullerton was very near them now, and Candage was already engaged in making exten- sive preparations for consummating such a bow as would be of credit to him. Not only must that bow express sorrow, sympathy, admiration, and esteem, but it must also be effected after the conventional manner. It was, indeed, a task of no slight difficulty, yet Reginald Candage felt that he was equal to it. Margaret Fullerton had evidently recognized Candage and Dalton as quickly as they had seen her, for as she drew nearer to them, the young men could perceive that her color came and went with evident embarrassment, and that her eyes were fixedly bent upon the ground. Nearer she came with downcast eyes, until she was almost abreast of them, when timidly and dep- recatingly she raised her eyes to Dalton's face. But they only dwelt there for an instant. It was evident that she did not see what she had looked for in those stern, set features. She looked at Dalton wistfully for an instant, and then trans- ferred her glance to his companion, to whom 86 SILKEN THREADS. she sweetly but sadly inclined her head. And as Candage returned her salutation with all the grace of a youthful Chesterfield, Margaret Fuller- ton passed them by and continued on her way. When the girl passed beyond hearing, Can- dage turned to his companion. “She cut you dead!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “ Yes,” Dalton composedly replied. Candage laughed weakly to himself. He longed to pursue the subject and to banter his friend upon the slight which the girl had put upon him; but there was that in Dalton's face which warned him to forbear, and he pursued his way in silence. This little episode served, however, to make the gossip somewhat more thoughtful than was his wont. Was it possible after all, he thought to himself, that Miss Fullerton had jilted Dalton for the richer Barclay? Perhaps so. Perhaps this little event, however trilling in itself, might be the means of raising him to the proud dis- tinction of becoming the originator of a scandal. “ Yet I wish it was anybody but Dalton,” he thought again, as he ambled along by the side of his friend. “ Dalton can be so devilish disagreeable when he tries.” CHAPTER VIII. THE SILKEN THREADS. K EENE'S first act after leaving the lawyer's office was to seek out his partner Eley and to lay before him the coroner's report, that Eley might become acquainted with the cir- cumstances of the case while Keene should ex- amine the premises upon which the supposed crime had been committed. It was agreed upon by both men that no time should now be lost, and Eley forthwith settled himself down to study out the circumstances of Barclay's sudden death, while Keene made his way to the house on Gainsboro' Avenue, showed the order he had received from the district attorney, and began a systematic inspection of the premises. In this tour of inspection, Keene was accom- panied by the butler Parsley. Every detail and peculiarity of the house was thoroughly investi- gated; even the servants' quarters were carefully examined and their occupants interrogated and 88 SILKEN THREADS. critically reviewed. When the pair had labori- ously reached the highest story of the building, the heart of the butler was completely won; · there was no service he was not willing to per- form in behalf of his genial companion. Keene had the rare gift of adapting himself to the people with whom he happened to be asso- ciated, and he had exercised this gift to such advantage that he had completely ingratiated himself into the good graces of the old servant. But all that the butler could tell him, Keene had now absorbed. It was essential to his method that he should examine the scene of the murder alone; his attention must not be distracted by the commonplace remarks of another observer. It now became necessary for him to dismiss the loquacious Parsley, but without offending him. In this matter, as in all others, the butler was ready to acquiesce in the detective's desire. Indeed, such was the superstitious dread which pervaded the whole being of the old servant, as, for the first time since that memorable afternoon, he stood by the door of Barclay's studio, that he was greatly relieved when Keene expressed to him his desire to be left alone. And Parsley, having assured the detective that nothing had been disturbed in the apartment, and having THE SILKEN THREADS. 89 silently pointed out the chair in which his mas- ter had been found sitting, incontinently fled. Keene was left alone in the studio. The detective shut the door and locked it, and then proceeded to seat himself in the win- dow, in order to take a general survey of the room. He pictured to himself Barclay, sitting in his chair; he noted the position of the different articles of furniture; and he took a good look at Miss Fullerton's picture. Nothing in the room escaped his anxious scrutiny. This pre- liminary survey being completed, the detective rose and began the exact study of the details. The peculiarity of Keene's method, as he often explained to his subordinates, lay chiefly in the fact that it was a method. It was a rou- tine, composed of a preliminary examination, an analysis, a synthesis, and lastly, of deductions, This routine was applied by Keene to every case he investigated, and he never permitted himself to neglect the whole for a single part, no matter how promising or important that part might at first sight appear. The first article in the room which invited the detective's investigation was the carpet, every inch of which was carefully explored. Two small pieces of mud were picked up; also a pebble, 90 SILKEN THREADS. so small as to be little more than a fragment of gravel. This search occupied half an hour, and was not concluded until the detective had cast himself at full length upon the floor, and sur- veyed the surface of the carpet in every direc- tion. A second fragment of gravel rewarded this search. Of these two fragments, one was found behind the chair in which Barclay sat, and the other near the door of the dark closet. The dark closet was the next subject to claim the detective's attention, and was inspected in every possible detail. Keene even found it necessary to climb the ladder, to open the trap-door, and mount upon the roof. Then he came down the ladder again, and extinguished the gas, which he had previously lighted. As the light from above flooded down through the open trap upon the ladder below, a yellow ob- ject upon one of the top rounds of the ladder caught the detective's eye. It was a fragment of yellow silk thread, less than a sixteenth of an inch long. Close inspection showed that this fragment of silk was slightly twisted. “It has been woven,” thought the detective to himself; and as he turned it about in his nervous hands in the bright sunlight from above, he detected a black fibre mingled with the yellow threads. THE SILKEN THREADS. 91 This black fibre seemed to him of a coarser material than the silk enclosing it. Up the lad- der again, examining every step, the detective crept, but nothing was found to reward his efforts excepting a second fragment of the silk, caught upon the ledge above the trap. This second fragment was exactly similar to the one he had previously found, except that the black fibre was more plainly discernible in the second specimen. The detective now closed the trap- door and descended the ladder. An hour and a half had now been consumed, and yet noth- ing had been found but the mud, the gravel, and the two fragments of silk. But Keene appeared by no means discouraged. He systematically consigned his trophies to three small boxes which he drew from his pocket. Then he re- turned to his search again. The detective was now deeply absorbed, and was whistling softly to himself. Nothing similar to the silk was to be found in the room. The de- tective could find no possible source from which it could have been derived. It must have come from outside, he thought to himself. Perhaps, after all, he had found in this silk a clew of some value. Renewed investigation convinced him that nothing similar to this silk was to be found 92 SILKEN THREADS. in the apartment, and contenting himself that such was the fact, Keene abandoned his search, and directed his attention to the camera. The camera stood opposite the picture of Miss Fullerton, and was covered with a black cloth. The detective carefully raised the cloth, and looked through the aperture from behind, throwing the drapery over his head with the awkward gesture of an amateur. Nothing was to be seen; some dense medium was opposed between the lenses and his eye. The detective withdrew his head, replaced the cloth, and gazed at the instrument with a puzzled air. There was a brass disk lying upon the ledge of the tripod. This disk Keene placed over the lenses as he had seen photographers do. He was not an adept at photography, and he now felt he was treading upon dangerous ground. Presently a thought struck him. Back into the dark closet he turned like a flash; Mr. Brown, the photo- grapher, had testified that he had brought Bar- clay negatives on the afternoon of the supposed murder. If one of these plates was in the cam- era, it would almost positively exclude Brown from complicity in the crime, supposing a crime had indeed been committed. There were twenty- three plates in the box, with a vacant place at THE SILKEN THREADS. 93 the end, which seemed to show that the box had originally contained twenty-four. Keene thoughtfully shut down the cover of the box, and returned to the camera. This fact, trilling in itself, had completely exonerated the pho- tographer, in the detective's opinion. He could now interrogate Mr. Brown, he thought, with the view of fixing the probable time of the murder. The detective shut the slide in the camera and took out the frame which contained the negative. “It will serve as a letter of introduction to Mr. Brown,” he said to himself with a silent laugh, and laying it aside, he now set himself to work to examine the legs of the tripod upon which the camera rested. A third fragment of silk rewarded his effort. Thus every article in the room was examined after the same critical fashion. Every letter in the writing-desk in the corner was carefully perused; the names and addresses of all Bar- clay's correspondents were noted down, and a packet of letters, tied with a blue ribbon, was consigned to the detective's pocket. There were many letters in the angular handwriting of fash- ionable women in the desk in the corner, but the letters in the packet tied with the blue ribbon were by far the most numerous. They were 94 SILKEN THREADS. written in a round, smooth hand, and were signed by the name, “ Leslie Dane." With the examination of the writing-desk, the detective's work was finished, — his analysis was complete; and Keene gathered together his tro- phies and sank down into Barclay's chair. He would piece together the meagre material he had gleaned. But judging from the detective's face as he roused himself from his short dream, inspiration had not come to him. Perhaps the data were too meagre, or perhaps his imagination was not sufficiently aroused. At all events, the process of synthesis consumed a much shorter time than had the process of analysis. Gathering up his trophies, Keene started down the stairs. He would discuss the affair with Eley before decid- ing upon any definite line of action. On his way to the detective bureau, Keene paused at the photographer's. “Is Mr. Brown in?” he inquired of the stout man who greeted him in the odorous parlor in which the photographer received his patrons. “I am Mr. Brown,” responded the stout man, rubbing his hands and bowing to his visitor with an obsequious smile. “What is your pleasure, sir?" THE SILKEN THREADS. 95 "I have a picture I wish to have brought out,” Keene replied, in profound ignorance of the technical terms of the art of photography. “It is an experimental study, and I want it carefully done. Can you attend to it yourself?”. “Certainly, sir," replied the photographer. Keene produced the frame which contained the negative, and handed it to the other. The photographer gave a perceptible start as he took it in his hands. Then he regarded it narrowly. “This frame is exactly similar to one which belonged to the late Mr. Barclay,” he remarked in accents of surprise. “Indeed?" inquired Keene. “The Mr. Barclay who died so suddenly?” “Yes,” explained the other, “Mr. Bryce Barclay.” “You must have known him intimately to recognize a resemblance in a little piece of wood like that,” remarked the detective. “I did,” Brown answered with a sigh. “I was with the young gentleman on the very afternoon of his death.” “What!” exclaimed the detective, with a fine show of surprise. “Mr. Barclay was taking pho- tographs on the very afternoon that he died?”. “No," Brown answered, sighing again. “I left je 96 SILKEN THREADS. the unhappy young gentleman but two hours and a half before his dead body was discovered by his friend. At that time the camera was leaning against the wall. But I have no doubt he in- tended to photograph a lovely oil painting he had made of the lady of his choice. In fact, the unhappy young gentleman confessed as much to me as I stood there talking with him.” "How very sad!” Keene remarked, looking at the other with affected sympathy. “Sad, indeed,” reiterated the photographer, with a drooping of the corners of his capacious mouth. “It was one of those awful visitations of Divine Providence." “Then you do not believe that Mr. Bar- clay was poisoned ?" Keene inquired with a show of deference. “No,” replied the photographer, shaking his head and rolling up his eyes, “ I cannot think so. Mr. Prose testified that he was dead and cold when he found him at five o'clock, so that death must have come upon him an hour at the most after I had left him. Now, sir, don't you agree with me, that if Mr. Barclay had drunk of a poisonous cup, he must have shown some signs of the insidious drug that was working at his vitals, while he was talking with me?" THE SILKEN THREADS. 97 “Yes,” Keene answered. “I think you must be right." “So does my wife," said Mr. Brown. “Mrs. Brown agrees with me in every particular.” Here Mr. Brown looked at Keene and sighed again; and as Keene looked at Mr. Brown, he observed that the photographer's mouth was drawn down at the corners in such a manner that it strongly resembled the perfect crescent of the new, young moon. It must have been a wet moon, according to ancient tradition. But so was Mr. Brown's mouth a wet mouth; and as Keene feared lest his eyes should follow suit, he has- tened to observe, — “What you have said is very interesting; and now, Mr. Brown, when may I call for my picture?" “To-morrow," replied the photographer. “To- morrow afternoon the negative shall be ready.” “Before I leave you," Keene continued, “I should like to ask if there is any sign by which you can identify one of your own negatives.” “No," answered the photographer. CHAPTER IX. THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE. W ILLIS ELEY had finished his study of the coroner's report, and was standing by the “ticker” in his private office when Keene re- turned from his examination of the studio. Eley was a tall, large man, with a short, thick neck, broad, sloping shoulders, and a heavy frame. His face, which was intelligent, was calm and thoughtful; but it was a face which suggested judgment and determination rather than un- usual brilliance of the perceptive faculties. Eley turned from the “ ticker” and greeted his part- ner. “Good news!” he cried, in a bluff, jovial voice. “Duncan and Paddock have cleared up the Easton robbery, and will lodge the crimi- nals in jail to-night. On top of that comes a despatch from Badger saying that he has bagged his man, and will have him in the Tombs before six o'clock. This new business comes just in the nick of time.” THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE. 99 “Good !” exclaimed Keene heartily. “That is indeed good news. We shall need these three men at least in this new case of ours. Come, sit down, Eley, and let us talk this new affair over." Eley seated himself in compliance with Keene's request, while Keene drew up a chair to the other side of the table, opposite his part- ner. Both men looked anxious and somewhat excited. Keene was the first to break the silence. “In the first place,” he said positively, “I am convinced that Bryce Barclay has been murdered.” “So am I,” chimed in Eley. “Everything points that way," Keene con- tinued. “At all events, we will assume it to be a fact as the best means of clearing up the mystery." “ There I'm with you,” said Eley with cor- diality. “So far, so good. Now the first question to be settled is: How was he murdered? What was the cause of death? ” “There I differ with you," broke in Eley quickly. “The first question, to my view, is: Who done it?" 100 SILKEN THREADS. Keene and Eley always differed from each other in their methods of research, agreeing only, in the main details. To this difference of method they were indebted for their eminence. “There it is !” cried Keene, triumphantly. “Here we are differing at the very outset. I tell you, Eley, we have got in hand a case of the most extraordinary difficulty.” “I believe you,” assented the other," and that brings me to a proposition I'm goin' to make.” “Good! Let's hear it.” “I don't know how you feel,” continued Eley with deliberation, “but I ain't satisfied with our assistants. They're good young men as far as they go, but they ain't what they should be. There 's that Paddock, for instance. "He's so careful and wary there's no bearing with him. Every time I see him I have to tell him he's got to cultivate more dash.” “Yes,” said Keene, “so do I. Besides that, he's always making theories with nothing at all to base them on.” “Then again, there's Duncan,” continued Eley with a snarl. “I don't say he ain't smart enough, for he is. He's smarter than chain lightning. But he's careless. He don't half look.” “I know it,” assented Keene. “He 'll grab THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE. IOI the first thing he sees and make off with it, with- out hunting round to see if there is n't some- thing better. Still, he's the best man we've got.” “True for you, partner,” Eley answered. “All these young men are the best detectives in the city, but still they ain't what they'd orter be. Now I vote that you and me learn 'em how an affair oughter be worked up. I've been hanging back for a starchy case, and now the time has come. My plan is, that we leave Paddock and Badger in charge of the office, and work up this case ourselves.” " It's a good scheme,” said Keene, thought- fully, excited by the prospect of the intricate search which the affair promised. “It's a good scheme, and there is nothing on hand but what they can manage. Yes, I agree with you, Eley. I believe we can teach these young men a lesson they won't forget in a hurry.” After some further debate, it was settled that Keene and Eley should conduct the affair in per- son, with the assistance of Duncan, while Paddock and Badger should be made conversant with the circumstances of the case, and should be left in charge of the detective bureau. By this means the two principals promised themselves a triumph over their subordinates. 102 SILKEN THREADS. This having been agreed upon, the two detec- tives set themselves to work to decide upon their plan of action. Eley was for approaching the solution of the mystery from the standpoint of “Who done it?” Keene still adhered to his original question, “What was done?” Upon this matter the two men soon arrived at an open issue. “I'll take my tack, you take yours," Eley cried at last, when it had become evident that no conclusion was likely to be reached. “ All right,” Keene acceded. “Tell me your plan, and I'll tell you mine.” Eley settled himself back in his chair, and cleared his throat with a portentous “hem.” Now that he was on the war-path again he had fallen back into his old detective habits, and his eyes shone like diamonds. “Bryce Barclay was murdered,” he said impressively, “either by his cousin, Dr. Sėdgwick, for money, or by Charles Fullerton, also for money, or by Masters Edger- ton, for revenge. Them's my ideas.” "It is absolutely necessary that each of these men should be regarded in the light of a possible assassin,” Keene assented noncommittally; “but for my part I believe that the crime was com- mitted by some person hitherto unsuspected. THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE. 103 I suspect it was committed by a woman, either directly or by connivance.” Eley started and opened his eyes. This view seemed to him almost too visionary even for his imaginative partner. “Why?” he breathlessly inquired. “Because of the silk; because of the wealth and standing of Fullerton and Sedgwick; be- cause the murder came on the very day of Barclay's engagement; because he had jilted Leslie Dane. I believe the murder was com- mitted either by this same Leslie Dane, or by Masters Edgerton, or by both together.” “How do you think they got in?” Eley demanded. “If it was Edgerton, that he came in by the door and crept up the stairs after the butler had left him. If it was Leslie Dane, that she came in through the trap-door in the roof.” “ Or," interpolated Eley, “she might have been the young woman who came at one o'clock, spoken of in the butler's evidence. She might have gone upstairs and hid herself in the picture gallery. It was never used.” “ That is true,” Keene admitted. “But that would not account for the silk on the ladder.” Eley looked at Keene incredulously. He evi- 104 SILKEN THREADS. dently placed but little stress upon fragments of silk and pieces of gravel. “At all events,” he said slowly, “the bulk of the evidence is against Sedgwick. He has been arrested, and it won't do for us to let him slide.” “No; but then there is nothing more to be gained by following him up. The inquest brought out all that could be found against him. Nothing remains but to investigate the club- house, his own house, and his laboratory; to see if the piece of cork can be found; if there was a cork in the sherry bottle, or in the bottle of bitters; to examine into the habits of his life, and to investigate his financial circumstances; all of this Duncan can do as well as you or I. Sedgwick has already been arrested ; conse- quently Duncan can follow him up openly.” “ All right,” said Eley, with ready acqui- escence. “Then, when he has finished this work, which ought not to consume much time, he can turn his attention to Edgerton or Fullerton.” “Fullerton!” Eley eagerly exclaimed. “I shall take up Edgerton myself.” “Good !” said Keene again. This time there was a sparkle in his small gray eyes, which he THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE. 105 in vain had striven to repress. Everything was working exactly as he could have wished. He was anxious to pursue the case from his own standpoint, unimpeded by the interference of his partner. “That will leave me free to follow out my own theory. You and I will probably end by playing into each other's hands." The afternoon had now become far advanced, and it was long past the hour for closing the detective bureau. As everything was now set- tled, Keene took leave of his partner, charging Eley to draw up his instructions for the assistant Duncan, a task which was quickly accomplished by the experienced detective ; after which, Willis Eley closed the office, and directed his steps toward home. Keene's Eley had tempo- rarily ceased to exist, and a very different Eley was now on his way homeward. For the reader must know that Willis Eley had a wife, a woman in whose hands the sturdy detective might be likened to a vessel in a storm. To this wife it was his failing to apply for counsel and advice upon the affairs of the detective bureau, unbe- known to his partner Keene. But Mrs. Eley, though a woman of excellent judgment so far as domestic affairs were concerned, had by no means deserved the influence she had acquired 106 SILKEN THREADS. over her better portion. Her influence over her husband was like the influence of a pain. If he yielded, it became more bearable. That she was a woman of unusual shrewdness, was indeed true; and her powers of observation were some- thing remarkable. What Mehitable Eley did not see, it is safe to affirm that no human eye could possibly detect. But even if her cold blue eyes were as keen as they were near to- gether, her mental vision, on the contrary, was strangely distorted. Nothing had ever been known to please her. She was at war with all existing customs; she criticised the fashions and those who bowed to them; she looked down upon her husband, and she despised Mr. Keene. Her views of life were sombre in the extreme, and she was a victim to dyspepsia. With this martyr Mr. Eley dwelt in a Genteel Boarding- house in Snug Alley. Mr. and Mrs. Eley were childless; and as Mrs. Eley was much alone, in consequence of her husband's frequent absences, the worthy couple had recently given up house-keeping and taken up their quarters at the Genteel Boarding-house (for as such it was advertised), where they were received with much reserve by its more pretentious inmates. In discarding her 108 SILKEN THREADS. “It's my belief you and Keene is two fools together." "Is it so bad?” inquired the detective, with affectionate sympathy. “It's more than bad,” Mehitable Eley re- sponded, with a groan. “It's dreadful! It's tremenjous! I hope, Willis Eley, that you may never know the agony and sufferin' your poor wife endures at this blessed minute. If you was to pour me chock full of red-hot molten iron you could n't burn me worse than my vittles does. Willis Eley, I feels as though a fiend was clawing at my vitals.” “Take a little sody,” suggested her husband. “No," said Mehitable, with a sigh so long and deep that it seemed to have come up from the cellar and gone out the roof of the Genteel Boarding-house, —“no, Willis Eley. Sody is not suited to my constitution. Mineral com- pounds burns my blood; they makes it feel like it was Jamaica ginger burnin' and jumpin' in my system. No, Willis, sody will not do it. Your poor wife is worn most to the grave, and that's what's the matter. The doctor says my nervous system is completely unstrung.” Eley, mentally blessing the dear doctor who had encouraged his wife in her idle folly, strove THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE. 109 in vain to reassure her and to suggest measures to assuage her pain. But Mehitable would not be consoled, until the detective at last was driven to the old expedient of searching the evening paper for some of those new and hitherto untried remedies for all human ills. Mehitable Eley, with an expression of hopeless interest on her face, with one hand jealously pressed against her apron, sat in her rocking- chair watching her husband, as he, with the newspaper spread out upon the marble-topped table, searched the "doctors' column" of the “Evening Times.” Presently the detective's descending forefinger came to a standstill, and Eley, clearing his throat, read in a voice which passed deprecatingly over the long hard words, — “ • Bandero's Magic Compound ! Dr. Bandero's Wonderful Medical Discovery! Nature's own Remedy for Those suffering with the Torments of Dyspepsia ! One hundred dollars' reward paid to any dyspeptic who can resist its magic effects.' “How will that do, Hitty?” “Let me gaze upon it with my own eyes,” Mehitable cried; and catching the paper from her husband's hands with a feverish gesture, she began to peruse the advertisement with eager 110 SILKEN THREADS. . interest. “Wonderful indeed!” Mehitable ex- claimed, when she had read the advertisement from its beginning to its very end. “Wonderful indeed! Here is one poor lady. suffering just like I do cured in three bottles! Perfectly harmless too. Nothin' but simple vegetables. Willis Eley, I must try this Magic Compound before I die. You shall buy me a bottle of it before you 're an hour older.” Eley, obedient to his wife's request, departed in search of the “Magic Compound.” There was no demur on the part of the detective. Scenes like this were of almost weekly occur- rence in the two-flight front chamber of the Genteel Boarding-house. After a teaspoonful of the “Magic Com- pound” had been administered to Mehitable Eley; after the yellow wrapper of the magic bottle had been carefully perused, and the taste and smell of the remarkable compound had been commented and remarked upon; after endless guesses as to its component parts, and much speculative wonderment upon the great cures it had effected, — the conversation slowly drifted back to the subject of Barclay's death. "I did n't say as you was a fool,” Mehitable replied in answer to her husband's question. THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE. III “ I simply passed that remark about Mr. Keene.” “What's the use of sayin' that about Keene?” “Because it's the truth," retorted Mehitable. “Because the young gent was n't murdered at all. He died of dyspepsy, — that's what he died of. When you come home, Willis Eley, and see your poor wife layin' dead on the floor, then you 'll know what dyspepsy is, if not before." Eley saw that a storm was coming, and hastened to avert it. “Keene thinks there was a woman in it," he mildly remarked. “ Just like his foolery," indignantly returned Mehitable. “Woman indeed! If the young gent was murdered at all, as I have my doubts, it was that Edgerton as done it.” Now this opinion exactly coincided with his own view of the case; and Willis Eley— who, as I have said, had great confidence in his wife's judgment — rubbed his hands together, secretly delighted by his own sagacity. Noticing her husband's satisfaction, Mehitable Eley hastened to define her own opinion some- what more precisely. 112 SILKEN THREADS.. "Mind you,” she tartly observed, “I don't say as the young gent was murdered at all. But I do say, if he was murdered, that that Edgerton done it. Mark my words.” “My own opinion," echoed her complacent husband. “As for Mr. Keene,” continued Mehitable, snapping her fingers in derision at the imagi- nary figure of her rival, — “that for your Mr. Keene! He's too keen by half. I have no opinion of your Mister Keenses. I often wonder at you, Willis Eley, for leaguing yourself with a newspaper man.” That this was the truth there could be no doubt. Since the formation of the firm Mehit- able had hardly permitted a day to pass by without thus assuring her husband. It is need- less to say that she was jealous of the influence Keene had acquired over Eley, and that deriding her rival was the method she chose for combat- ing that influence. “Mark my words,” she said again in tones as nearly oracular as a voice like a door-squeak could ever assume, —"mark my words: David Keene will come to grief. You and me will learn him.” And with this prophecy Mehitable Eley pre- pared herself for rest; and taking a second THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE. 113 teaspoonful of the Magic Compound by way of inviting slumber, she drew the bedclothes over her tortured frame, and her shrill voice was still. Fortune had not been kind to Willis Eley, but she had vouchsafed him one blessing when she had decreed that Mehitable's slumber ever should be sound. • & CHAPTER X. A DISCOVERY. AT noon the following day, as Paddock and O Badger were engaged in the prosecution of their new duties, Duncan entered the general office of the detective bureau clad in the uni- form of the police. The assistant had already accomplished the task allotted to him. He was a tall, stalwart man of vigorous build, and the uniform of the police sat becomingly upon his handsome figure. Like his employer Keene, Duncan had adopted his present vocation with no other qualification than a natural aptitude. He was a man by nature far above the position in which we are accustomed to rank detectives, - a man of excellent education and polished address; and the refinement of his face was enhanced, rather than detracted from, by the coarse leather helmet which surmounted his fair white temples and curling auburn hair. As Duncan entered the office he was greeted with a cordiality that showed him to be popular A DISCOVERY. 115 among his colleagues, and the three young detectives were soon plunged in animated discourse. “Sedgwick is the murderer fast enough,” Duncan easily remarked, as sitting upon a table he communicated to the agents the result of his morning's work. “The club-room has not been swept since May 22, yet no piece of cork was to be found on the floor; the sherry was drawn from a cask into a decanter with a glass stopper; in the same way the bitters. Originally the bottle of bitters had a cork; but on the day of the murder the cork had been removed, and the bottle was stoppered with glass. “When I left the club-house I went to Sedg- wick's lodgings. Why, fellows, I tell you I could n't live in such rooms myself! They're as bare as bare can be! Hardly any furniture in them. I could find nothing there of the slightest use as evidence. When I had searched the lodgings I went down to his laboratory and looked that over. There were poisons and drugs there of every description, enough to poison the whole police force. The poison bottles were mostly locked up in cases by themselves. I opened the cases and found all the shelves dusty. None of the bottles had recently been 116 SILKEN THREADS. touched excepting three; these were labelled aconitine, woorara, and delphinine. All of these three had been taken down within a day or two and all of 'em were half empty. After the lab- oratory, I called on the chemical expert. He told me that the ring had been washed and the water analyzed, and that it was found to contain a trace of lead. This lead, he said, was prob- ably from the acid which Sedgwick had used in cleaning his ring; but I believe it was put there to cover up the traces of some poison; those chemists all stand together. While I was talking with him I asked him what would be the effect of mixing aconitine, woorara, and delphinine all together, and he said he did n't know. That shows you the kind of man he was. I asked him no end of questions, but could get nothing out of him. All he would say was: 'Such a mixture as you mention might cause death in the manner you describe.'” And here the detective imitated the professor of chemistry in a manner highly amusing to his professional brothers. “When I left the professor," Duncan con- tinued, pursuing his narrative, “I went down to see old Abrahams, Paddock's crony. It seems the old rascal knows Sedgwick, but has had no A DISCOVERY. 117 dealings with him. He said that Sedgwick had some debts, and that Solomon Abrahams had lent him eight hundred dollars a few days ago, Sedgwick giving his furniture and laboratory apparatus as collateral. That's all I have found out, but I should hate to have the same evidence against me.” In this latter view Duncan's fellow-agents heartily concurred. The three young men were of the unanimous opinion that Sedgwick was the murderer, – if there had been a murder, as they were disposed to doubt. “ The old men don't think so," said Paddock, meditatively. “They have n't told me what they do think, but I know they don't suspect Sedgwick." “ They 're growing old,” lightly remarked Badger, a shrewd-looking man, with neat, dapper whiskers; “neither of 'em is half the man he was five years ago.” “ That 's so," chimed in Paddock; "too much office drudgery has spoiled them. They had better stick to the bureau and leave the investi- gating work to younger heads." Duncan smiled as he listened to his comrades' discourse. He had been acquainted with his principals' intention, and was amused by the 118 SILKEN THREADS. prospect of his employers' delight when their subordinates' views should be communicated to them. “Keene is too visionary," Badger continued, “he—" But his further remark was interrupted by the entrance of a well-dressed, middle-aged man, who mildly inquired if Mr. Eley was in. “In where?" asked Badger pertly. “He's in a tight place, I guess,” he continued, by way of an aside, with a wink at Paddock; and the two young men laughed heartily to themselves at the clumsy joke. But their hilarity was of short duration, and quickly replaced by sentiments of chagrin; for the middle-aged man had overheard the remark, and his face flushed ominously. “What do you mean, you young rascals?” he sternly demanded, in a rough voice which the youthful detectives immediately recognized as the voice of their employer Willis Eley. Paddock and Badger hung their heads, while Eley and his assistant Duncan enjoyed their discomfiture; then the older detective passed through the room in silence and entered his private office: it was now the time appointed for an interview between the partners. But Keene was late, and an hour passed by I 20 SILKEN THREADS. his mind, has that young man. He looks worn and anxious. I took a good look at him; then I let him slide, and went back to the house again and asked for the landlady, with the idea of en- gaging a room. The servant left me in the hall. There was a letter lying on the hall stand wait- ing to be posted. It was addressed to Miss Leslie Dane. When the landlady came she said there were no vacant rooms at present, though one of the boarders, a Mr. Edgerton, had spoken of giving up his room. I asked to look at it, and after some hesitation she consented to show it to me. There were two letters on the table; one in Miss Dane's handwriting, — the same as wrote to Barclay, you know. In the closet of the room, on a shelf, there was a row of bottles. What there was in 'em I could n't tell. More than this I could not learn. Of course I talked with the landlady about Mr. Edgerton, but she was very close. She said Mr. Edgerton had not been like himself lately. She said he seemed down-hearted and melancholy as if eat up with troubles. But she said he paid his bills regular, so it could n't be money. “When we came downstairs again I stopped in the hall to talk about the price of the room, and while I was talking I took'up the letter and A DISCOVERY. I21 turned it round in my hands. “Can I mail this letter for you?' I asked as I prepared to go. The landlady took it from my hand and looked at it. “Why, it's Mr. Edgerton's,' she said. “He must have forgotten it when he went out.' “So Masters Edgerton corresponds with Leslie Dane, thinks I to myself. Evidently Masters Edgerton must be shadowed. Then I came down here and examined Duncan while I waited for you.” And Eley concluded his report of the morning's proceedings by an exact account of the facts gleaned by the self-confident Duncan. Keene listened to Eley's recital with eager in- terest. When his partner had concluded, he slapped him on the back and said, with much cordiality, — “Good! I believe we 're on the right track. What sort of looking man is this Edgerton?” “A tall, thin man, dark complected, with clean-cut features and roving eyes. His nose is Roman and large, and he wears a close-cut black mustache curled up at the ends. His nose and mustache are his most striking points.” “Does he look like this?” Keene inquired, producing a photograph and laying it upon the table before the other. It was a strange picture, CHAPTER XI. THE MAN BEHIND THE CHAIR. F LEY gazed upon his partner with puzzled L incredulity. How was it possible that Keene should have obtained a photograph of Barclay's assassin? Could it be that Mehitable was right after all? Could it be that Keene in truth was nothing but a crazy enthusiast? For a moment Eley almost distrusted the sanity of his companion. Keene, however, did not keep his partner in suspense. “You remember about the negative I left with Mr. Brown?” he said questioningly. “Well, to- day I went to Brown's place according to my appointment. I did not expect anything, but in a case like this, nothing ought to be neglected. * Your study does n't amount to much, the photographer said, when I questioned him about the picture. It has been over-exposed. I presume you are just becoming initiated in the art of photography. Yes,' said I, “I have 124 SILKEN THREADS. never had much practice to speak of.' “So I thought,' said the photographer, with a fat smile. “However, I have developed the plate for you, and have printed you these two pictures. If you study them carefully, they will prove very instructive to you. Your instrument is an instantaneous one, and you have exposed your picture much too long. With these words the photographer gave me the two pictures you hold in your hand. Now, you see,” continued Keene, taking one of the pictures while Eley held the other, "we have in this photograph a clew of the utmost importance. Knowing, as we do, that this picture was taken between half- past three, when the photographer left, and five o'clock, when Prose came, it furnishes absolute evidence that some one besides the victim was in the studio between those hours. I questioned the photographer about the plates he had carried to Mr. Barclay. He said there were twenty- four of them; that they had never been exposed to the light of day. He said he could swear this up to the time he left them in Mr. Barclay's studio. Therefore it is certain that the picture was taken after half-past three on the day of the murder, — that a man was in the studio after half-past three. The standing figure cannot be THE MAN BEHIND THE CHAIR. 125 Brown, because the photographer is a short, fat man, who wears a beard. Now, look at the picture: the man in the chair is Barclay. He occupies the exact position described by Prose. The tall man bending down over him is the murderer. You will observe that the murderer's hands and arms are not pictured. That is be- cause he was moving them. The black object at the side is Miss Fullerton's picture. Now, then, for the murderer. You see that he is a tall man, with a mustache which curls upwards at both ends; that he has no hat, which would go to show that he had not come in directly from out- doors. Do you notice how much less distinct his figure is than Mr. Barclay's? That is be- cause he was out of focus. Still, he stood ex- actly behind the chair. This would show that he was at some distance from his victim. In fact, he was too far behind the chair to have touched his victim with his hands. The camera stood seven feet from the chair. This, in the photographer's opinion, would place the stand- ing figure two feet behind. He must there- fore, have used some weapon or instrument, - a weapon or instrument which has left no trace. So much for our first day's work.” “ And a good day's work too,” cried Eley in 128 SILKEN THREADS. Eley smiled deprecatingly at Keene's obsti- nacy. “ All right, partner,” he gayly answered. “ Stick to your point, and I'll stick to mine. By the time I find out who done it, you will know how it was done. Perhaps, after all, it will be the best way." The two detectives were now different beings from the men who had talked together in Eley's office the previous day. Yesterday they had merely conjectured that a murder had been committed, and their interest was but luke- warm. To-day they were certain of it, and this certainty placed the whole case in a different light. Yesterday Eley had been critical and sullen; to-day he was light-hearted and full of energy. Keene outwardly appeared the same, yet Eley, who knew him well, could perceive that his entire being was pervaded by an in- tense enthusiasm. In short, the two detectives had received a clew. This clew they would follow to the death. When Keene had left the room, Eley set him- self down to mature his plans. He must act with caution, he thought to himself, but never- theless he must act with promptitude. The campaign, to be brilliant, must be rapid; yet it should not be retarded by a single false step. THE MAN BEHIND THE CHAIR. 129 The detective's first task was to read over the letters which Miss Dane had written to Barclay, to learn, if possible, the connection which this mysterious young woman held between Edger- ton and the murdered man. Eley took the letters in his hand and refreshed himself with a preliminary sniff. Even Keene's cigar had not destroyed the somewhat rank perfume of violet that pervaded the packet. These letters, tied with the blue ribbon, were arranged according to their dates ; and the detective read the earliest missives first. They appeared to be the incidental correspondence of a young woman who was striving to be fashion- able, with an acquaintance of the opposite sex. Even the burly Eley detected a meretricious ring throughout them. The first contained a simple acceptance for dancing the german at the house of some lady whose name Eley did not know, though he knew it was not the name of one of those great families distinguished in Dashford society. The second was a note of thanks for a bouquet; the third expressed the writer's gratitude for a bonbonnière, and contained a covert allusion to something the donor had written on the card which accom- panied his gift, this latter being added by way com- 130 SILKEN TIIREADS. of a postscript. The fourth was a real letter. It expressed contrition at some remark the writer had made the evening previous, and ar- ranged for an interview on the following day. After that the whole character of the letters changed. They had now become the letters of a loving woman. Barclay was called by his first name, and there were numerous expres- sions of sentiment and endearment. These latter epistles the detective read with a sar- donic smile, as if he suspected what was soon to follow. Presently, however, the letters be- came shorter, and contained upbraidings. Bar- clay was reproached for faithlessness, and the writer complained of his perfidy to her. There were several letters written in this strain, but at last there came the final letter of the packet, bearing the date May 21. This was an angry, beseeching, and finally threatening letter, de- manding an interview on the following day (the day of the murder), at eleven o'clock at the usual place. This letter contained vague though distinct threats. In none of the letters was Edgerton's name mentioned. There was no reference to any third party. Verily, the con- nection between Edgerton and Miss Leslie Dane was by no means obvious. The entire corre- THE MAN BEHIND THE CHAIR. 131 spondence simply showed that the heart of Leslie Dane had been won by Bryce Barclay simply to be cast aside, – that he had paid the girl attention without intention, as the saying is. Only this and nothing more. Yet this was something to start with; a very small body may act as a nucleus. Eley pondered over this packet of letters un- decided. Leslie Dane must be studied up- but how? Evidently this was a question which must depend upon circumstances. Then, too, Edgerton must also be studied up, but upon what method the detective was also uncertain. Duncan must follow one and he the other, but which scent should be intrusted to the agent? Finally, Eley determined to take a preliminary survey of Miss Leslie Dane, her circumstances and surroundings, before making up his mind. He already knew enough of Masters Edgerton to realize that the pursuit of this reticent man would be fraught with the utmost difficulty; whereas Leslie Dane, being a woman, would, up- on general principles, be a much more suitable quarry to be intrusted to the less experienced assistant. Besides that, Eley was convinced that Edgerton was the man behind the chair. His should be the glory of bringing him to justice. CHAPTER XII. SLIPPING THE LEASH. TESLIE DANE'S address was written at the L bottom of her earlier letters. This ad- dress was the same as the direction upon the letter which Eley had seen at Edgerton's board- ing-house. Evidently Edgerton's Leslie and Barclay's Leslie were identical. To this address Eley now betook himself. He must learn how the girl lived and who she was before he could decide upon the best method of “ looking her up.” The house in which Leslie Dane lived was an old-fashioned building in an unfashionable quarter. It was closed. Recently closed too, the detective concluded, for there was no dust upon the steps nor upon the threshold. On the inside of the glass panel of the door a card was gummed bearing the meagre information, “Fam- ily out of town.” The next house in the block, however, was inhabited. Up the steps of this more friendly mansion the detective mounted, and rang at the bell. SLIPPING THE LEASH. 133 His summons was answered by a neat servant- maid. “I wish to inquire about your next-door neighbors,” said the detective politely, casting an admiring glance upon the servant-maid's comely face. “They 're out of town, sir,” the pretty ser- vant-maid pertly answered. “They moved out last Monday.” Last Monday was the day before the murder. “Where do they go?” asked the detective, looking admiringly into the girl's eyes and asking the question slowly. They were pretty, wide- open, surprised-looking eyes, and the detec- tive's admiration was genuine as he mentally compared them with those penetrating optics which gazed at him so distrustfully across the dining-table of the Genteel Boarding-house. His admiration was certainly genuine, although it is true that it greatly facilitated his interroga- tion of the pretty servant-maid. “They goes to Coverly, sir," answered the pretty maid, casting her eyes coquettishly down- ward. “Did the whole family go?” asked the detec- tive, eager to acquire some further information of the Dane family in general. 134 SILKEN THREADS. “No, sir. Mrs. Dane and Miss Ellen went first with the children. Miss Leslie stayed to shut up the house.” “And when did Miss Leslie go?” asked the detective, as if trying to prolong the conversation. “She went the next day, sir,” answered the pretty maid. “She hated to leave her lover, I suppose,” the detective humorously remarked. “ Law, sir,” responded the pretty maid pertly, “Miss Leslie don't care for no lover. Miss Leslie has better things to think of.” “ Like you,” the detective slyly insinuated. “Yes, like me,” responded the pretty maid, with a coquettish toss of her flaxen head. "I guess you 're a sly-boots,” observed the detective; but before the pretty maid could find time to answer, the conversation was interrupted by a woman's voice, high and loud, which came whistling shrilly from within, — “What is the matter, Mary?”. The pretty maid looked up reproachfully at the detective. “It's a gentleman, marm, in- quiring for Mr. Dane." “So," thought the detective to himself, “there's a Mr. Dane as well as a Mrs. Dane, a Miss Ellen, and the children, and Miss Leslie.” SLIPPING THE LEASH. 135 “Meet me at eight o'clock to-night on the corner,” Eley hurriedly whispered. “I should like to talk with you some more about lovers; ” and with a smile of great meaning, the detective turned away. Evidently the pretty maid might prove of service. The remainder of the afternoon was passed in making inquiries relative to Mr. Dane. Mr. Dane was a produce merchant, well-to-do, but still not rich. The family consisted of Mr. Dane and his wife, two daughters, of whom Leslie was the younger, and three boys. In summer the family lived in Coverly, a small town twenty-two miles by rail from Dashford. It was therefore necessary that Miss Leslie Dane should be fol- lowed to Coverly, but the detective was still un- certain whether he should undertake this task himself or intrust Miss Leslie to the charge of his assistant. On the one hand, the study of Leslie Dane promised the richer reward; while on the other, the pursuit of Edgerton presented the greater difficulty. Finally the detective de- cided to intrust Miss Dane to his assistant; and Duncan was accordingly instructed and de- spatched, Eley having promised to acquaint him with the result of his subsequent interview with the servant-maid. 136 SILKEN THREADS. At seven o'clock the detective betook himself to the place of rendezvous, and he did not wait long before the pretty servant-maid appeared, provided with a letter to post, by way of excuse for keeping the appointment she had made with her chance acquaintance. But it soon became apparent that the pretty maid had come to talk about herself and not about Miss Leslie Dane. She quickly became ag- grieved by the interest her companion displayed in the ladies of the house next door, and the detective could extract from her nothing what- ever in relation to Miss Leslie Dane. Both the participants in this side-walk conversation were bitterly disappointed at the turn that affairs had taken, until at length the pretty maid took leave of Eley with strong expressions of disapprobation and disgust. The detective, however, was by no means discouraged. He had expected little; and, after all, he had got what he expected. Few men could do more. He left his scornful companion and walked slowly down the street. Duncan would take care of Miss Dane. He must con- centrate his own mind upon the best method of following Edgerton. CHAPTER XIII. DUNCAN MAKES A POINT. UNCAN, according to his employer's in- structions, took the evening train for Coverly, and established himself at the hotel. In many ways the assistant was better qualified for the task before him than was Eley himself. He was a fine-looking man, with a refined face and gentlemanlike bearing; and when dressed after the fashion of the times, he appeared more like a gentleman of leisure than like the trained detective he really was. The instructions which Eley had given him were that he should gain the acquaintance of Miss Dane and learn all he could in regard to her former life. Especially was he to find out what Miss Dane had done on the day of the murder. It would be a matter of comparatively little difficulty for Duncan to gain an introduction to Miss Dane. Coverly was an unfashionable summer resort, and the habits of the summer visitors were essentially social. 138 SILKEN THREADS. The first morning of the detective's sojourn in Coverly was fraught with little interest; he had merely lounged about the hotel and made the acquaintance of some of the other guests. One young gentleman, a Mr. Blandin by name, had received the detective's advances with much. cordiality, and had painted the attractions of the town in glowing colors to his new-found friend. Mr. Blandin had been in Coverly the previous summer, and was well acquainted with the vari- ous facilities of the town for enjoyment, as well as with its numerous summer residents. Of the Dane family, however, the young gentleman had said nothing; and Duncan, having represented himself as a total stranger to the inhabitants of the town, could ask no direct questions re- garding the Danes without subjecting himself to suspicion. As has previously been stated, Duncan was an impulsive man, – a man who inwardly chafed at any constraint ; but his principal's caution rang in his ears, and in the present instance he elected the Fabian policy. He would wait, in the mean time keeping his eyes and ears open. After all, Coverly seemed a pleasant place, and Dashford was hot in May. When the hotel dinner was over, Duncan and DUNCAN MAKES A POINT. 139 Blandin lounged out upon the piazza, smok- ing their cigars and discussing such subjects as young men are accustomed to find of interest. Duncan was a ready story-teller, and Blandin was kept in a continual state of merriment by the anecdotes of his companion. But suddenly in the midst of one of these anecdotes Mr. Blandin became preoccupied ; and Duncan, noticing that his companion was not listening, followed the direction of his gaze to two young women who were standing together on the op- posite side of the street. Blandin quickly ex- cused himself, crossed the street, and joined the two young women, who greeted him somewhat distantly, as the detective thought. Duncan cast away his cigar and strolled lazily into the office. “Who are those young ladies Mr. Blandin is talking to?” he asked of the bell-boy, who was sitting in the window. The boy looked up at him with mingled insolence and expectancy. But as he caught sight of the gleam of a silver piece in the detective's hand, the expectant expression overcame its rival, and he answered civilly, - “The two Miss Danes, sir. They live up to the yellow house at the end of the street.” “ Mr. Blandin seems to know them pretty 140 SILKEN THREADS. well,” remarked the detective with a show of carelessness. “Guess he does,” the boy retorted. “He's a dead gone smash on the youngest one!” “So,” whistled the detective softly to himself as he turned away and sauntered back to his place of observation on the piazza again. “That's why he did n't speak of them, is it? That will make pretty plain sailing for me, I guess." Duncan surveyed the group on the opposite side of the way with ill-disguised interest. It was too far off for him to distinguish plainly the faces of the two young women; yet he could see that both were tall and showily dressed. Then he saw Blandin respectfully raise his hat to them and cross the street again, while the two ladies entered a neighboring cottage. “Pretty girls,” the detective carelessly re- marked, as Blandin seated himself at his side. “Yes,” answered his companion. “The younger one seemed particularly beau- tiful,” Duncan continued in the same careless tone, “but rather young, I thought. I must say, I thought the older lady the more attractive of the two. I like maturity myself. I never find anything attractive in very young women.” Blandin looked at his companion with pleased 142 SILKEN THREADS. was introduced to the Misses Dane with that absence of formality for which Coverly is notable. The elder Miss Dane was tall and well- formed; a comely young woman of four-and- twenty. The younger was the most beautiful creature the detective had ever beheld. In spite of the importance of the business before him, Duncan could scarcely withdraw his eyes from her face. Like her sister, Leslie Dane was tall and shapely; but her face was the face of a goddess. Large, expressive brown eyes beamed beneath the perfect arch of her finely pencilled brows; her nose was the nose of Psyche, and her mouth the mouth of a Venus, with full red lips. Her hair was brown and wavy, and fell over a low forehead in thick, luxuriant curls; and her skin, of the rich creamy tint of the perfect brunette, was glowing with the Aush of robust, youthful health. The beauty of the girl was indeed bewildering. Upon this beautiful being the detective gazed with an admiration and astonishment so open and undisguised that Blandin became manifestly impatient at the fixity of the other's glance; and uneasily shifting himself from one foot to the other, he hastened to put an end to a scene DUNCAN MAKES A POINT. 143 which was rapidly becoming embarrassing to all parties. Duncan, eager to repair his error, now turned his attention to the elder sister, and the four, engaged in eager conversation, proceeded gayly up the street, Leslie Dane and Blandin walking ahead, whilst the detective and the elder sister followed closely in the rear. It was not far from the post-office to the Danes' house, yet during this short walk the de- tective succeeded in making himself so agreea- ble to the elder lady, that when the four young people parted at the gate he received a cordial invitation to call. Thus, in his first day at Cov- erly he had made the acquaintance of Miss Les- lie Dane, and had gained admission into her father's house upon the footing of “summer friendship,” — which, as everybody knows, is a footing of insidious familiarity, especially in a place like Coverly. Added to this, the detective had gleaned an important fact. As he had walked up the street behind her, he had ob- served that Miss Leslie Dane was dressed in a walking costume made of a dull yellow material. This walking dress was trimmed with black and yellow braid ! CHAPTER XIV. LESLIE DANE. TESLIE DANE, in spite of her extraordinary beauty, had aroused in the detective a feel- ing of the intensest aversion. That this aversion was partially due to prejudice was of course true: Duncan had gone to Coverly with such a knowl- edge of the girl as must necessarily have preju- diced any one against her. He had studied her letters to Bryce Barclay, and had thought them unwomanly; he had read there injured pride, he believed, rather than wounded love. Then, too, he knew that Eley, not without cause, had suspected this girl of complicity in a murder; and Duncan had great faith in his employer's perspicacity, although he distrusted his execu- tive ability. Besides this, his own subsequent observation of the girl had convinced him that Leslie Dane, notwithstanding her tender years, was an unscrupulous flirt; one of those un- womaniy women, who, by simulating feelings LESLIE DANE. 145 which they do not possess, decoy men on to the destruction of all that is best and noblest in a man's nature. This, Duncan had suspected from her letters, and from her behavior to Blandin on the walk homeward, - a suspicion which had afterwards been confirmed by the girl's manner towards himself. But even these things were not sufficient in themselves to account for so intense a feeling of repulsion as that which the detective was conscious of. A handsome woman may be a flirt; she may write unwomanly letters, and do unwomanly things; she may shock our sen- sibilities, and fall short of our ideal of perfect womanhood by every act and utterance, — yet nevertheless a man may admire her for the beauty she possesses, even though he may de- plore the ignoble qualities that accompany that beauty. Man does not expect perfection in everything that comes in his way: a rose is still lovely though it have its proverbial thorn. Let one avoid the thorn, and he may still derive considerable pleasure from the other attributes of the rose. Indeed, though its whole interior be eaten by worms and slugs, yet the outside may seem to retain its pristine beauty. Perhaps it was the innate nature of the woman which Io 146 SILKEN THREADS. rendered her repulsive. Perhaps Duncan had looked through the beautiful exterior and had seen the evil qualities within, grimly arrayed like felons in their cells; and as he analyzed his horror and repulsion, he became aware that this was indeed the case; that this woman's beauty was but a mask which covered the hideous deformity of her moral nature, as gar- ments hide the hardened body of the leper. He saw that Leslie Dane was hard, vindictive, merciless, and unloving, if we employ this last word in its highest sense. He saw that she was cruel, and that she was selfish; that her own advancement would lead her to the commission of any extreme act, to sweep any obstacle from the path which led to personal enjoyment. He saw, too, a strength of will and a fixity of pur- pose that made her almost masculine in her character in spite of the womanliness of her ap- pearance. Then, too, as the days went on, and time had furnished him with fresh opportunities for observing the girl, he saw that she was a creature of pretence, and that her whole life was a lie. He observed that she was a skilful actress, and had taught herself to assume those traits which the world calls womanly; that she could appear pure and modest, delicate and sensitive, - - - - - - - LESLIE DANE. 147 tender and yielding, pitiful and gentle. Unob- served, he had seen her yield to an ungovern- able burst of passion when her younger brother had soiled her fresh white dress; he had noted the fierce tide of fury which had swept across her countenance, distorting the angelic purity of her features with hard and hideous lines. De- cidedly, thought Duncan to himself, she is cap- able of murder; and a thrill of delight swept over the hunter of men as he thought he might bring this creature to justice. His whole nature cried out against her, and he had become her relent- less foe. But Duncan had not consumed his whole time in studying the complexity of the character of Leslie Dane. He had not discarded legitimate facts for idle assumptions. On the contrary, he had conducted a minute and rigor- ous search into the history of the girl's past life, and his first weekly report to his employer was by no means devoid of intelligence. This report, after detailed descriptions of Leslie Dane's person and character, concluded as follows:- “So much for the appearance and character of Leslie Dane. Now, then, for evidence. Leslie Dane has a yellow dress, trimmed with black and yellow braid. The yellow threads of this braid are of silk; the black seem to be of some 148 SILKEN THREADS. coarser material, thus corresponding to the frag- ments found by Mr. Keene. I hope to procure and forward to you a sample. The above- mentioned dress was worn by Leslie Dane on the day of the murder. The preceding night she passed with her father in Dashford, prom- ising to come to Coverly on the twelve o'clock train. In point of fact, she did not arrive in Coverly until five o'clock, having left Dashford somewhere about four. This change of pro- gramme she ascribed to a delay caused by her dressmaker, Miss Quidd, whose address is No. —, 42d Street. Leslie's appointment with the dressmaker was at eleven A. M. This ap- pointment, as you will perceive, coincides with the hour of the appointment made with Barclay, mentioned in the last letter. Were Mr. Barclay and the dressmaker one and the same person? Was the victim of the murder a Worth in dis- guise? I confess I suspect it. “When Miss Dane came to Coverly, she was disturbed and agitated. Her little brother says, She was crosser than ever;' the nurse, that she was put out, because she had torn her dress in getting into the cars.' Perhaps the same 'cars' which placed the fragments of black and yellow braid in Mr. Keene's possession LESLIE DANE. 149 may also have torn Miss Leslie's yellow walking- dress. “Of the whole Dane family, the two servants included, none seem to suspect Miss Leslie's intimacy with Bryce Barclay. They all speak freely of Barclay, of his wealth and fashion (especially of the latter), and of his sudden death. Miss Leslie alone is reticent upon the subject. She appears thoughtful when Barclay's name is mentioned, but not distressed. The Dane family seem to take pride in the fact that Leslie was acquainted with Mr. Barclay; also that he had called upon them at their house. But I find that Barclay called but once. Miss Leslie's intimacy with him has been kept an entire secret from the family. The interviews of the lovers therefore must have occurred out- side of the girl's home. Miss Dane has been in the habit of taking a music lesson three morn- ings in each week. At other times she was with her mother and her sister. These music lessons therefore must have furnished her with the opportunity for meeting Barclay. “Barclay, however, has not been her only lover. Leslie has received the marked attentions of a Mr. Blandin for the past year. Moreover, she is engaged to be married to Masters Edger- 150 SILKEN THREADS. ton! This engagement was formed when Leslie was but seventeen years old, and has not been made public because of the youth of the parties and the pecuniary circumstances of Edgerton. Leslie appears to have played fast and loose with Edgerton throughout the whole period of this engagement, and latterly it would seem that they have quarrelled. In the past two weeks Edgerton has not visited her, — a most unusual occurrence, as hitherto he has always been a most devoted lover. Edgerton's suit is favored by the girl's father, — Mr. Dane having been a friend of Edgerton's father, and guardian of the son. “Edgerton's non-appearance at Coverly has excited considerable comment among the gossips of the town. The family frequently speak of him, and Miss Leslie seems disturbed when her lover's name is mentioned. “This, up to the present time, is the report of my work. I have established myself upon a friendly footing with the family; I have made love to the nurse, who is my most valuable auxiliary; and I think I have mastered the peculiarities of Miss Leslie's character and disposition. But I have now come to a standstill. It seems to me that I can gain nothing further by remaining LESLIE DANE. 151 here. The principal thing, of course, is to find out Leslie Dane's whereabouts on the day of the murder. This I believe I could better accom- plish if I were in Dashford. I shall remain here, however, awaiting your instructions. Telegraph your reply.” To this letter of his assistant Eley telegraphed back the answer, "Wait." CHAPTER XV. A BRAZEN IMAGE. D EGINALD CANDAGE was not mistaken Il when he had said that Dalton had been a former lover of Margaret Fullerton. If he had said an accepted and preferred lover he would have come nearer the truth, for such indeed had been the case. Dalton had met Miss Fullerton, when she first came out, at the house of a friend. The two young people had been mutually at- tracted to each other and frequent opportunities had occurred for increasing the acquaintance which both had found so agreeable. Thus ac- quaintance had blossomed into friendship, and friendship had ripened into love; until at last Dalton had declared his passion to Miss Fuller- ton, and had been accepted with all the ardor of the young girl's fervent nature. All this had occurred the preceding winter, while Miss Ful- lerton was but yet seventeen; and so far the suit of Dalton had prospered. It was destined to A BRAZEN IMAGE. 153 receive its first check when the young man had sought out the girl's father and had proffered his eager request. Mr. Fullerton had received Dalton's advances coldly. Margaret was too young, he had said, to think of such things. It was absurd for a girl of seventeen years to talk about love and marriage. She must leave such subjects alone until she knew more of life. Seventeen was the age of frivolity. His daughter must enjoy herself and see the world. When she was twenty it would be time enough to talk about marriage. He would allow his daughter to enter into no engagement. Perhaps when she was twenty he would be pre- pared to listen to Dalton. As it was, an engage- ment was not to be thought of. At the same time he politely intimated to Dalton that his objection to an engagement was by no means to be ascribed to any personal objection he might feel towards the young man himself. Mr. Fullerton was kind enough to explain that he considered Mr. Dalton in every respect eligible to aspire to his daughter's hand. He could raise no objection either to Mr. Dalton himself, or to his family, his position, his oc- cupation, or his wealth. He thought it was to 154 SILKEN THREADS. be regretted that Mr. Dalton was ten years older than his daughter, but that was a point upon which opinions might differ. There were those, he said, who believed that a husband should always be ten years older than his wife. In short, Mr. Fullerton had said everything that the young man could have desired excepting that single word "yes." His objection was simply upon the score of his daughter's youth. Upon this ground his veto to the engagement was as immovable as a fixed star. But one gleam of hope still existed for the lovers. Mr. Fullerton, although he had posi- tively forbidden their engagement, had placed no ban upon their meeting. Upon this gleam the lovers still existed; and their affection had only become the stronger because of the obsta- cle which the girl's father had placed in its way. They now ranked themselves in the category of the persecuted; and their love, as is always the case, had become only the more ardent because of the opposition it had roused. Such, then, was the position of affairs when Barclay had first become acquainted with Miss Fullerton. Margaret was so engrossed in her love for Dalton, and in cherishing the sorrow which her father's opposition to that love had brought her, . A BRAZEN IMAGE. 155 that she paid but little heed to her new admirer, an indifference upon the part of the young girl which had only served to enhance the admira- tion which Barclay was beginning to feel for her. Barclay had often been courted by marriageable women and their scheming mammas; then, too, he had often encountered envy and dislike. But indifference upon the part of a young and un- married girl, – that was indeed new to him; and Barclay speedily became infatuated by this beautiful girl who had so passively received his homage. Thus a rival had sprung up against Hubert Dalton, - a rival greatly to be feared; for in all that brilliant and flashing whirl of wealth and idleness, there was no one more courted and more universally admired than was Bryce Barclay. As Barclay's admiration for Miss Fullerton became more apparent and absorbing, Dalton became conscious that his own opportunities for meeting Miss Fullerton were growing fewer and less satisfactory. Margaret, to be sure, had remained unchanged; she was the same sweet, loving, and tender Margaret. But now Dalton seldom saw her alone. He rarely accompanied her on those long afternoon walks which had been the former solace of the lovers; she was 156 SILKEN THREADS. more frequently denied him when he called at her house; and in society Barclay was always in attendance on her. In all this Dalton thought he saw the silent opposition of the girl's father. But he was forced to acquiesce since powerless to prevent. At least he could feel secure in the consciousness of Margaret's affection for him, and consoling himself with this thought he re- signed himself to dreary waiting. Even his beautiful and youthful Margaret must grow older as the time dragged on. In the mean time he would work. He would earn a position worthy her acceptance. Suddenly one day the news of Margaret's en- gagement to Bryce Barclay had come to him with crushing force. The blow had been dealt to him by Margaret herself in a dainty note, one of those sweet-smelling little notes he knew so well and loved so dearly. There could be no doubt of the truth of that terrible communi- cation. It was on the same paper and written by the same hand as those other little notes in the secret compartment of his desk, — those other little notes which had been to him the sunlight of his dreary waiting. There could be no doubt that he had been discarded for his richer rival. But Hubert Dalton was not the man to sit down A BRAZEN IMAGE. 157 calmly and nurse his grief. He knew the girl's father's opposition to his suit, and he felt that it must be due to some coercion that Margaret had violated her solemn vows. He must receive his death-blow from the girl's own lips, and he would resist his fate to the very death if he found that Margaret had been forced into this cruel alliance. If, on the contrary, dazzled by - the glister of Barclay's wealth and splendor, she had yielded a willing consent, he would forget her. She was not worthy of his love. He would bear the sorrow of his broken life in a way befitting to his manhood. But he could not trust himself to write. Neither did he feel that he could trust the girl's father for her written answer. He must see her. So, on the very day when that little note had come to him, Dalton called upon Margaret Fullerton and gained admission. Dalton was in the parlor when Margaret en- tered. He was a tall man, and he seemed to have acquired greater height as he stood in the relief of the red velvet curtains of the window with his back turned towards the light, and the pallor of his marble face enhanced by the red background and his own drooping black mustache. He stood there in the window in 158 SILKEN THREADS. the attitude of Brutus passing judgment upon his sons. Before him Margaret stood, her eyes red with weeping, her form trembling with emo- tion. At first both were too agitated to speak; they could only look at each other with infinite sorrow and longing. Then Dalton broke the si- lence, speaking in husky tones, and with averted face. “Is it true, Margaret?” Dalton pronounced the girl's name with all the tenderness which can be thrown into the utterance of a loved name, dwelling longingly upon every syllable of the word so dear to him. “Yes," the other answered, with a little shudder. She was making strenuous efforts to control her sobs, but they would not be suppressed. Ever and anon they burst forth with a frightful vehemence, – a vehemence which shook her fragile figure from head to foot. “Of your own free will?” Dalton asked again, with no other feeling than pity for the pain he caused: Do what he could, he could feel no other sentiment than compassion for this faith- less woman, and in her sorrow and weakness he loved her now better than ever before. He could take no thought of his own trouble. A BRAZEN IMAGE. 159 “Of my own free will,” she answered, with a sob. “And all is then over between us?” “Yes." “I can do nothing?" “Nothing." “It is your wish that we never meet again ? ”. “Yes,” Margaret faltered, in a voice that was hardly audible, “it is my wish.” Dalton took a step towards her as if to go. Then, pausing, he laid his hand upon a lacq- uered table which stood beside the window there, laden with a heavy freight of costly hideousness. “Margaret,” he said softly, again permitting his voice to linger upon the name, — “Margaret, have you no explanation to make which shall account to me for this sudden change – no excuses to offer for your broken faith?". “No," Margaret replied mechanically, stifling the sobs that made articulation wellnigh im- possible. “No explanations — no excuses." Dalton looked at the girl for a moment in silence. It seemed to him that there was noth- ing further to be said. He took up one of the little ornaments from the table and looked upon it as if in order to gain time. It was the figure of a Chinese love-god worked in bronze. Every 160 SILKEN THREADS. outline of that hideous form was afterwards in- delibly engraven upon his memory, from the sardonic smile of the grinning, bearded mouth to the vise-like grasp of the clutching fingers. Dalton was perfectly composed. The full reali- zation of his sorrow had not yet come to him. He was dazed and shaken by the blow, but his mind was perfectly itself. He had only taken up the bronze image in order to gain time that he might think if there was more that he ought to say. But, no; there was nothing further to be said. There was nothing to be done. All was over now between them. There was no object in waiting longer. He was very glad that the inter- view had been concluded so quietly. He had feared the effects of his own passion and his grief when first he had entered the house. Now all was over, and he had been tempted to no violence. He was almost disappointed at his moderation. He had supposed he would have felt more deeply. Mechanically he restored the heathen god to its place upon the table. “Good-by,” he said. “Good-by,” Margaret answered. Then Dalton passed slowly from the room without looking again at Margaret. That night Dalton started from his sleep with A BRAZEN IMAGE.. 161 a scream of terror. He had dreamed that Mar- garet, with the grinning, bearded face of the Chinese love-god, clutched at his heart with brazen fingers. That dream was the precursor of others that were yet to come. CHAPTER XVI. A YOUTHFUL EAVESDROPPER. W HILE Duncan was occupied with the v affairs of Leslie Dane, -Eley had directed his attention to Masters Edgerton, than whom it is hard to imagine a study presenting greater difficulty. Masters Edgerton was a soured and disap- pointed man. Slowly but surely he had with- drawn himself from the world. He had discarded his friends and abandoned his pleasures, until at the present time he had become a hermit, alone in the great metropolis. His time and his thoughts were devoted to his profession, with the hope that through this channel he might attain a sufficient income to enable him to marry Miss Leslie Dane, - a forlorn hope, as success in the legal profession is rarely attained by the very young. In the mean time, in his dreary, hopeless struggle, this unfortunate man was preyed upon by the bitter consciousness that 164 SILKEN THREADS. acting some part. The simple fact of disguise placed him always on his guard, and rendered his mind more alert. The fictitious sea-captain had consulted the lawyer about his will. “ Make it tight and ship-shape,” Eley was saying in a bluff, jovial voice, which was pecul- iarly fitted to the part he was acting. “I don't want the land-sharks to get hold of it when I'm gone." “I will attend to that,” Edgerton answered. “Give me your instructions, and in a day or two I will have the instrument in readiness.” Eley sat beside the lawyer and glibly told him the romance he had concocted, watching him, in the mean time, as the fisherman watches the perch which is just beyond his reach. But in his heart of hearts, Eley pitied the man before him. Detectives are not necessarily the pitiless indi- viduals they are generally considered. Like surgeons, their occupation deals with extirpa- tion of disease. It is necessary for the health of the community that its diseased growths shall be removed; but, in spite of its necessity, this process of removal may often cause the operator genuine pain. Thus Eley pitied Edgerton as he looked upon the young man's face, lined and haggard with anxiety and sorrow. He was a A YOUTHFUL EAVESDROPPER. 165. tall, thin man, with nervous, watchful manner and restless hands. His face was superlatively thin; his cheek-bones high and prominent; his brown eyes deep set and roving, and surrounded by deep, dark rings; his skin had the unhealthy look of a man who does not sleep. It was a face expressive of sadness and disappointment, - a face of violent emotions. Under certain circumstances, Eley thought, it might be the face of one suffering from mental disease. “Tight and ship-shape," the detective said in the rough manner of a sailor. “Short and to the point, that's my way. Write it out while I · set here." Here Edgerton was forced to explain at some length how it would require time to prepare the document. He would make a note of the cap- tain's intentions, he said, and have the will in readiness the following day. To this proposal Eley assented with feigned reluctance. “That 's a good boy you've got there," he heartily remarked as he pushed back his chair and prepared to go. “Your brother, I pre- sume?” Edgerton, with a faint smile, explained that the lad in question was his office-boy, not his brother. 166 SILKEN THREADS. “Oh!” exclaimed the other, “a sort of ap- prentice?" "No," answered Edgerton. “He is my er- rand boy, copyist, and janitor combined.” “He don't look very rugged,” Eley remarked, looking narrowly at the boy. And the detec- tive spoke the truth, for the lad was a sickly, overgrown youth with a hollow chest and scamp- ish face. “I'd like to take him to sea and make a man of him." The office-boy, in the mean time, fidgeted in his chair, embarrassed by the unusual notice thus bestowed upon him. Eley took advantage of this embarrassment to lay his hand upon the shoulder of the urchin. “Come, now," he said in reassuring tones, “don't you be scared! nobody's goin' to hurt you. I ain't a goin' to take you to sea, Lord bless you! Should n't know what to do with you when I got you there, so don't you fret. I'm a goin' to take you to the circus, that 's what I 'm goin' to do.” At this proposition the boy pricked up his ears; and Eley, seeing the impression he had made, continued in the same jovial tones, — “Yes, my boy. You call at the Dew Drop at six o'clock to-night, and ask for Captain Burton, A YOUTHFUL EAVESDROPPER. 167 and I'll take you to the circus as sure as a gun;" and with these words Eley smiled benignly upon the lad and took his departure. That night the fictitious Captain Burton sat on one of the hard benches at Barnum's circus by the side of Edgerton's office boy. The de- tective was plying the lad with peanuts and candy, extracting information in return. “He looks kind o' glum,” remarked the de- tective, referring to Masters Edgerton. “He is so," the boy replied. By this time he had become exhilarated by the peanuts he had eaten, and was communicative. “He ain't ben so always, though,” he thoughtfully continued. “No?" inquired the detective. “No," answered the boy. “ Last year he was chipper as you or I be. He's crossed in love, that 's what's the matter," he continued sagely. Like many Dashford boys of his stamp, he was an expert in the tender passion, having devoted his leisure moments to the perusal of the yellow- covered literature of the day. “Crossed in love !” the detective echoed. “What do you know about love, you young monkey?" The boy, thus put upon his mettle, answered bravely. 168 SILKEN THREADS. “I know enough about love,” he said volubly, “to know that a man don't sigh and sit all day doin' nothin' but write letters and tear 'em up, and meet young ladies in his office, and cry and beg, without bein' in love." Eley's eyes glittered. "Stop there!” he interrupted playfully, and holding up his left hand, he began to tell off its stubby fingers with the forefinger of the other. “There are five counts. How do you know your master sighs?”. “'Cause I hears him," answered the boy. “Good,” replied the detective; and the stout thumb of his left hand was stiffly crooked so that the four fingers alone remained extended. “How do you know he does nothin' but write letters and tear 'em up?" he continued, ticketing off his forefinger, and gazing upon his compan- ion with playful sternness. “'Cause I seen him," aggressively answered the boy. “'Cause one day last week he wrote seven letters all chock-full of love, and tore every one on 'em up. 'Cause I looked in the waste-paper basket and seen they was all love letters to Miss Dane." “Good,” said the pretended sea-captain, with a well-pleased smile. “You 're all right so far; A YOUTHFUL EAVESDROPPER. 169 but I guess you 've got to look out I don't catch you on one of the last three counts ;” and the detective ticketed off his middle finger, and looked at the boy with the same expression of playful severity. “How do you know he meets young ladies in his office? ” By this time the boy had entered into the game, and he answered quickly, — “ 'Cause I was there when she come. 'Cause I seen the young lady there no later 'n last Tues- day. 'Cause I heard him talk soft to her and her to him. Any one with half an eye could see he was spooney." “What did he say?" inquired the detective. “I don't know," answered the boy. “Master come out and shut the door, and they was alone together.” “Now I've got you!” exclaimed the detec- tive in affected triumph, holding up his fourth finger threateningly to the lad. “How do you • know he cried if the door was shut?” “ 'Cause I heard him snuffle,” replied the boy with youthful candor; “'cause I seen him beg when I peeked through the key-hole, and seen him on his knees before the young lady. I tell you what,” he continued, drawing 170 SILKEN THREADS. himself up with pride, “ you can't fool this chicken.” “I guess that's so, fast enough,” Eley an- swered, looking at the youthful eavesdropper with affected admiration. “I guess you 're smart enough, and no mistake. But what was the young lady doin' all this time?”. “She was a beggin' too,” the boy replied, with a burst of confidence; "and that's the funny part of it. She set in his chair a beggin' him, and he kneeled down in front of her a beggin' her. Both was a beggin', and neither one would give in. Then master got up off his knees and said she'd be the death of him.” “What did she say to that?" inquired the detective. “I give it up," answered the boy. “About that time I cleared out. I was afraid master 'd ketch me. I don't believe he gin in, though,” he continued meditatively, “she looked pretty cross when she come out." “When was that ?" inquired the detective. “It must a' been about two o'clock," answered the boy. “I don't mean that,” explained the detective, although it was precisely what he had meant; “I mean how long did she stay there?” A YOUTHFUL EAVESDROPPER. 171 “ 'Most an hour, I guess,” the boy carelessly replied. Then suddenly his blasé countenance became illuminated with a smile of expectancy. “Hullo!” he cried, “here comes the chariots ! They 're the best part of the whole show," and with this the urchin settled himself down to wit- ness the coming chariot races, evidently with- out suspicion that he had betrayed his master. Indeed, he was too highly satisfied with his own acuteness to be conscious of anything derogatory to himself. NUMBER 48,579. 173 “Does it give you much pain?” asked Edger- ton, with sympathy. He appeared somewhat at a loss to know exactly what his visitor expected of him. “You'd better believe it does,” replied Eley, with a grimace expressive of the torture he would have his companion believe he was un- dergoing. “It aches dreadful, and no mistake. The worst of it is I can't get nothin' to soothe it with. The apothecaries seem scared to sell me any anodyne.” Eley was at home on medical subjects, as any one must be whose wife is an animated medical encyclopædia. Edgerton answered his visitor without hesi- tation. He was unsuspicious of the other's purpose. “Tell me what you want, and I will get it for you,” he said with ready sympathy. “Chloroform,” answered Eley, with a wriggle such as his wife gave when “the dyspepsy” came upon her. “ John shall buy it for you,” Edgerton said. “I will write to the apothecary myself;" and the lawyer, disregarding the detective's feeble protest, hastily wrote his letter and despatched the boy for the drug in question. During the interim between the office-boy's 174 SILKEN THREADS. departure and return, Eley tried to engage the lawyer in conversation, but all in vain. He found Edgerton the most unapproachable person he had ever met in all the long years of his de- tective career; he could hardly elicit a word from him. At length he took his chloroform, and with profuse thanks he left the lawyer to himself, promising to return on the following day, when he hoped to be well enough to discuss the will. On his way downstairs Eley tore the wrapper from the chloroform bottle and read the ad- dress of Messrs. Hartshorn & Postlemann, Edg- erton's druggists. To this address he forthwith betook himself and called for Mr. Hartshorn, the senior member of the firm. A portly man in a seersucker coat came forward in answer to the detective's summons, – a ruddy man with a glowing skin. None of the obnoxious drugs in that portentous array of ill-smelling bottles be- hind him, had ever gained admission into his portly frame. He was evidently one of those druggists who thump their mortars with the pestle at arm's length. Eley produced his bottle of chloroform and handed it to the portly druggist. “I want you to pour out half this chloroform,” 176 SILKEN THREADS. most folks. Yet I could n't get a little chloro- form for the toothache! I tell you it ain't rea- sonable. Why could n't you sell me chloroform just as well as Mr. Edgerton ? " The portly druggist smiled in gentle depreca- tion of the other's heat. “I am acquainted with Mr. Edgerton," he blandly answered. “So, because you're acquainted with Mr. Edgerton, you'd sell him anything he asked for; while I might hang round and suffer, and could n't get a drop of relief, just because you did n't know me?” “Well, that's about it,” the druggist admitted, smiling again with gentle deprecation. Citizens are apt to treat sailors as they treat children, — a fact of which Eley had taken advantage when he adopted his present disguise. “You see, Captain,” the druggist familiarly continued, “we have to be very careful about what we sell, and whom we sell it to. It is n't ex- actly against the law to sell poisons, you know; but if we did sell 'em, like as not some accident might happen that would kill our business." Thus the portly druggist and the watchful detective fell into easy conversation, the upshot of which was, that Eley promised to refill his NUMBER 48,579. 177 medicine chest under the advice of his new- found acquaintance, when his phantom ship might be ready for sea. Presently the detective was behind the counter, smelling and tasting, and discoursing upon the virtues of the various drugs. “Here are our poisons,” remarked the drug- gist, unlocking a case at the rear of the building. “We keep 'em under lock and key, you see, by way of precaution.” “Whew!” whistled Eley, “you 've got a power of 'em.” “ Yes,” the druggist answered with proud im- portance, looking complacently at the array of bottles on the shelves before him. “We have some of nearly every kind of poison in that case there.” “You don't say so!” Eley exclaimed with affected admiration. “I guess I don't want none of them things in my ship!” “No," returned the other. “I think myself you'd be better off without them.” “ What of all them bottles would make a man keel over quickest, if I might make bold to ask?” Eley questioned, after a short pause. The druggist took down a bottle of prussic acid, and showed the label to his companion. 12 178 SILKEN THREADS. “Anhydrous hydrocyanic acid,” he said in pompous tones, — “prussic acid, as it is more generally called. That bottle contains acid strong enough to kill you, if you only took out the cork and smelled it. A single drop on the tongue would kill a man in a few seconds." “You don't say so !” exclaimed Eley, draw- ing back in genuine alarm. "I s'pose you don't never sell any of that bottle?" he remarked jocosely, as he regarded the bottle from a safer distance. “Oh, yes I do!” the druggist answered lightly. “In fact, I sold your friend Mr. Edger- ton a sample out of that very bottle, not two weeks ago." “ The devil you did !” Eley cried. “What did Mr. Edgerton want of such stuff as that?” “Oh, gentlemen have queer fancies,” remarked the druggist. “I should n't hesitate to sell Mr. Edgerton anything in the whole store he had a mind to ask for. I have known him, you see, ever since he was a boy, and I know he would n't make any wrong use of anything I sold him.” Eley did not feel quite so sure upon this point as did the portly druggist, but he concealed his doubts. “If he had made any wrong use of it,” he NUMBER 48,579. 179 remarked meditatively, “you'd have heard of it by this time, I guess.” It was now of fundamental importance that he should learn whether Edgerton had purchased the poison before or after the death of Bryce Barclay. This information, however, the druggist did not seem disposed to give. He merely an- swered in the affirmative, and locked up the case. Then Eley determined to take another tack. “You keep a log, I presume,” he slowly remarked. “How?” demanded the druggist. “A log-book," the detective explained; "a kind of a book, you know, where you jots down what you sells, and who you sells it to." “Why, no,” the druggist answered, “not ex- actly. You see we could n't inquire a lady's name when she bought a tooth-brush or a bottle of hair-wash. But we keep a ledger, and when any one has an account with us, like Mr. Edger- ton, for instance, we can tell exactly what he buys by comparing our ledger with our pre- scription book.” “I s'pose it's easy enough,” Eley answered, with a puzzled look, “ only I don't quite under- stand it.” The druggist thought he saw his way clear to 180 SILKEN THREADS. making out an extensive bill against this inno- cent toiler of the sea. A sea medicine-chest contains vast capabilities, as the druggist was well aware. At all events, it was an hour in the day when the drug business was dull, and the gentleman in seersucker was ready to humor this possible customer. “Why, it's plain as daylight,” he proceeded to explain; and taking down his ledger, he turned to the page of Edgerton's account. “See, here is the charge made for the chloro- form you had this morning, No. 48,625; ” and the druggist laid his fat forefinger against the entry in the ledger. Then turning to his pre- scription book, he opened it at prescription No. 48,625, and pointed out to Eley, who was look- ing over his shoulder, an entry made for an ounce of chloroform. “I see !” exclaimed Eley, with the delight of a man who has solved a difficult problem. “I see, – and this next number?” he continued, pointing to an entry in the ledger bearing the date of May 22, — “Is No. 48,579. That, as you see, is the prussic acid I was just telling you about.” Eley hid his delight at this new discovery, by a mighty effort. NUMBER 48,579. 181 “It's very simple,” he remarked, with a gulp. “Very,” responded the portly druggist, now closing his books and returning them to their respective places. “But you could n't tell when he bought it," persisted the detective. “I should want to log the very hour when I sold such a nasty thing as that proosic acid.” “That is not necessary,” the druggist re- turned. “None of my clerks are allowed to go to this case without speaking first either to me or to my partner. I sold Mr. Edgerton the acid myself, and I remember the time. If my partner had sold it, he would remember the time.” “Yes? ” Eley answered doubtfully. “Yes,” replied the druggist, with decision. “I remember the time plainly. It was just before dinner.” “And what time might that be?” Eley in- quired. “I dines at all times myself.” “I never do,” said the portly druggist, with severity. “I always dine at half-past two o'clock, and I make it a point to sit forty min- utes at every meal.” “Leave a doctor alone to know how to take care of himself !” cried Eley, with insidious flattery. He knew it was a weakness among CHAPTER XVIII. ELEY'S DISCOMFITURE. L ITHERTO Fortune had smiled upon Eley. 11 Now it was destined that he should be- hold the face of the goddess wreathed in frowns. On the day that followed his fruitful interview with the druggist, Eley had sat for an hour or more in Edgerton's office, exhausting every in- vention of his fertile imagination in vain endeavors to induce the lawyer to converse. But all his efforts had proved unavailing. Edgerton sat at his desk plunged in an apathy from which noth- ing could arouse him. About the will, it was true, he could be made to talk, and that clearly and concisely. He would exhaustively expound any legal point which the detective might raise in that connection. But upon no other subject could Eley entice him into conversation; he was silent as the grave. Edgerton had treated his interlocutor distantly though politely, but with such evident indiffer- 184 SILKEN THREADS. ence, that Eley at last had decided to abandon all further attempt of extracting information from Edgerton himself. He must prosecute his search in other directions. This having been decided upon, Eley signed his will, and bade the lawyer an effusive farewell. In the lawyer's outer office the detective paused with the bewildered aspect of a hound at fault. Presently he became conscious that he had excited the observation of the office- boy, and he hastily regained his self-possession. Had Edgerton observed him too? he thought to himself. “Good-by, bub,” he said heartily, resuming the bluff sailor manner that he had for an instant forgotten to assume. “Maybe I'll take you to the circus again one of these days.” The boy grinned, and Eley took his depart- ure. He could mature his plans as well outside the office, he reflected, as in the presence of this over-shrewd urchin. As Eley closed the door and stood upon the door-mat, undecided as to his next step, he heard the voice of Edgerton from the inner office calling to the boy. Like a flash the detective fell upon his knee, and began to toy with the lacing of his boot. In this posi- tion, by a strange coincidence, the ear of the ELEY'S DISCOMFITURE. 185 detective and the key-hole of the door came in exact apposition, and Eley found he could over- hear the words of Edgerton, as he spoke to the boy. “What did you say to that man at the circus?” Edgerton asked in angry tones. “I did n't say nothin'," whimpered the boy; and then a short silence followed, in which Eley fancied that he saw Edgerton scrutinizing the lad's frightened face with his sombre eyes. Presently Eley heard him speak again in the calm, sad voice which characterized him:- “Be careful that you do not. Remember that you occupy a position of trust, and be careful that you never mention what you may see or hear in this office.” And Willis Eley, now having arranged his boot-lacing to his satisfac- tion, crept stealthily away. He saw that he was suspected, and that no time was to be lost. The detective hastened to his office and threw aside his disguise, donning in its stead the cos- tume he had assumed when first he had visited Edgerton's lodgings. Then he hastily repaired to Edgerton's boarding-house, and demanded an interview with the landlady. “Well, madam,” he said, as the woman ac- costed him in the hall, “ have you come to any 186 SILKEN THREADS. conclusion about the room I looked at the other day?" “Why, no, sir,” answered the woman, with hesitation. “At least, not exactly. I think the room will be vacated, but I can't say for certain.” “ Perhaps I better give up all idea of taking it," Eley answered with seeming reluctance; “and yet I shall be sorry to lose it, it is so sunny and cheerful, and I like the house so much.” “I'm sure I shall be sorry to lose you, sir,” said the landlady, with a smile. She was a thin, blue-eyed woman, with severe, sharp feat- ures, and a mouth which drooped at the corners in a manner that gave her thin face an expres- sion of unusual austerity, — an expression which was greatly enhanced by the two little perpen- dicular wrinkles which rose on either side from the junction of the downward-curving lips. It was a face unsuited to the conventionalities of the world, and the smile was a deadly discourag- ing failure. Yet Eley was by no means intimi- dated by it. He saw that the woman intended to be friendly, and her grimace emboldened him rather than otherwise. “Well, madam,” he continued blandly, “ I can ELEY’S DISCOMFITURE 187 manage to wait another week. You see my own lease won't expire till a week from to- morrow. Perhaps by that time you will know definitely." “I should think so," the landlady responded. “In the mean time, could I take another look at the room? ” “Certainly ;” and the landlady without hesita- tion again preceded the detective up the stairs, leading the way to Edgerton's chamber. This time Eley had a definite object in view, but he feared lest he could not accomplish it. Every advantage that the room possessed was pointed out, and commented on by the shrewd detective, who was now striving to throw his companion off her guard. At length the woman threw open the door of the closet. “Here is the clothes-press,” she said with womanly pride, as she stood aside to make room for her companion. It was a large and spacious closet, liberally furnished with hooks and shelves. On the upper shelf was the row of bottles which Eley had noticed on his previous visit. “It's a very deep closet,” the detective re- marked with feigned admiration, as he thrust his cane between the rows of garments hanging on the japanned hooks. “How wide is that shelf, I 188 SILKEN THREADS. wonder?” he abruptly inquired, looking at the shelf above his head, and then glancing furtively at his companion. “I'm sure, I can't tell you,” the woman re- sponded. Eley had hoped that she would become wearied and sit down. But she did not; she stood there beside him, rigid as the laws, with her hands resting on her narrow hips, in a strange attitude of watchful intentness. “I should like to know," remarked the de- tective meditatively, as if speaking to himself; "perhaps it may be wide enough for my port- folios.” With these words Eley drew a chair into the entrance of the closet, and mounting upon it, began to measure upon his cane the ex- act dimensions of the shelf. As he did this, he slightly moved two little bottles, which stood at the front of the shelf with their labels turned away from the light. Now, indeed, he was very near the object of his search. One of these bot- tles was half empty; the other was full. Either might contain the colorless material he had seen at the drug-store. It was now of paramount importance that he should read the number upon the half-empty bottle. Eley seized the second bottle as if to move it ELEY'S DISCOMFITURE. 189 aside. He was in the very act of turning the label to the light when the landlady interrupted him. “Please, sir," she said sharply,“ do not dis- turb any of Mr. Edgerton's things. Mr. Edger- ton is very particular, and it's time enough to measure the shelf when we know that the room is to be vacant.” “I have already measured it,” the detective blandly answered, making a little scratch upon his cane with his thick thumb-nail, and smiling down upon his companion. “I will disturb nothing, madam, do not fear. I will simply verify my measurement." Ely had already caught the first two figures of the number on the label, and was too near the accomplishment of his purpose to be deterred by the landlady's disapproval. Again he turned himself toward the shelf in spite of the landlady's motion to re- strain him; again his hand was upon the object of his search, when suddenly the woman uttered a cry, and Eley involuntarily dropped the bottle. At the same instant he heard his companion exclaim, “Why, Mr. Edgerton, how you do startle one!” And Eley, turning upon the chair, saw that Edgerton was behind him. “ Beg pardon, sir,” cried the detective, spring- 190 SILKEN THREADS. ing from his chair with an agility surprising for a person of his bulk, and emerging from the closet with awkward embarrassment. He feared that all hope of concealment had now vanished; but a glance at Edgerton's face instantly reassured him. The young man was pale as death and fright- fully agitated. Great drops of sweat stood upon his brow, and his whole form trembled with ex- citement. He was evidently under the influ- ence of a deadly fear. Fear of what? questioned the detective to himself. Edgerton spasmodically pushed his visitors aside, and anxiously gazed at the bottles on the shelf. Eley could see that he was reassured by what he saw. His face slowly regained its wonted aspect, and but for his hurried breath- ing it was evident the man had recovered from the shock he had just experienced. Anger at this unwarrantable intrusion into the privacy of his apartment Edgerton did not manifest. His whole aspect was the aspect of relief. The woman was the first to break the silence. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Edgerton,” she said slowly; “but some time ago you spoke of leaving us, and I had just taken the liberty of showing this gentleman your room.” ELEY'S DISCOMFITURE. 191 “It makes no difference," answered Edgerton wearily. “But in future I beg you will do nothing of the kind. I have no intention what- ever of giving up the room.” Edgerton sank languidly into a chair, and took up a book as if. to intimate to his visitors his desire to be left alone. He seemed to have relapsed into his old habitual melancholy. The landlady, murmuring some further ex- cuses, moved towards the door as if to go, when Eley, who had kept himself in the background, now stepped forward and confronted Edgerton. He must definitely ascertain if the lawyer had detected him. “I am very sorry, sir, that I have intruded upon your privacy,” he said courteously. Whether it was that the voice sounded familiar in Edgerton's ears, or that the young man's sus- picions had already been aroused, the detective could not determine; but at all events, as Edger- ton turned his eyes upon him, Eley saw that he was recognized, — that Edgerton had identified the intruder into his chamber with the Captain Burton of his office. CHAPTER XIX. “WHAT WAS DONE?” THUS did Duncan and Eley, acting upon the theory of “Who done it? ” proceed with checkered success to unravel their respec- tive skeins. Keene, in the mean time, adopting the method he had advocated from the begin- ning, had settled himself down to the solution of the problem, “What was done?” How had Bryce Barclay come to his death? What agent had been employed by the assassin for the de- struction of his victim? Keene had considered the question from every standpoint. At first he had devoted himself to an exhaustive study of the nature and action of the various poisons upon the human body, - a task of no little difficulty to one not versed in the technicalities which hedge in a scientific subject of this na- ture. The by-paths of science, as is well known, are beset by many difficulties and puzzling doubts; and perhaps, in the whole broad field “WHAT WAS DONE?” 193 of medicine, there exists no subject more com- plicated and conjectural than is that of the toxicological action of drugs. . The result of Keene's study had brought him to the conclusion that Sedgwick's testimony was in the main true: that Barclay's death, if due to poison at all, could only have been caused by one of the three drugs, — prussic acid, aconitine, or woorara. Of course it was conceivable that Barclay had been poisoned by an admixture of these or other drugs, but this was a possibility too vague for serious consideration. Moreover, it would not materially alter the aspect of the case, whether the victim had been poisoned by prussic acid alone, or by prussic acid in combi- nation with woorara or aconitine. It was fur- ther possible that Barclay had died from the ingestion of some drug, the action and prin- ciples of which had hitherto been undescribed. This supposition was more tenable than the last, and seemed the more plausible when he considered the opportunities for investigation which lay at Sedgwick's disposal. Yet Keene's research had brought him to the conclusion that this supposition also was unworthy of credence. It was possible, of course, but nevertheless un- likely. His investigations had shown him that 194 SILKEN THREADS. the discovery of a new poison is similar to the discovery of a new planet, - an event of the most unusual occurrence. Indeed, he had come to the knowledge that a new poison is barely discov- ered once in a century. How unlikely there- fore that such a new poison had been discovered for the express purpose of the destruction of Bryce Barclay. Furthermore, the detective had learned that by far the greater number of the known poisons cause death by convulsions. How improbable again, therefore, that this new poison, admitting for an instant that such a new poison had been discovered by Sedgwick, should act in a way so opposite to the usual course of events. Of course it was possible; but still it was extremely improbable. This conclu- sion, therefore, brought the detective back to the three drugs enumerated by Sedgwick, — prussic acid, aconitine, and woorara. In prussic acid he found a means of account- ing for all the phenomena of the present case. It might have been administered in a diluted form, mixed with some article of food or drink, or in a concentrated form by inhalation. In this latter case the assassin might noiselessly have entered the studio; have crept up behind the chair of his unconscious victim; and, standing 6. WHAT WAS DONE ?."! 195 behind him as shown by the photograph, have administered to him the fumes of the strong acid held at arm's length. This theory would account for the distance at which the murderer stood behind the chair, inasmuch as the fumes which poisoned the victim would have proved disastrous to the assassin himself, unless some similar precaution had been observed. This theory assumed, to be sure, that Barclay was unconscious when the murderer entered; but Keene was convinced that this must have been the case from the attitude of the dead man, as shown by the photograph. He was convinced that death had overtaken him while he was asleep. There was certainly a good deal in favor of the prusssic-acid theory; but, on the other hand, there was much to be said against it. In the first place, prussic acid of a strength sufficient to cause death by its fumes alone, Keene found to be an article exceedingly difficult to obtain. Indeed, it seemed doubtful to him if acid of such concentration existed at all, at least as a commercial commodity. Moreover, prussic acid is characterized by a strong and permeating almond-like odor; an odor so persistent that it is often appreciated in a room or about a poi- 196 SILKEN THREADS. soned person for many days after its employment. How unlikely, therefore, that this odor should escape detection in the present case, a few hours after the supposed use. To be sure, the windows of the atelier had been found open when Prose had returned at five o'clock. But then, on the other hand, the odor of prussic acid is too powerful to be dispelled even by a free current of air blowing for two hours. Furthermore, Keene found an authority stating the rigor mor- tis following death by prussic acid to be of unusual strength and duration, - an assertion which first induced the detective to study up this question of rigor mortis. The rigidity of the body aſter death Keene found to be a phenomenon of almost constant occurrence, yet reference to the report of the autopsy revealed to him that no allusion had been made to it in the present case. Careful search showed him that this was an unusual omission. Indeed, in a case of poisoning by prussic acid it seemed to him almost certain that this condition would have been noted. Taken as a whole, therefore, the detective did not favor the prussic-acid supposition, although it was the most reasonable theory hitherto ad- duced. Perhaps the remembrance that Eley had 6. WHAT WAS DONE?" : 197 so readily adopted this view of the case was the factor which influenced Keene to continue his search. At all events, Keene was by no means satisfied with the prussic-acid theory. Next, as regarded aconitine. In poisoning by aconitine, the detective found that death is al- most invariably accompanied by convulsions. In fact, he could find no authentic case of poisoning by aconitine, in which convulsions had not been an attendant symptom. In Barclay's case there had been no convulsions. Thus aconitine as a cause of death Keene positively eliminated. Lastly, woorara. In regard to woorara the detective learned that this poison might answer all the requirements of the present case; more- over, it might have been administered in one of two ways: by the mouth, or by inoculation. If Barclay's death had been due to woorara in- gested in food or drink, the poison would have required some time to act, – say two or three hours at the very least. Now, supposing that Barclay had died at four o'clock, as was proba- bly very near the truth, he must have ingested the poison between one and two o'clock, - either with his sherry and bitters at the club-house, or with his luncheon at the Fullertons'. But sup- posing he had been poisoned at the club-house 198, SILKEN THREADS. or at the Fullertons', how could the presence of the man behind the chair then be accounted for? Why had this mysterious person visited the studio, and what was the meaning of the movement of his arms? In the second place, woorara might cause almost instant death if administered by inocu- lation. It might have been administered by the man behind the chair, either by being applied to some abraded portion of the surface of the skin, or by being exhibited by the subcutaneous method. If this latter theory was adopted, it would be necessary to assume that Barclay had been rendered unconscious either by ether or by some similar drug. Otherwise, had he simply been asleep, he would have become awakened and would have offered resistance to the mur- derer. Keene erected this theory merely as a logical process; he was on the point of discard- ing it on the grounds of the all-pervading odor of ether or chloroform, when the thought of Barclay's occupation flashed suddenly upon him. Barclay was a photographer. The odor of ether or chloroform would create no suspi- cion in the atelier of such a person. Besides, the odor of a drug so volatile as ether would be quickly dispelled by the free circulation of air “WHAT WAS DONE ?” 199 caused by the open windows. Decidedly, this was a theory worthy of serious consideration. Keene felt that he could not discard the possi- bility that Barclay had died by the inoculation of woorara. Had the detective been aware that such an inoculation as he imagined could have occurred painlessly, and without the interven- tion of chloroform or ether, he would indeed have regarded this new theory as tenable. Thus the subject of the poisons had been studied and summarized, and the first two days of the detective's research had laboriously been consumed. It was now the afternoon of the third day, yet still Keene sat at the table in his office. On every side of the detective heaps of books were piled, — medical books, if one might judge from the ponderous size and sombre bind- ings of the volumes in question. On the table before him lay the medical expert's report of the post-mortem examination. Keene was com- paring the result of this autopsy with the result of those other autopsies recorded in the books by his side. Slowly and systematically he had gone over that vast mass of material, and every omission and deviation was noted and set aside for subsequent study. And now the work was done, — the last book had been set aside; and 200 SILKEN THREADS. yet no ray of light illuminated the dark page of Bryce Barclay's sudden death. The detective's laborious research had merely shown him that there were three omissions in the report of the medical experts. These omissions were as follows:- 1. Mention of the phenomenon of rigor mortis had been totally ignored. 2. It was not expressly stated that no abra- sions existed upon the surface of the body. 3. It had not been conclusively shown that Barclay had not died from asphyxia. This, then, with the knowledge he had gleaned in regard to the poisons, was the result of the labor of his first three days. Keene, as has before been stated, was a syste- matic man, although an imaginative one. His first resolve, as he surveyed the evidence before him, was that the omissions in the medical testi- mony should be thoroughly sifted. They might mean much or they might mean little. At all events, it was necessary that they should be fully explored. It was possible that he might derive evidence from them which should prevent his searching in some wrong direction. Besides this, such a preliminary search would consume at the very most but half a day. Keene had a “ WHAT WAS DONE ?" 201 profound contempt for scientists, “men who knew nothing positively," as he was accustomed to describe them. He could dispose of the medical experts, he thought, in a very short time. Having arrived at this conclusion, the de- tective took up his note-book and proceeded to write down the various theories which his medi- cal research seemed to have rendered tenable. These entries were as follows: — 1. That Bryce Barclay had been poisoned by the fumes of strong prussic acid, administered to him in his sleep by the man behind the chair. 2. That he had been poisoned by woorara or prussic acid administered by Sedgwick at the club. 3. By woorara or prussic acid administered at the Fullertons'. 4. By woorara subcutaneously administered by the man behind the chair. The detective read his four theories carefully over; then, with a slight laugh, he further added, — 5. That Bryce Barclay came to his death by some unknown agent, administered in an un- known way, by a person unknown. 202 SILKEN THREADS. With this entry Keene closed his book and laid it away in his safe. “Now that I have become a medical expert," he murmured to himself, with his silent laugh, “it is proper I should adopt their mysterious language; ” and with these words he locked up his safe and prepared himself to visit the coro- ner. It was necessary he should sift the three omissions to the bottom before he could decide upon any definite line of action. CHAPTER XX. MR. CORONER JUDD AGAIN. U ORACE P. JUDD and David Keene were 11 old acquaintances. Many times before had they met on occasions when death had been shrouded in apparently impenetrable mystery; and many times had the coroner been forced to confess himself at fault before the incisive logic and trained intellect of David Keene. Acquaint- ances they had for a long time been, but friends — never. Keene had too profound a contempt for the illiteracy of the other to regard him as anything more than a necessary evil; while Judd, conscious of the other's knowledge of his true character, bitterly feared and disliked the detective. , Their last meeting had ended in a quarrel, and the two men had parted with the bitterest invective. But this fact made no differ- ence to David Keene. It was necessary that Judd should be interviewed, and to Judd's resi- dence he accordingly repaired. 206 SILKEN THREADS. Now, Keene knew nothing positive to the detriment of Judd. He knew that it was a trick of the trade among dishonest coroners to threaten to return a verdict of suicide in certain cases of sudden death, unless a sufficient bribe should be offered to prevent them. In such cases, if there was a life insurance, he knew that the premium was either lost or its payment greatly delayed; and he knew that there were many poor widows who had been forced to pay this iniquitous bribe to guilty officials. Keene, to be sure, did not know certainly that Judd had ever been guilty of this cowardly wrong; but he knew that he was capable of it, and he suspected him. As he gazed upon the paling face of the other, he saw that his shaft had struck home. “Yes,” he continued, with the drawl that exasperated the other nearly to frenzy. “I mean life insurance, that 's what I mean. I mean to say, that if I was chief of police there'd be a new deal in coroners.” Then, as the other did not answer, he continued again, “Yes, I came for nothing, and now I've got it. I've got you, Dr. Judd, and I mean to use you too. I'm going to ask you a few questions, you see, and you are going to answer them.” MR. CORONER JUDD AGAIN. 207 It was a curious picture the two men repre- sented as they confronted each other there, the one with anger, the other with contempt; Keene sitting easily in his chair, the coroner standing nervously before him. It seemed as if the usual position of things had been reversed, — as if the mouse had turned the tables against the cat. Keene, so slight and wiry, with his shrewd pale face and small sparkling eyes, was the master of the situation; while before him cowered the huge figure of the burly Judd, - a man who seemed capable of crushing his insignificant antagonist with a single sweep of his ponderous arm. It was an example of the so-called triumph of mind over matter; it was the triumph of disciplined intelligence over brute strength, of temperance over incontinence. Presently Judd spoke out angrily. “Well, ask away,” he said, and with these words he impa- tiently seated himself in his chair again. Such cravens will dishonesty make of men, - at least till they 're brought to bay. Judd felt it was better to submit to the questioning of Keene. There was no object in defying him. Submission was the surest method of ridding himself of his hated presence. But Keene manifested no intention of further 210 SILKEN THREADS. had divined the purpose of his question, and gloried in his triumph. Secretly amused by the malice of the other, Keene accepted the warning that he must put his other questions with a greater caution. “So you are ready to swear that no poison was subcutaneously administered to Barclay upon any portion of his body?” he persistently inquired. “Yes,” Judd answered. “ Under the scalp, for example?” “Well — no- not exactly,” Judd hesitatingly replied. “No one could be sure of that unless he had looked there especially.” “And you did not look there for the subcuta- neous administration of poison, especially? " “No,” said Judd, now driven to the wall, “ I can't say that I did.” “You're an accurate witness ! ” cried Keene, with disdain. “ For my part I don't feel sure that Mr. Barclay was not strangled, in spite of all you may say to the contrary.” “Well, he was n’t,” Judd answered surlily. “ Nonsense,” continued Keene; “ you doctors can't tell anything for certain.” “We can tell about asphyxia,” said Judd, fall- ing into the trap which the other had laid for him; and he forthwith arrayed all the facts which could MR. CORONER JUDD AGAIN. 211 be used as evidence against the idea of asphyxia. That Judd was not accurate in his statements, Keene was well aware. Nevertheless he soon became satisfied that no real omission had been made in regard to asphyxia; the ground had been simply untenable, and therefore all men- tion of it had been disregarded in the report. The detective laughed slyly to himself as Judd became silent. “The autopsy was a bungling job, anyway,” he said tauntingly. “Who ever heard of mak- ing an autopsy during the rigor mortis ?” “It was n't made during the rigor mortis ! ” Judd surlily averred. “ I say it was," retorted Keene. “Then I say you lie !” cried Judd, with sudden anger. Keene laughed again slightly and to himself. The coroner was like a malleable metal in his experienced hands. “Then it was made before," he remarked exasperatingly. “That's a lie too!” cried Judd again. “There was no rigor mortis, - at least there was none up to the time of burial, three days after death.” “ That was precisely what I wanted to know !" Keene laughed in triumph. “That was the third 212 SILKEN THREADS. omission in the medical evidence. You've told me precisely what I wanted to learn.” As Keene uttered the words he rose to his feet and made the coroner a low bow. “Bye- bye, Horace,” he said, with playful familiarity, “bye-bye, old man. Next time we meet, per- haps you'll play your cards a little better! Good- night, Dr. Judd. Hope you ʼll sleep well, Mr. Coroner. Don't dream of the life insurance business, — don't let the poor widows and or- phans disturb your slumber. Good-night, my old friend. Let not the sun go down upon your wrath, and don't forget to say your prayers be- fore you go to bed.” With this parting injunc- tion Keene took his departure, while Judd glared after his retreating figure, grinding his teeth in impotent rage. 214 SILKEN THREADS. frightened and undecided. At length, however, the habitual melancholy of his face slowly re- established itself; the young man sighed wearily, and then, with a sort of wavering resolution, he buttoned up his coat and walked thoughtfully up the street. Behind him, at a short distance, Eley followed. The detective had been watch- ing for him from a neighboring door-way. Thus Eley, deftly dodging in and out among the wayfarers in the street, followed his victim. And Edgerton, moreover, seemed fearful of such pursuit, for ever and anon he paused and looked about him. From place to place, with no other evident intention than that of eluding pursuit, the lawyer hurried, until at last he halted in the railway station. Here he purchased a ticket, and entered a train which was standing in readiness upon the track. The car he had taken was marked Coverly. Eley sighed with relief as he saw his prey safely ensconced in the train. His fatiguing chase was now over. He could now leave the lawyer in the hands of Duncan. Accordingly, a telegram to the de- tective's assistant preceded Edgerton on his journey to Coverly. Duncan, accompanied by the gentle Blandin, was waiting at the Coverly station when the 14 IN THE GARDEN. 215 train which bore Edgerton arrived. The detec- tive had told Blandin that he expected a friend, and the two young men had sauntered down to the station together in order to greet the new arrival. It is needless to say, however, that Duncan's friend did not come. On the con- trary, it appeared that an acquaintance of Blan- din was the only person among the passengers whom either of the young men recognized, - a tall, thin man, with a melancholy face and drooping black mustache, who carried a yel- low travelling-bag in his hand. The new-comer bowed coldly to Blandin, who returned his sal- utation with an equal coldness. “Who is that?” whispered Duncan to his companion, as the new arrival passed them by, and walked slowly up the platform. “Masters Edgerton,” Blandin answered with an expression of dislike. Duncan took a long and careful survey of Masters Edgerton; and, like Eley, he also was moved to pity when first he regarded the melan- choly expression of those sad brown eyes. The detective thought he recognized in the man before him the cat's-paw of a dangerous and unscrupulous woman. He deplored the fate of this unfortunate one, who had been tempted by 216 SILKEN THREADS. passion to the commission of a crime. But pity is one sentiment, mercy is another. Duncan always sympathized with the guilty. His famil- iarity with the criminal class had taught him the almost irresistible strength of their motives; he invariably pitied them, and he frequently admired them. But neither pity nor admiration had ever induced him to spare them. Business was always a foremost consideration with the young detective. Edgerton walked quickly to the hotel, signed his name to the register, and demanded a room. In the mean time Duncan, unsus- pected, held him under a rigorous surveillance; the detective watched him as he retired to his room, and as he ate his solitary dinner. He scarcely lost sight of him from the moment he had descended from the train until he had en- tered the Danes' house. Nor then were the hunter and the hunted for a long time parted. Duncan did not intend that Leslie Dane and Masters Edgerton should converse together, un- less that conversation should take place within his hearing. He allowed Edgerton but five min. utes' vantage time; then he, too, ascended the steps of the house, and inquired for the Misses Dane. IN THE GARDEN. 217 Edgerton was sitting in the parlor with the ladies when Duncan entered. The detective saw at a glance that he had been ushered in among the assembled family, and that no op- portunity for private conversation with Miss Leslie had as yet occurred. Duncan came forward easily and shook hands with the ladies in a familiar way, which was evi- dently both astonishing and distasteful to the other visitor. He greeted Miss Leslie last; and as he lingered over the shapely hand he had taken in his own he noted a slight contrac- tion of Edgerton's brows, - a contraction which became more obvious as the girl blushed at the every-day compliment which sprang to his lips. “ The fellow still worships her,” thought the detective to himself, as he relinquished Leslie's hand and took the vacant seat beside the elder sister. “Devil though she is, he is completely infatuated with her.” At first everything in the parlor was as the detective could have wished. The conversation was upon general topics, and Mrs. Dane's pres- ence acted as a check upon Edgerton. Sud- denly, however, all was changed; the wailing voice of a child was heard, and Mrs. Dane rose and left the room. This was a most unfortunate 2 18 SILKEN THREADS. occurrence for the detective, since Edgerton seized the opportunity for taking the vacant place upon the sofa by Miss Leslie's side, while Duncan was sitting at the farther end of the room in conversation with the elder sister. Thus the conversation had suddenly become changed into a double tête-à-tête ; and Duncan, as he looked across the room at the pair upon the sofa, could see Edgerton bending down over Leslie and speaking with impassioned earnest- ness. But Edgerton's voice was so low that his words were inaudible, and their very lowness seemed to suggest to the detective that he spoke upon some theme that he did not wish over- heard. Duncan's position was now of the great- est difficulty. He was straining every nerve to overhear what Edgerton was saying; at the same time he was endeavoring to lend an atten- tive ear to the conversation of the elder Miss Dane. As is usual in such cases, he succeeded in neither. He could not identify a single word which Edgerton uttered, nor was he more suc- cessful in following the words of his companion. The latter now recalled the detective to his senses. “You are very distrait this evening, Mr. Duncan,” she remarked in injured tones. IN THE GARDEN. 219 Duncan hastened to repair his rudeness. He was a gentleman, and unwilling to offend a woman. He was a detective, and therefore had no intention of losing the advantage already gained by his position of intimacy in the Danes' house. “I beg your pardon,” he answered quickly, “but I could not help looking at your sister. How very beautiful she looks to-night.” This speech, which could hardly be consid- ered a diplomatic remark for a man to make to one pretty woman concerning another, the detective had made with a definite purpose. He knew that Leslie Dane was vain enough to allow her conversation with Edgerton to be inter- rupted if once she perceived herself to be the object of another's regard. Nor was he mis- taken. No sooner had Leslie become conscious that Duncan and her sister were observing her, than she blushed. Then she looked up archly at the detective and smiled. “You were talking about me,” she said with pretty consciousness. “Yes,” answered the elder Miss Dane, laugh- ing with playful malice. “Mr. Duncan and I were saying that Mr. Edgerton had chosen a very gloomy subject of conversation." 220 SILKEN THREADS. Now the elder Miss Dane had made this re- mark with the intention of appearing sportive and facetious. She really believed that Edger- ton was speaking of love to her sister, than which she could imagine no pleasanter subject; for the elder Miss Dane was inexperienced in love, as is often the case with young women whose sisters are prettier than they, and she did not realize that the discussion of this most sacred subject is often accompanied by more of pain than pleasure. But she was shocked to observe the effect of her thoughtless words. The brilliant color faded from Leslie's face, and her dancing, mischievous eyes grew set and stern; while Edgerton, with a face of terror, rose to his feet and looked at her with anxious eyes. Miss Dane, completely upset by this unex- pected turn of affairs, looked in bewilderment from Edgerton to her sister. She was at a loss to conceive how her words could have affected them so profoundly, and she was beginning to murmur an involved explanation, when a ring at the bell and the entrance of Blandin created a diversion in her favor. The object of Blandin's visit was evident to all. Blandin was in love with Leslie, and had no intention that another should occupy the IN THE GARDEN. 221 battle-field without dispute. He had come to watch his rival; and Duncan, confident that Edg- erton could find no opportunity for speaking to Leslie in private so long as Blandin happened to be present, now felt at liberty to devote him- self to the elder sister in right good earnest. “What did I say?" inquired the elder sister of Duncan with a feminine effusiveness as the two settled down to their tête-à-tête again. “I cannot imagine,” replied Duncan, and with truth. “Mr. Edgerton seemed positively terrified," continued the elder Miss Dane. “I really be- lieve he was making a declaration of love." Duncan, though a bachelor and a scoffer at marriage, thought that the conversation between Edgerton and Leslie had been of a character more dangerous, if possible, even than the elder sister had suspected. How else could one ac- count for that expression of abject terror in Edgerton's face? Duncan did not express his thoughts, however. Neither did he pursue the subject further. He was too wary a man to talk of love to a spinster of four-and-twenty. He adroitly turned the conversation, and they soon were plunged in the discussion of less dangerous themes. 222 SILKEN THREADS. Each of the three visitors seemed determined to out-stay the others. The result therefore was that at a late hour all simultaneously rose to go. Edgerton, however, appeared especially loath to depart. He lingered about in the hall as if searching for his hat, and was the last of the three to bid the sisters good-night. As he bent over Leslie's hand, Duncan's watchful ear caught the whispered words, — “At half-past seven, in the garden." It was an appointment for the following day. Accordingly, at seven o'clock the following morning, Duncan hid himself behind the shrub- bery in the Danes' garden. It was a glorious summer morning, and the sun, just rising above the hills in the distance, cast long shadows upon the velvet lawn. Not a breath of wind stirred the shrubbery or the trees as they held out their branches to the crisp morning air. It was a morning most beautiful in its tranquillity, yet it was a morning most unsuita- ble for the designs of the detective. The clear, still air and the absence of sound would make his task wellnigh impossible. It was almost inconceivable that he should keep near enough to the pair to overhear their conversation and still escape detection. Two courses lay open to IN THE GARDEN. 223 him. He could conceal himself in the summer- house at the foot of the lawn, or he could hide behind the shrubbery, and possibly follow the lovers, should they walk about, by gliding from shrub to shrub. This latter course Duncan finally decided upon, since the summer-house, being isolated, and without concealed avenue of approach, would afford him but a single chance: if he should take up his position there, and Leslie and Edgerton did not enter, he must lie unoc- cupied so long as they remained in the garden. Thus, having adopted the former course, Dun- can hid himself behind a thick clump of arbor- vitæ trees at a distant corner of the garden, From this point he could command a view of the entire enclosure. Edgerton was the first to arrive at the rendez- vous. He was dressed in the same clothes he had worn the previous evening, and in his hand he carried his travelling-bag and umbrella, as if starting upon a journey. He walked slowly down the winding path which led through the garden, and unhesitatingly proceeded to the very clump of trees behind which the detective lay concealed. There he languidly sank upon a rustic bench, in such close proximity to the 224 SILKEN THREADS. detective that his breathing was distinctly audi- ble. Edgerton settled himself down with a heavy sigh. He seemed too absorbed in his own griefs to take notice of the beauty of the scene about him. He sat upon the rustic bench in an attitude of the deepest dejection, with his head bent forward and his eyes cast down upon the ground. Then, with his forearms resting upon his knees, he began to trace half-circles on the gravel before him, swinging his umbrella to and fro with a side-to-side motion of his wrists. Either Edgerton was much too early or Leslie was proportionately late, for to the detective, cramped and stiffened by the immobility of his attitude, it seemed as if an incalculable time had elapsed before he descried the white dress of the girl approaching the rendezvous. Edgerton did not observe Leslie's approach until she had come very near him. Indeed, it was her voice which first aroused him from his reverie. “Well?” Leslie questioningly said, as she stood before Edgerton, looking disdainfully down upon him; “what do you want of me at this unearthly hour in the morning?" and as Leslie spoke she made a contemptuous gesture with her bare white hand, and Duncan noticed 1 IN THE GARDEN.. 225 that it held in it a small square package, loosely wrapped in brown paper. “I want to say good-by to you, Leslie,” Edgerton said in a voice which vibrated with intense longing; as he spoke, he rose from his seat and stood before her. “If that's all you want,” answered the girl petulantly, “I will go back to the house and do my hair. You know I hate to be bothered in the morning.” “Don't speak to me like that, Leslie," Edger- ton cried, holding out his arms toward her. “Don't speak so cruelly when I am going away to die for you." Leslie Dane became slightly pale; but she did not shrink. She spoke again in the same disdainful voice. “If you do die, it's your own fault. Why can't you try to be cheerful? I don't want to stand here on the damp ground and listen to your ravings. If you've got anything to say, say it, - it's nearly breakfast time;" and with these words Leslie turned petulantly from her lover, and walked away. Edgerton sprang after her; and the discomfited detective, gazing through the branches of the arbor-vitæ trees, saw that his quarry had escaped him. 15 CHAPTER XXII. THE ARREST. N UNCAN, peering through the branches of the trees, watched Edgerton and Leslie as they walked up the path and took up their station in the summer-house. Edgerton's man- ner was nervous and excited; he was affected by some powerful emotion. Leslie, on the con- trary, was composed and haughty: she was evidently refusing some request which Edg- erton was strenuously urging upon her. Their pantomine was plainly visible to the detective, although he could not hear a single word of the conversation that accompanied it. Presently the clock upon the village church rang out the hour of eight, when Leslie started to her feet and held out the brown paper parcel to Edgerton. The young man seized her hand and fell upon his knees, while the parcel, disre- garded, fell to the ground. 228 SILKEN THREADS. him. As the figure of the lawyer disappeared from view, the detective yawned and looked at his watch. It was now twenty minutes past eight. No train would pass through Coverly until the arrival of the 9.15 train for Dashford. "I ought not to lose sight of him,” thought the detective to himself; and Duncan, sighing, again looked at his watch, longingly sniffing the savory fumes of the breakfast which was now in progress in the house within. “Yet he must stay there until the 9.15 train," he thought again, looking first at the station and then at the dining-room. “Perhaps, after all, it is better that I should have some breakfast, and make my departure like a civilized being. Be- sides, I may have to come back here again, and I shall only invite suspicion if I hurry off with- out my breakfast." Thus, with certain misgivings, in spite of the argument that his appetite had urged, Duncan proceeded to the dining-room and partook of a hearty breakfast, in the mean time announcing to his various acquaintances his immediate de- parture. These and certain pecuniary formali- ties being concluded, he leisurely proceeded to the station. It was still ten minutes before the train was due, an interval which would afford THE ARREST. 229 him ample time for engaging in conversation with Edgerton, whom it was his intention to accompany on his journey. Duncan entered the waiting-room of the sta- tion, and took a comprehensive survey of the passengers who were assembled there in readi- ness for the coming train. But this hasty glance only served to convince him that Edg- erton was not among the number. Eagerly the detective scanned every face and searched every recess and corner of the building. But in vain. Edgerton was nowhere to be found; he had eluded his pursuer. Duncan, cursing the ap- petite which had tempted him to neglect his duty, strode up and down the platform of the station. He was in a quandary as to what he should do, and the shriek of the approaching train now warned him that he must decide quickly. And decide quickly he did; for as the train, groaning and straining, came to a laborious standstill before the platform of the station, Duncan, gazing upward at the windows of the passing cars, caught a glimpse of the mournful face of Edgerton looking down upon him. The detective hastily boarded the train, and slid into a seat at the rear end of the car in which Edgerton was sitting, intent upon pene- 230 SILKEN THREADS. trating the motive of this extraordinary behavior on the part of the lawyer. That Edgerton should be in the train upon its arrival at Coverly, necessitated that he should have walked up the track as far as Maxley, the next station above, a distance of three miles. No person in his senses would have undertaken such a walk at such an hour, and without his breakfast, without some adequate reason; and the detective began to puzzle out what that reason might have been. Presently he thought of the travelling- bag which Edgerton had carried in his hand. It was not in the rack above his head, nor was it yet in the seat at his side. Duncan dropped the knife he held in his hand, and in his efforts to regain the missing object, he took a careful survey of the space beneath the seats of the car. Edgerton's bag was not there. It was too small to have been consigned to the mercies of the “smasher.” Evidently Edgerton had walked up the track with the intention of disposing of the bag, and thus of destroying some important and damag- ing article of evidence. Duncan sat in the train deliberating whether he should leave Edgerton in order to return and search for the missing bag, or whether he 232 SILKEN THREADS. Edgerton appeared annoyed by the conversa- tion of the other; he replied in monosyllables only, and there was a pleading look in his face, as if he were begging for quiet and repose. Duncan looked at his suffering face, and again a wave of pity swept over him. “After all,” he thought to himself, “what arti- ficial punishment can the law impose so severe as the suffering that remorse must bring?” and the detective, scrutinizing Edgerton's face, took note of the deep lines about the mouth and eyes; of the pallid, trembling lips; and of the waxen chin and restless eyes. Edgerton's face was the face of one who had recently passed through some severe emotional crisis. “Perhaps it is a mercy that such a life should be brought to an end,” mused the detective again, as he thought of the part he himself had played in Edgerton's detection. Both men were very silent upon that unevent- ful journey. Duncan, to be sure, had made several attempts to engage his companion in conversation, but his attempts had proved un- availing. The detective could not penetrate the shroud of melancholy and reserve that Edgerton had wrapped about him. He merely satisfied himself that the travelling-bag was indeed THE ARREST. 233 missing; satisfied himself beyond a doubt by Edgerton's answer to his artful question, and with this meagre information he was forced to con- tent himself. This, and the additional fact that Edgerton's boots and trousers were wet and muddy, were all that he learned on the journey in the train. At Dashford the two men descended from the car together, Duncan keeping jealously at Edger- ton's side, in spite of the latter's endeavor to shake himself free from his unwelcome companion. On the platform, among the crowd awaiting the arrival of the train, Duncan noticed a tall, thick-set man, dressed in the garb of a sailor. He was standing in advance of the hackmen and station officials, in a position which enabled him to survey each traveller as he descended from the train. As his eye fell upon Edgerton and the detective, this thick-set man pressed forward as if to accost them. Duncan, unfamiliar with the unusual garb, did not at first recognize his employer. Disguising the person is a method strangely out of date among the younger detec- tives of the present day, and Duncan did not recognize Eley in his present masquerade. Not so, however, was it with Edgerton. No sooner did his eye rest upon the figure of the fictitious 234 SILKEN THREADS. sailor than he uttered a low cry, and turning about, he glanced over his shoulder with a frightened look, and tried to spring away from his pursuer. But it was of no avail. The crowd hemmed him in; and Eley, darting to his side, laid a rough hand on his shrinking shoulder. “It's no use, Mr. Edgerton,” he grimly whis- pered; "you 've got to come with me, and it's best for you that you should come quietly." There was a softness in the detective's harsh voice as he uttered the words that overcame Edgerton, or else it was that a realizing sense of the horror of his position had now come to him for the first time. At all events, his reserve and self-control vanished in an instant, and the broken man covered his face with his hands and sobbed. Eley compassionately drew his prisoner into the waiting-room of the station, and leading him to a corner seat, stood before him in such a manner as to screen him from intrusive gaze. “There,” he said kindly, looking down upon his captive, “compose yourself, Mr. Edgerton, while I send for a hack. You'll find it easier now the suspense is over — they always do.” Thus Eley roughly consoled the unhappy man. It did not occur to the detective that he should THE ARREST. 235 extend the possibilities of hope to his prisoner. The evidence against Edgerton was too strong for that, and Eley was too firmly convinced of the other's guilt. He was a truthful man if he was a rough one and a detective, and he would not raise up hopes which he knew must eventu- ally fall to the ground. For, added to the evi- dence already found against Edgerton, was this new fact of his unquestioning submission. He had not affected surprise nor proclaimed his in- nocence, — which as a rule is usual among crimi- nals, – a rule which is more significant in its breach than in its observance. Edgerton's un- questioning submission was in Eley's eyes almost equivalent to an admission of his guilt. Eley was convinced of his crime, yet notwithstanding that crime he was sorry for him. He felt a pity similar to that the hunter feels for a dying deer, when the animal looks up at him with its piteous eyes. “Yes, Mr. Edgerton, you 'll find it easier to bear now. Why, you 'll be astonished to see how sound you 'll sleep to-night.” With such rough words did Eley strive to comfort Edgerton; nor did Edgerton resent the detective's assumption. Gradually but surely he regained his accustomed composure; and 236 SILKEN THREADS. when at last Duncan came to announce the carriage, he had completely regained his mastery over himself. Indeed, as Eley had prophesied, there seemed to be a new strength and courage in his sad dark eye. Thus Masters Edgerton was taken before a magistrate and committed to jail to await the action of the grand jury. CHAPTER XXIII. THE BILL OF INDICTMENT. DUNCAN in the mean time repaired to Cov- v erly by the returning train. It was essen- tial that no time should be lost before he had gone over the ground traversed by Edgerton, and had made an exhaustive search for the travelling-bag which the latter had carried. Edgerton had entered the Coverly station at twenty minutes past eight. The train upon which he had returned left Maxley at five min- utes past nine. This would have allowed him an interval of but forty-five minutes to have accomplished the journey between the stations, - a distance of three miles. It was manifest, therefore, that Edgerton, if he had traversed this distance on foot and on the railroad track, would have found but little opportunity for loitering upon or straying from the way. He must, moreover, have accomplished his journey by the way of the track; for the highway above 240 SILKEN THREADS. tective critically examined the smooth and even surface of the earth before him. It had appar- ently looked upon the light of day but for a very few hours. It had that peculiar bleached ap- pearance of clay which for a long time has been shielded from the light; about its edges a few poor sickly struggling blades of grass were seen, and from the holes in its centre, two sluggish earth-worms extended their pointed heads. On one side of the mould was a foot-print which might have been made by the toe of a boot; on the other was the mark of a heel with the earth pressed up before it. The stone had evidently been recently dislodged, and by a man kneeling upon his right knee, who had used his left heel as a brace. Indeed, the detective could see the round depression corresponding to a knee dis- tinctly imprinted upon the soft, moist ground. Up and down the stream he wandered, seeking for the flat stone. There were no foot-prints there to guide him; the ground was too wet and spongy, and the detective noted that the impres- sions of his own foot-falls were speedily effaced. But at last his pertinacity met its reward. At a short distance from the embankment he espied the flat stone lying at the bottom of the sluggish stream. Duncan waded out into the water and 242 SILKEN THREADS. from the peculiar color of the wrapper. The question which now arose to his mind was whether the bottle and the package of letters had both been enclosed in that disappointing wrapper. If so, Leslie Dane had returned the prussic acid to Edgerton along with his love- letters. If not, why should Edgerton have brought it to Coverly unless to destroy all evi- dence of the fact that he had ever had such poison in his possession? In his heart Duncan believed that the former supposition was cor- rect. He believed that Edgerton had purchased the poison and given it to Leslie Dane; he believed that Leslie had returned it to him with his letters, but there was now no method by which he could prove the truth of his suspicion. One by one Duncan thoughtfully returned the articles to the bag; then he hastened up the track to Maxley, where he took the next train for Dashford, arriving in time to accompany his employer on his visit to the district attorney, when Eley acquainted the lawyer with the result of his investigations. District Attorney Bailey thoughtfully listened to the concise report of the elder detective. The evidence against Edgerton was certainly strong, - stronger, he thought, than the proof against THE BILL OF INDICTMENT. 243 Sedgwick. But, in spite of that, it was by no means conclusive. Eley's theory was that on the 22d of May Leslie Dane had visited Edgerton in his office, and urged him to kill Barclay; that Edgerton had purchased the prussic acid with that inten- tion; that he had called upon Barclay and entered his house; that he had improved the opportunity afforded him by the absence of the butler to creep upstairs and enter the studio. There he found everything favorable for the execution of his plan: Barclay was asleep, and sitting with his back towards the door. Edger- ton had noiselessly crept up behind his victim's chair, and had administered to him the fumes of the strong acid he had purchased a few hours before. This theory was strengthened by the resemblance which Edgerton bore to the photo- graph of the man behind the chair. After the murder, Edgerton had quietly descended the stairs, and had left the house without attracting notice. Then remorse had come upon him; and with remorse, fear. He had hastened to conceal the proofs of his crime, and also to reap its fruits. With these combined intentions he had pro- ceeded to Coverly, and sought an interview with Leslie Dane. It was at this time that he 244 SILKEN THREADS. uttered the remark that he “was going away to die for her.” Leslie had ignored his claims upon her, and had left him in disdain, and Edgerton had then directed his attention to the destruction of the proofs against him. His fright when he had encountered Eley might have been important evidence in the case of a man less excitable. As it was, it must pass for little. His desire to escape, on the other hand, was strong evidence against him. Here Eley rested his case. Further evidence, in all probability, would be forthcoming on the examination of the witnesses. This theory would account for everything except the silk. Upon these fragments of silk Eley was inclined to place but little stress. Such minute fibres as those found by Mr. Keene might have come on the premises in a thousand different ways. The district attorney listened seriously to the detective's résumé of the evidence. The case was undoubtedly stronger against Edgerton than against Sedgwick, and because of the photo- graph. The theory against Sedgwick assumed that the poison had been administered to Barclay at the club-house. This therefore did not ac- count for the man behind the chair. Yes, the case was undoubtedly stronger against Edgerton THE BILL OF INDICTMENT. 245 than against Sedgwick, as the district attorney was forced to admit. As Mr. Bailey made this admission, Eley spoke again:- " It is only square by my assistant,” he re- marked, “ to say that his ideas is different.” “ Yes? ” inquired the district attorney, with interest. “Yes,” Eley answered imperturbably. “My theory constitutes Edgerton as the principal in the crime, and Leslie Dane an accessary be- fore the fact. Mr. Duncan, here, reverses the positions." “Indeed!” exclaimed the district attorney, looking with approbation upon the fine figure and intelligent face of the young detective. “And what may your theory be, Mr. Duncan?” “My theory," Duncan answered, “accounts for the silk, and not for the photograph. I can only account for the photograph by saying that it is possible that Mr. Prose may have displaced the cloth over the camera, and that the man behind the chair is Mr. Prose, instead of the murderer, as we have hitherto believed. With this explanation my theory is as follows:- “ Leslie Dane was jilted by Mr. Barclay, and desired revenge. With this object she visited Edgerton in his office, and after exciting his 246 SILKEN THREADS. jealousy, urged him to the destruction of his rival. Edgerton refused. In the course of their conversation he admitted that the result could easily be accomplished by the fumes of strong prussic acid. Leslie prevailed upon Edgerton to procure her this acid. With the poison in her pocket Miss Dane proceeded to Barclay's house, gained admission, and while left alone went upstairs and secreted herself in the pic- ture gallery. There she waited until Barclay had returned, when she entered the studio and administered the poison. Up to this time she was nerved to the crime by anger and excite- ment; but when her victim was dead she lost her presence of mind and became frightened and hysterical. She rushed about the room, caught her dress in the tripod, went into the dark closet, and finally ascended the ladder with the hope of escaping by the roof. This would account for the torn dress, and for the fragments of silk found upon the tripod and the ladder. Pres- ently, however, she regained her composure. She reflected that the only avenue of escape was that by which she had entered. She went down- stairs, and left the house without attracting at- tention, only a few minutes after the departure of Edgerton. When Edgerton came to Coverly, THE BILL OF INDICTMENT. 247 Leslie returned him his letters and the bottle of prussic acid; and Edgerton endeavored to de- stroy the latter, because of his love for Leslie. He suspects her of the crime. Edgerton's pres- ence at Barclay's house I believe to be due to some vague intention on his part of warning Barclay of the danger which threatened him; but he tore up his letter because he feared it might condemn the woman he loved. His fear I attribute to fear for Leslie. He is in love with her, and is willing to give up his life for her.” As Duncan proceeded in his explanation, his manner became more assured and his words more positive. That he spoke his convictions was evident from the animation of his gestures. The lawyer looked with admiration upon the young detective. “Your theory is ingenious,” he said thought- fully. “ Ingenious enough,” broke in Eley, with a sneer,“ but there's nothing to prove it. There's plenty of theory, but little of proof.” This was the opportunity that Eley had been waiting for, and he hastened to improve it; he would show his assistant that he was not superannuated. The district attorney looked at the elder detective with surprise. For Eley to speak so THE BILL OF INDICTMENT. 249 possible; I say it ain't proved. I say it don't hold water with the theory against Edgerton, which is proved from step to step. I don't want to say anything against my assistant here,” he added with a laugh; "only you know as well as I do, Mr. Bailey, that these young men go too fast.” “But," objected the lawyer, “Mr. Duncan's theory is worth investigation.” “Of course it is,” coincided Eley. “But the best way of investigating it is by examining Leslie Dane. When she is in the witness-stand you can ask her such questions as you please, and we will investigate the truth of her answers." After further discussion the district attorney came to the conclusion that he could not do better than to follow the advice of the old detec- tive. Accordingly the evidence was summarized and submitted to the grand jury, which brought a bill of indictment against Masters Edgerton for the murder of Bryce Barclay. The trial was ap- pointed for the following week during the present session of the court, and Algernon Sedgwick was released from jail. CHAPTER XXIV. THE TRIAL. THE day appointed for the trial of Masters Edgerton was stormy and tempestuous; a heavy rain dashed against the rough bricks and granite copings of the court-house; and a rude east wind, penetrating into the innermost recesses of the tabernacle of justice, chilled with its cold embrace the vast crowd of spectators, whose damp clothing exhaled a steam which seemed to wrap itself about the prisoner like a pall, as, preceded by the warden of the jail, he entered the room with wavering footsteps, and took up his position in the prisoner's dock. It was a terrible ordeal that Edgerton was about to endure; terrible in that he, a lawyer, should be tried at the bar of which he was him- self a member. All the minutiæ of the dread formality to come, he was familiar with. Every horrible detail of that solemn ceremony was engraven upon his mind by the firm hand of THE TRIAL 251 experience. He was, as it were, in the position of that dying physician who, with his hand upon his own pulse, contemplated the diminish- ing force which indicates the phenomena of approaching death. Edgerton was a bowed and broken man as he took up his position in the prisoner's dock. He drew the chair which had been provided for him close to the railing about the ignominious enclo- sure, and with his head resting upon his folded arms, he patiently awaited the opening of the trial. But to Eley and Duncan, who were sitting within the semi-circular enclosure reserved for members of the bar, he appeared more like one overcome by the shame of his position, than like a man who stands before a jury of his fellows in terror of his life. Soon there was a clattering of gavels and a calling to order, and every one rose to his feet, and the court entered. The court was repre- sented by the judge (for there was but one judge now), - a huge, unwieldy man, who squeezed himself through a small door at the rear of the court-room, and lowered his bulky frame into a creaking chair. The court was now in session. Then the clerk rose and arraigned the prisoner, — which arraignment consisted in the 252 SILKEN THREADS. reading of the indictment, the clerk of the court fluently gabbling through the charges there set down as if his thoughts were in his children's nursery, or indeed in any other place far re- moved from the solemn scene about him. The clerk of the court before which Edgerton was tried embodied that peculiar absence of dignity which places our American courts of justice in such pitiful contrast with the tribunals of the English bench. Then the question, “Are you guilty or not guilty?" was propounded; and Edgerton raised his drooping head, and his lips moved in an inaudible answer,- an answer which was taken to be negative. After this followed the impanel- ling of the jury, a ceremony in which Edgerton betrayed but little interest beyond raising his head and darting a searching glance upon the face of each new juror as if to see if he could find hope or pity there expressed. But the in- terest he displayed was transient, and he did not even rouse himself when the clerk of the court administered to the jurors their impressive oath: — “You shall well and truly try and true deliver- ance make between the Commonwealth and the prisoner at the bar, whom you shall have in THE TRIAL. 253 charge according to your evidence; so help you God.” His thoughts were far away as he sat in the narrow dock throughout the impressive cere- mony, which, beginning as a serious adjuration, had lapsed into a solemn chant when the twelfth juror was sworn in. Indeed, it seemed to the de- tectives that but for his physical presence there he might as well have been in that other world to which they felt the jury were about to send him. When the sing-song voice of the clerk of the court had died away, and the court was now sup- plemented by a second judge, – a man as small as his senior was large, — Mr. Bailey, the district attorney, rose from his place at the long green table which was devoted to the attorneys of the case, and with one hand thrust deep into his trousers pocket, and with the other beneath the tails of his closely buttoned frock coat, began to harangue the jury upon the case now before the court, speaking in the low, measured tones of ordinary conversation. He was opening the case. If he had been opening an unpaid bill long over-due, he could not have acted more de- liberately. The district attorney, in consultation with the attorney-general, had decided to con- duct his case upon the theory advanced by Eley. 254 SILKEN THREADS. He would first offer testimony to demonstrate the motive of the accused. In due course should follow the evidence which went to show the opportunity and means of the murder. Mr. Bailey had decided to adopt this method of pro- cedure, in order to allow Eley time to investi- gate the truth of Leslie Dane's testimony before the conclusion of the trial. The day was far advanced when the prosecu- cution had fairly opened; and the remainder of the session was devoted to a rehearsal of these circumstances now so familiar to the reader. Edgerton's character and disposition were de- scribed by the landlady and Messrs. Prose and Candage; and his altered demeanor since the 22d of May was strongly brought before the notice of the court. All this was accomplished as a matter of routine; and now on the second day the real difficulty of the district-attorney's task became apparent. When the court had become seated, Mr. Bailey rose from his place at the long green table, and took a scrutinizing survey first of the judge, and then of the jury. This formality being con- cluded, he coughed slightly, and pronounced the name of William Warden. The trial had now begun in real earnest. 256 SILKEN THREADS. “ A lady called.” “Yes, a lady called. Now, my lad, can you tell the gentlemen of the jury the name of this lady?" “Yes, sir. It was Miss Dane." “How do you know that that was the name of the lady?" “ Master called her so." “At first?" “No, sir. First he called her Leslie. He did n't call her Miss Dane until he told me to clear out and shut the door.” “What did you do when he told you to clear out and shut the door?”. “I done as I was told, sir." “What did you do after that?" “I listened, sir." “Where did you listen?” “At the key-hole, sir.” “Could you hear everything that was said in the inner office or not?" “No, sir. I could only hear them when they spoke loud." “What did you do when you could not hear what they said ?” "I peeked, sir.” “ Peeked?” 258 SILKEN THREADS. “She kep' on a beggin', sir.” “And what did Mr. Edgerton do?" “He kep' on an answerin' of her back, sir." “Did he consent to do what she asked, or did he not?" “He did n’t, sir. He would n't give in, nohow." "What happened after that?” “Pretty quick she took a new tack, sir.” “What?" “She began a beggin' somethin' different.” “ Did you hear what that was?" “No, sir." “How do you know it was different? ” “ 'Cause she waited afore she begun. 'Cause she begun with a grin.” “Did Mr. Edgerton accede to this second re- quest, or did he not?" “He did n't, sir. He acted just like he did before. He would n't give in, nohow." “What followed after that?” “She got mad, sir.” “ How do you know?”. “'Cause she jumped up, sir, and said she'd never speak to him agin.” “Did Mr. Edgerton answer her, or did he not?” “He did, sir. He said as how she'd be the death of him.” THE TRIAL. 259 “ Then what followed?" “She stomped out." “Stomped ?" “Yes, sir; she went out, stamping." “What did Mr. Edgerton do?” “He set down, sir.” “Whether or no did he follow her out?” “Not at once, but later on he followed her.” “How soon did he follow her?” “Maybe in five minutes, sir.” “ More than five minutes, or less ?” “Less, sir. She had n't been gone five min- utes afore he jumped up and followed her.” “Why do you think he followed her?" “ 'Cause he went so quick, sir.” “When did he return?” “At half-past four, sir.” “ Are you sure?" “Yes, sir." The boy was very positive upon this point. He had sacrificed his luncheon in the cause of love. This was the sum and substance of the office- boy's testimony, somewhat condensed; and then the district attorney sat down, and Mr. Glibly, senior counsel for the defence, rose to cross- question the witness. 262 SILKEN THREADS. vant; but after much wrangling and the citation of numberless authorities, after the interchange of many sharp civilities and contemptuous smiles, the question was at last allowed, and the boy made answer, — “Three dollars, sir.” “Now, my boy, what do you do with those three dollars that you earn every week?” “I gives 'em to my mother, sir." “That's right,” said the attorney-general, with heartiness. He was sure of his ground now, and proceeded more briskly. “And what does your mother do with those three dollars? Does she buy dime novels with them?” “Oh, no, sir! She uses them for the rent.” “Is your mother rich? ” “No, sir, she's very poor. She takes in washing to earn money for the children.” “How many brothers and sisters have you?” “Five, sir.” Whether five brothers and five sisters the boy did not explain, nor did the at- torney-general consider it necessary to inquire. If any of the jurymen chose to believe there were ten besides the office-boy in this in- teresting family, so much the better for the prosecution. “Are they younger or older than you?" THE TRIAL. 263 "They 're all younger except one, and she's lame.” “So that your earnings are a great help to your mother?” “Oh, yes, sir! Mother often says she don't know what we'd do if it was n't for me." “ And you love your little lame sister?" .The boy sniffled, and seemed too much over- come for words. The little sister was a strapping lass of fifteen, who had broken her leg while stealing a ride upon a dray; but it was of no use to obtrude this fact upon the notice of the jurors; genuine pity is a passion too rare to be ruthlessly dis- pelled. “That will do," the attorney-general cordially continued. “A boy of fourteen years who works all day to support a widowed mother, strug- gling with a large family of hungry children, one of whom is a little lame girl, sees enough of real life to be permitted to seek harmless recreation now and then. No matter if you do read the ‘Bloody Finger;' no, nor eight of them, and two thumbs, too, into the bargain. You are a noble-hearted boy," and the attorney-general's eye fairly glistened as he seated himself at the long table: he seemed deeply affected by the 264 SILKEN THREADS. picture of the hungry children, and the little lame sister; and the covert glance he darted at the jury beneath his lowered lids showed him that they were affected too; indeed, that very one of the jurors who had previously smiled was now wiping his eyes with his handkerchief. No, Mr. Glibly had not accomplished as much as the attorney-general had at first feared. This concluded the testimony of the office- boy, and now Leslie Dane was summoned and sworn in. CHAPTER XXV. THE TRIAL (continued). ESLIE DANE, dressed in a travelling-dress L of yellow, trimmed with black and yellow braid, stood in the witness-box with downcast eyes and folded hands. The glove which had covered her right hand had been removed; and now this little bare hand lay upon its fellow, gleaming whiter than the purest ivory, in con- trast with the sombre brown tint of the mous- quetaire glove it held. The attitude in which she stood, the rare loveliness of her face and form, the maidenly embarrassment of her man- ner, and the gentle, pitying aspect of her beau- tiful face, constituted a picture never before seen in that dingy court-room, — a picture which any one beholding never could forget. It was as if some child had entered into a haunt of crime and human passion, as if an angel had entered among the evil; and yet in that fragile, yielding form there lay a force which even the THE TRIAL. 269 her eyes. For an instant she was silent. Then a fine wave of color swept over her beau- tiful face. She raised her eyes again, and fixed them unflinchingly upon the lawyer's face. “Mr. Barclay told me that he loved me, and 12" -“And you —?" “I returned his love," answered Leslie Dane. “Was the prisoner aware that this was the cause which led to the rupture of your engage- ment with him, or was he not?" "He was.” “Did he submit to it, or did he resist it?” “He resisted it." “Was he violent, or was he not?" “He was angry.". “Whether or no did he make use of violent expressions or threats ? ” “He used no threats.” “Whether or no after the conclusion of your engagement with the prisoner, did you become engaged to Mr. Barclay?" “No." “Why not?” “Because Mr. Barclay was not at liberty to enter into such an engagement.” “Will you explain why?" THE TRIAL. 273 “When did you next see the prisoner after you left his office?” “When he came to Coverly.” “ Did he join you on the way to Mrs. Quidd's, or did he not?" “He did not.” Mrs. Quidd was the dress-maker. Leslie had testified that she had gone to Mrs. Quidd's im- mediately after she left Edgerton's office on the day of the murder. “At what time did you leave the prisoner's office?" “At half-past one.” “And you arrived at the dress-maker's?" “ At half-past two." “During this interval you had no communi- cation with the prisoner?" “No." “ How long did you remain at the dress- maker's?" “ An hour." “That is to say, you remained at Mrs. Quidd's from half-past two to half past three?" “Yes." “What did you do then?” “ I proceeded to the railway station.” “At what time did you arrive there?” 18 THE TRIAL. 275 es convinced of Leslie's innocence of the crime of which he had hitherto believed her guilty. What the attorney-general thought was not evident, but it was perceptible to all that his thoughts were not of an agreeable nature. When Mr. Glibly had concluded his cross- examination, and the attorney-general had ap- proached the subject of the interview at the office for the last time, Eley ceased from biting his finger-nails, and bending over whispered in his assistant's ear, - “The yellow trimming on her dress is a dif- ferent shade from the silk Keene found at the scene of the murder. If it is true that she was at the dress-maker's from half-past two to half- past three, and that she was talking to Blandin, from quarter to four to quarter past; if the woman who called upon Barclay on the morn- ing of the 22d was not Leslie Dane,—you won't have a leg left to stand on.” If the spectators in the crowded court-room had looked upon the dejected and disappointed face of the young detective, as Eley's smiling mouth was whispering in his ear, instead of upon the young and lovely woman whom the two gallant old lawyers were now assiduously assisting down the short step which led from 276 SILKEN THREADS. the witness-box, their countenances would have expressed pity instead of admiration. Duncan saw that his employer had spoken the truth. His carefully constructed fabric had fallen to the ground, while that raised by the experienced Eley had gained strength at every step. As Eley had said, Duncan had “not a leg left to stand on.” And now, at a glance from the district attor- ney, Eley rose and left the room, followed by his discomfited subordinate. The lawyer had given the signal agreed upon for Eley to cor- roborate the testimony of Leslie Dane. On the steps of the court-house the two men parted, not before Eley had found an opportu- nity to remark, however, “ The trouble with you young men is, you go too fast;” and with a look of triumph and cun- ning smile, Eley winked at his subordinate and then betook himself to the task of examining the dress-maker. CHAPTER XXVI. THE TRIAL (concluded). DUNCAN stood on the steps of the court- house and watched the rhythmical rise and fall of Eley's sturdy calves as he trudged briskly up the street with the self-satisfied air of a man who has won an intellectual triumph over an aggressive antagonist. The feelings of the young detective can better be imagined than described. He had been beaten by the man whose executive ability he affected to despise, and that too upon a battle-field of his own choosing ! Verily, the young detective had no cause to be well pleased with himself. But upon one point at least his judgment had been sound. How else could one account for the peculiar change which had come over the pris- oner after he had listened to the testimony of Leslie Dane? Duncan had declared to the district attorney his belief that Edgerton had entered the dock with the intention of sacrific- 278 SILKEN THREADS. ing his own life for that of the woman he loved. He had declared his conviction that Edgerton believed Leslie Dane to be guilty of the murder of Bryce Barclay. Had he not been gloomy and dejected when he had entered the court- room because he believed Leslie to have been guilty of a foul and unnatural crime, and had not his entire demeanor altered when it had gradually come to him that Leslie was indeed innocent? If he, a detective, had been led into thinking that Leslie had murdered Bryce Bar- clay, was it not equally possible that Edgerton, also had been so led? Duncan was confident of it, and this confidence practically cleared Edger- ton in the young detective's mind. If a man suspects another of committing a crime, is it not prima facie evidence that he did not com- mit that crime himself? Upon this reasoning Duncan was now disposed to believe Masters Edgerton guiltless; but if Edgerton was guilt- less, who was guilty? Who else could he sus- pect other than Leslie Dane? Perhaps, after all, it would be shown that the witness had per- jured herself. At all events, it was necessary that he should investigate the truth of that por- tion of the girl's evidence which Eley had in- trusted to him. This matter was settled by a THE TRIAL. 279 short interview with Blandin, whom Duncan had observed in the foremost of the seats re- served for spectators. This portion of Leslie's testimony was true in every respect; and on the following day, when the session of the court was resumed, and Duncan was rejoined by Eley, he learned that Leslie had also been at the dress-maker's at the time stated. Mrs. Quidd kept a book of appointments, and the appoint- ment with Leslie was there set down as being at half-past two, instead of at twelve, as the ser- vant had said. Literally Duncan was not left a single leg to stand upon; and the last straw fell upon the bowed shoulders of the detective when Parsley testified that Leslie Dane was not the woman who called at Barclay's house on the day of the murder. Thus Duncan, enduring the commiserating glances of his employer, listened to the accumu- lating weight of evidence which was piled up about the unfortunate Edgerton. He pondered over the hopefulness manifested by the prisoner as each new and damning fact was brought before the notice of the jury. But he felt convinced that Edgerton was innocent, and he waited in suspense to hear the theory of the defence. Eley, on the other hand, accustomed 280 SILKEN THREADS. to such scenes, unconcernedly sat by his assist- ant's side, regarding the young man, the spec- tators, and the witnesses, each in turn, with a complacent, self-satisfied smile, which plainly said, “Let others do the talking; I will do the work.” The butler, the photographer, the experts, and the druggist, each in turn had added some damaging fact to the mass of evidence; each of the jurymen had gazed with righteous horror upon the bottle of prussic acid which the drug- gist had produced in court; and now, at last, nothing remained before the case should be given to the jury but the closing arguments of the counsel and the charge of the judge. Mr. Glibly, senior counsel for the defence, began his argument by complimentary remarks addressed to the judge and attorney-general. Every one could see that the latter must be dearly beloved by Mr. Glibly, so flattering was the tribute he paid to the senior counsel for the prosecution. Indeed, from the honeyed words of the speaker, no one could have imagined that Mr. Glibly and the attorney-general had been rivals in that very court-room for the past thirty- five years, changing their respective positions at every election. The intelligence of American THE TRIAL. 281 juries had next received a flattering tribute. It was compared, with patriotic eloquence, to the juries of those other countries which are not blest with the great American public-school sys- tem. Following upon this theme, the extraor- dinary brilliancy and intelligence of the present jury was pointed out to the court with fulsome praise. Each juryman of the twelve was reviewed before his fellows; his occupation was described at length, and the special qualifications he pos- sessed, by reason of that occupation, were enumerated with artful words. Every juryman received a pointed panegyric; and the prisoner was congratulated that the evidence of his case was to be reviewed by gentlemen of such diverse attainments and rich endowments. These re- marks upon the peculiar fitness of the present jury were followed by a short dissertation upon death: death in general, death in the abstract; death of the righteous, death of the erring; death of the aged, and death of the young; and of the terrible responsibility of causing death whether legally or illegally. Then Mr. Glibly, warming to his task after lingering over this most dismal subject, plunged into his case in right good ear- nest. His voice was pleasant, and his words fuent; and by his preliminary remarks he had 284 SILKEN THREADS. blood-hounds upon their prey. In the excited and over-wrought condition of the prisoner's mind, he had been frightened by these human hounds, as who indeed would not have been? The picture which Mr. Glibly then painted for the jury was dismal in the extreme. He described the unhappy Edgerton as sitting on an iron bed in the loneliness of his silent cell. He showed how strength and resolution had given place to that old despondency; how all his high and lofty purposes had vanished, and how he had longed for death, and courted it. What mattered it to the prisoner then whether he died by poison or by the rope? Was not the death administered by another less guilty than death brought about by his own hands? With- holding all assistance from his counsel he would cause his own death by his silence. He would submit to his trial and pray for doom. What mattered it the means, so that he reached his end? What mattered it how, so that it was death that should at last come to him? But when this young man had entered the court-room; when he had been withdrawn from the horrible seclusion of his silent prison; when he had ceased to exist in those dismal chambers of his own unsettled fancy; when he had looked upon THE TRIAL. 285 the intelligent faces of the jurymen before him, and had seen the happiness and usefulness of noble lives there expressed, — then, and with resistless force, he had recognized the inestima- ble value of the gift of life; then were his high and noble purposes revived; and then had he gained new strength. He would live; he would banish those guilty thoughts of self-destruction, and he would live, - live like them he saw be- fore him. And then a great peace had come upon the prisoner. His behavior had become altered in a manner so extraordinary and un- usual, that it had been remarked upon by every spectator in that crowded court-room. "Gentlemen of the jury,” cried the lawyer, in a final burst of impassioned eloquence, “you are not his judges; you are his saviors! And I say unto you, gentlemen of the jury, that when each one of you shall sit by his own fireside, in the love and happiness of his own home; or when grief and sorrow shall have come upon you as they must fall to the lot of every Christian man; or when death shall stalk among your midst, and the loved fireside shall show an empty place, — then I say unto you, gentlemen of the jury, you shall find cheer and consolation in the thought of the young life you this day redeemed.” 286 SILKEN THREADS. And Mr. Glibly sank down into his chair and buried his face in his hands. He felt that his case was weak, but that he had done his best. After a short silence the attorney-general rose, and in his turn addressed the jury. Unlike the counsel for the defence, he made no appeal to the emotions of his hearers. Every circum- stance against the prisoner was brought out in its logical sequence, and when the attorney- general had rested his case, every one in the court-room felt that the prospect looked very black for the prisoner at the bar. That the evi- dence against him was circumstantial, it was true; but the circumstances were clear and co- gent, and no single link was missing. It was the opinion of all assembled that the prosecution had forged together a chain which must eventu- ally drag the prisoner to the scaffold. Only one weak point existed, — the testimony of the office- boy. Upon this subject the attorney-general touched but lightly, while Mr. Glibly had borne down upon the lad with corresponding severity. But even if the testimony of the office-boy had been exaggerated, there was no doubt that Leslie Dane had visited the prisoner in his office on the day of the murder; and this visit alone had an ugly look for the prisoner, as had the attempt THE TRIAL. 289 and now in the possession of the district attorney. Mr. Bailey,” continued the prisoner, turning to the lawyer, “may I take that bottle into my hands, that I may demonstrate a fact which shall prove my innocence?”. Edgerton spoke calmly. His eye was so bright and steadfast, his face so serene, that the old lawyer mechanically acceded to his re- quest, and handed him the bottle. Every eye in the court-room was now riveted upon the prisoner with painful fixity. Edgerton took the bottle in his hand and turned toward the jury. “Gentlemen of the jury,” he continued, speaking calmly, "I tell you that the prussic acid contained in this bottle is incapable of causing death by its fumes alone. This I know, for I have tried it. This I will now demonstrate to you;" and before the warden of the jail, who sprang to his feet to defend his pris- oner against surreptitious death, could stay his hand, Edgerton had uncorked the bottle and in- haled its fumes. Breathing heavily of the sup- posed instrument of death, he stood before the jury with the bottle at his nostrils, and his forced inspirations could be heard in every corner of the hushed room. The spectators stood in anxious horror, expecting to see the prisoner fall dead at 19. 290 SILKEN THREADS. their very feet; the jurymen rose as with one accord, and stretched out their hands to the prisoner, as if to stay him in that dreadful act; and when the warden, fearing lest the gallows might be cheated of their prey, had sprung upon the prisoner, and wrested the bottle from his hand, a sigh of relief rose from every side, as Edgerton, calm and pale, but yet uninjured, stood in their midst. Then Edgerton spoke again: - “Gentlemen of the jury, I have proved to you these two things: first, that the acid contained in that bottle is of insufficient potency to cause death by its fumes alone. And second, by ac- quainting you with the result of my experience, I have proved to you the purpose with which I purchased the acid. Gentlemen, I was guilty – but not of the murder of Bryce Barclay.” And as Edgerton sat down, the court-room was in an uproar. It was with the utmost difficulty that the two sturdy marshals could restore it to its former quiet. Edgerton's plea, the dignity of his address, and the manliness of his confession had pre- possessed every one in his favor. The tide had indeed turned. It was with the utmost difficulty that the uproar was suppressed, and that quiet THE TRIAL. 291 was sufficiently regained for the proceedings of the court to be continued. Then, in non-committal words, the judge de- livered his charge to the jury, with a relenting severity in his set face. It was impossible to determine his opinion from his impassive feat- ures, and yet they seemed less stern and solemn than when last he had addressed the court. The jury withdrew from the court-room to consider their verdict, followed by the prisoner and his guard, amid the buzzing and clattering of many tongues. The tide of public opinion had turned in favor of the prisoner, although there were many who thought that his action in the dock had been either a shallow pretence, or the desperate act of a hopeless man. Duncan, darting a side glance at his employer, saw that Eley was strangely agitated as he sat at the long green table, with his eyes averted from his subordinate. The young detective, as he furtively studied the lines of the care-worn countenance before him, saw that Eley's faith in the guilt of Edgerton was profoundly shaken. So, indeed, was that of the district attorney, who had crossed over to Eley's side, and was now engaged in discussing the events of the trial with the veteran detective. 292 SILKEN THREADS. But Duncan's attempt to engage the attention of his employer was interrupted by the clatter of a gavel and the entrance of the prisoner. The jury had taken but a short time for their deliberation; the entrance of the prisoner signi- fied that a verdict had been reached.. One by one the jurymen, preceded by the sheriff, took their places in the jury-box. From their serious faces one could merely guess at the nature of their verdict. After the jurymen were seated, the judges entered. They had withdrawn in order to refresh themselves while the jury were in convention. The judges stood at their places on the bench as the crier called the court to order; the jury- men as with one accord rose from their seats; and the prisoner stood up in the dock with his right hand raised; and then the elder judge spoke again in that deep full voice which before had resounded through the court-room, — “ Prisoner, look upon the jurors; jurors, look upon the prisoner: how say you, gentlemen, is Masters Edgerton guilty or not guilty of the crime with which he stands charged?" And the echo of the resounding voice of the judge had scarcely died away before the foreman CHAPTER XXVII, A LETTER FROM KEENE. THUS Masters Edgerton was acquitted of 1 the murder of Bryce Barclay; thus Leslie Dane had succeeded in proving an alibi; and thus Willis Eley, with fear and trembling, wended his way toward the Genteel Boarding-house in Snug Alley. Fortunately it was supper time at the Genteel Boarding-house; and Willis Eley, by going directly into the dining-room, thus avoided an immediate confession to his domestic judge of the humiliation he had endured. For, by mutual consent, it had been agreed upon be- tween the worthy couple that the affairs of the detective's business were never to be mentioned in the presence of the other guests. Mrs. Eley was already at the table when her husband entered and humbly took his place beside her. She instantly suspected that something had gone wrong; she perceived the signs of humili- ation and disappointment in Eley's face; and A LETTER FROM KEENE. 295 inferring that Edgerton had escaped his doom, she was ardent to be alone with the detective and to glory in his defeat. Oh! the pleasure of uttering the inevitable “I told you so!” Poor Eley! His assistant's glance was nothing to the ordeal he must expect when he withdrew to the privacy of his own chamber. Eley watched his wife as she devoured the un- savory viands before her, with anxiety and dis- may. Ham and pickles, mince-pie and herrings, all disappeared with alarming rapidity, washed down with copious draughts of strong green tea. “She is stowing in ammunition,” thought the unhappy Eley, as, in dread of the scene to follow, he watched the gulping throat of Mehita- ble closing about the contents of the fifth cup. Presently one of the boarders, a clerk in a down-town wholesale clothing establishment, broke the silence: – "So Mr. Edgerton 's been acquitted,” he re- marked, unconscious of the part the trembling Eley had played in the famous trial; and Eley, stammering out an answer, was conscious that his wife's eye was on him. As her husband ceased from speaking, Mrs. Eley rose majestically from the table and led the way to the two-flight front chamber. 296 SILKEN THREADS. “It's got to come,” thought Eley to himself, as he followed his wife up the narrow stairs, “and I suppose the sooner it's over the better." There was certainly no use in toying with the inevitable; and Eley, having screwed up his courage for the coming ordeal, found that, like the giant Antæus, he gained strength with every foot-step. Mrs. Eley lighted the gas and put on her apron. Then she turned upon her husband. “Is it true?” she demanded, in her shrill, nagging voice. " Is what true?” Eley surlily rejoined. “What Mr. Wiggins said about Edgerton ? " “ Yes,” answered Eley, in the same surly voice. “It is true, if you must know." “Then I thank God that I have no offspring that should behold their father's disgrace ! Then I thank God that I am a poor soul tor- tured by dyspepsy, that I may be released from my union with an ijiot !” and Mehitable sank down into her rocking-chair, and pressed her thin hands upon her apron, uttering a dismal wail. The tears had not yet come to her willing eyes, but this premonitory scene was like the filling of the tank, as it were. Soon she could turn the faucet, and the dry tubes would respond. A LETTER FROM KEENE. 297 “Oh, dear; oh, dear,” groaned Mehitable Eley, rocking to and fro with unwonted vio- lence, with her handkerchief at her eyes. Some- times the tubes had to be pressed before they would exude their lachrymal contents. “Oh, dear; oh, dear, that I should ever have come to this! It ain't enough that I should have lost my children, — two boys and a girl, and she as lovely a babe as was ever in arms, and me a lover of children! It ain't enough that my poor frame is racked by pains by day and by night! It ain't enough that my husband should supplant his wife with a noospaper man cherished in his boosom! Oh, dear; oh, dear, that I should ever see the day that I found myself linked to a drivelling ijiot!" and here Mehitable Eley turned the faucet, and the tears came; not copiously, to be sure, but still with sufficient abundance to answer the desired purpose. Eley was a rough man, and at times a hard one. But roughness and hardness were without avail when applied to Mehitable; on the con- trary, they only served the purposes of the enemy, who was accustomed to revert to them in the intervals between the attacks. There was only one remedy. That remedy Eley knew, and hastened to apply. 298 SILKEN THREADS. “Is it bad?” he inquired with feigned anxiety. “Dreadful,” groaned Mehitable, “tremenjous ! extra-ordinary! Never before have I felt such rendin's and tearin's !” “Poor soul!” said Eley, with abject humility, groping in his coat pocket for the new remedy he had displayed the forethought to purchase on his way up town. “Poor sufferin' cretur! I have brought you a most potent new discovery; re- commended by the judge, the attorney-general, and the foreman of the jury. The whole court- room was a talkin' of it! You see my thoughts was with you, Hitty, even in the hour of my defeat.” Eley drew from his coat pocket an insinuating, dangerous-looking bottle, and placed it gently in Mehitable's disengaged hand. Mehitable took the bottle and gazed upon its label as a stage Romeo looks upon the poison. “The Carboniferous Gastoralgicide,'” she read with bated breath. “Good for every ill that flesh is heir to. Recommended alike by physicians of the Allopathic, Homeopathic, Electric, Hydropathic, Botanic, and Thompso- nian schools. It must be a very wonderful remedy, Willis,” she thoughtfully remarked. . 299 A LETTER FROM KEENE. “ So it is,” answered the detective firmly. “Wonderful, but potent.” “What is that ink spot over the price-mark?” inquired Mehitable, with her vigilant eyes still riveted on the label. “The apothecary done it," answered the un- blushing Eley; "they sells so much of it that the price has riz." “What does it cost the bottle?" “Three dollars.” “My! What! three dollars for this little phial?” “ Yes,” Eley again made answer. "Just look at the trade-mark,” cried Mehitable in admiration, pointing at the figure of a red snake which was in the act of crushing the long- nailed, arrowy-tailed demon which represented pain. The high price of the medicine had greatly exalted it in the good lady's estimation. It must be good if it had cost three dollars for so small a bottle. "Willis Eley, I believe we've hit upon the true remedy at last! I will take a spoonful of the Restore-all Cider before I'm a minute older!" Mrs. Eley had a way of jumping at words, as it were, and of catching only a portion. When 300 SILKEN THREADS. she jumped at the long names of patent medi- cines, her renderings were original, to say the very least. Eley uncorked the Carboniferous Gastoral- gicide, and administered a dose to his suffering wife, who rolled up her eyes and smacked her thin lips as she swallowed the burning fluid that the spoon contained. “It's dreadful searchin', Willis,” she thoughtfully remarked. “Has it gone to the right spot, Hitty?” in- quired the detective. “Yes,” replied Mehitable, “ I can feel it to the tips of my toes.” · So Willis Eley won his wife back to good- humor; and the domestic calm being now re- stored, he proceeded to acquaint her with the result of the trial. “I told you so," said Mehitable at last, when Eley had concluded his humiliating recital. “I told you just how it would be. Next time, maybe, you'll listen to your poor wife.” “But you thought Edgerton done it, your- self,” retorted Eley. “I never!” cried Mehitable, with righteous anger. “I never! I said the young gent died of dyspepsy, and I'll maintain it with my dyin' breath. I only said if any one done it, it was A LETTER FROM KEENE. 301 Edgerton. I only said that Keene was a fool. Oh! Willis Eley, I tremble when I behold the ! influence that man has got over you." “Keene is a smart detective,” remarked Eley thoughtfully. “Keene is a fool,” retorted Mehitable, wax- ing wroth. “He's nothin' but a noospaper amatoor.” “But he's smart,” persisted Eley. “Humbug!” retorted his wife. “I say he was the spoiling of the smartest detective in this town when he spoiled you. And he has spoiled you, Willis Eley, and the sooner you break with him, the better it'll be for you. Mark my words!” Willis Eley was about to reply, when a knock at the door and the arrival of a letter interrupted the conversation, - a letter directed in the almost indecipherable hieroglyphics of David Keene. Eley opened his letter and read aloud the following words: — “ Have found the murderer. Shall make arrest to- night. Keep two officers at bureau, subject to call. “K.” Eley dropped his letter and looked at his wife. “I don't believe a word of it," was the com- ment of the dyspeptic. 302 SILKEN THREADS. Then Eley seized the letter again and perused it for a second time. He could not be sure it was not the word “murderess” that was there set, down. Neither could Mrs. Eley, for all her eyes were so sharp. But that was Keene's fault, — Keene, who wrote with a flourish and made such a peculiar “s.” It was during their comment on the “ s,” that the thoughts of Eley first recurred to the evi- dence against Sedgwick. Was Sedgwick, after all, the man behind the chair? Was it true, as Keene had suggested, that his evidence at the inquest had been merely a blind? It must be confessed that Eley feared so. 304 SILKEN THREADS. “No," Mr. Fullerton replied, in tones of sullen despondency. “Nothing. I am irreparably, irretrievably ruined. To-morrow the whole story will be upon the street; ” and Mr. Fullerton, all muddy and soiled though he was, threw himself at full length upon the satin-covered sofa. Margaret Fullerton crossed over to the sofa and sank down on her knees at her father's side. Her father had always repulsed her childish ad- vances. He had always treated her affection with unnecessary sternness and severity, until the girl had come to regard him with a timid, yielding deference; but now she pitied him with all her heart, and she strove to comfort him in the affliction that had come upon him. “After all, papa dear,” she said, with caress- ing softness, laying her gentle hand upon her father's knitted brows, -"after all, papa dear, there can be nothing so very, very dreadful in this failure. You shall see what a loving, gentle little daughter you have found in your sudden trouble.” “Don't be a fool, Margaret,” Charles Fuller- ton answered roughly. “ Don't put on any of those story-book manners with me. You don't know what you 're talking about, my girl.” “ I know what a failure is, papa dear,” said the ANOTHER LETTER. 305 girl again, with caressing gesture. “I know it will be hard to lose our money, papa, and give up our house. But you will get it back again, you know. You are so clever and successful, and you shall see how economical and careful I can be.” “Stuff," retorted Charles Fullerton. “I should n't care if the loss of money was the worst.” “What is the worst, papa?” inquired the girl softly. “I'm sure it cannot be as desperate as you think.” “ It's bad enough,” her father grimly an- swered. “Embezzlement of trust funds is no joke, even in New York." “What do you mean?” cried Margaret Ful- lerton, springing to her feet. To the girl's un- tutored mind, embezzlement seemed a crime, though indeed a fashionable one. She thought she had not heard aright. “I mean what I say,” said Charles Fullerton, sitting upright upon the sofa, and looking searchingly at his daughter. “I mean that your father is a forger and a thief.” Margaret looked upon her father with bewildered incredulity, as he continued still more roughly: "I mean that when you became engaged to Bryce Barclay, I 20 306 SILKEN THREADS. was hopelessly involved, as I explained to you at the time at considerable length, if you will take the trouble to remember. I mean that when that engagement was settled upon, I laid my hands upon every dollar of trust property I could avail myself of. I mean that I stretched my credit to its fullest extent to ward off the im- pending ruin; that I borrowed, begged, forged, and stole. When once you were married to Barclay, he would put his hand into his pocket to save his wife's father from the penitentiary. Then the crash came. If Barclay had only signed that will, I should now be honored and respected. As it is, I am a forger and a thief; and I say, a curse be upon the murderer who timed his crime so damnably!” Margaret Fullerton shuddered at her father's words, while the latter coldly and critically re- garded her. "If I knew who had robbed me of that wealth, I would strike him dead before I left this cursed city-him or her," continued Fullerton fiercely; and again he looked upon his daughter with that fierce, relentless expression upon his face that Prose had seen when he broke to him the news of the death of Barclay. Fullerton looked upon his daughter long and ANOTHER LETTER. 307 steadily, but he only saw a glimpse of his own de- termined humor in the woman's face before him. Muttering something to himself, he rose from the sofa and slowly advanced towards his daughter. “ Margaret,” he said, in low, suppressed tones, “I have committed a crime; do you understand?" “Yes," was the dazed answer. “I say again that I am a forger and a thief; do you comprehend?”. “Yes,” the answer came again from the girl's scarcely parted lips. “I say that I have sacrificed my daughter to save myself. Do you follow me in this ? " The girl did not reply unless the hot tears · which fell from her burning eyes might be called an answer. “ Yet I say," cried Charles Fullerton, dash- ing his clinched fist upon the table, “ that this crime and this sacrifice are as nothing compared to what I would venture for revenge upon the person who has robbed me of my prey." And Margaret Fullerton, looking in the other's face, saw that her father suspected her of com- plicity in her lover's death. She saw that he judged her according to himself; she knew what was in his mind, and yet she gave no sign. She 308 SILKEN THREADS. stood there braving that threatening glance, and returning that unflinching look. As Fullerton dropped his eyes and turned away, his daughter's glance followed him in so turning; and the girl's quick eye, descending from her father's face, caught the outline of a pistol in the pocket of his coat. That glance gave her strength, though it thrilled her with horror. She had a task to fulfil, and she would fulfil it. Quietly and col- lectedly she stood before her father, while Ful- lerton again began to mutter to himself: “Her father's own child; I should have known it." Presently he spoke aloud, - “I shall leave Dashford by a vessel which sails for Buenos Ayres to-morrow morning, and shall go on board to-night. Will you come with me, Margaret? Yes, or no?” “I will come,” Margaret Fullerton simply answered. “Good. Then make your preparations to start in an hour. Collect all your jewelry and everything of value; ” and Fullerton left the girl to bear, as best she might, the burden which had come to her. Margaret hurried to her room to make her sim- ple preparations. She would burn those things that might remind her of the brief happiness ANOTHER LETTER. 309 she had known in her short young life. All her childish treasures which she could not bear to ex- pose to the gaze of the rough officials who would search the house on the following day, were ruthlessly destroyed. Withered roses with their withered hopes; letters and photographs; and all that could remind her of her dead past, - all were burned; and from the pile of smoking ashes in the grate nothing remained except a few mementos of her dead mother. These, and the simple necessities of her toilet, were all that she set aside for her journey into exile. Her father's caution about her jewels had passed unheeded. These jewels were not hers; she was not a thief yet, whatever her father might have been. At last, when her simple preparations were com- pleted, she set herself to work to frame and de- spatch a farewell letter to Hubert Dalton, at the Epicurean Club. This letter ran as follows: — “I shall never see you again, Hubert, and so I bid you this farewell. Forgive me, as I pray that I may forgive myself; as I pray that God may forgive us both. And now, in these last words, I warn you against my father. We leave Dashford to-morrow morning, and forever. I pray you, guard yourself until that time is past. “MARGARET FULLERTON.” 310 SILKEN TIIREADS. The girl, in the bravery of her spirit, made no excuses for her faithlessness to her vows, though she saw now, and all too clearly, that it was her lover she had sacrificed, not herself alone; she had sacrificed their two young lives to preserve her father from that very dishonor which had now so surely come. Poor child ! she had not reflected that it is the wrong-doing, not the exposure of that wrong, that constitutes dishonor. CHAPTER XXIX. THE INVITATION. W HILE Charles Fullerton was thus engaged in acquainting his daughter with the full extent of his guilt, and was making preparations for his hurried flight, Hubert Dalton and Regi- nald Candage were again lunching together at the Epicurean Club. This time the two men were not alone; Thurston Prose had joined them, too excited by the acquittal of Edgerton to devote his thoughts to serious work. " Is n't it rather an unusual thing for you to lunch at the club, Dalton?” Prose was the speaker. Dalton seemed to him out of place among the loungers in the club-house; Dalton, who was usually so serious and preoccupied. “ Rather," was the simple answer. “Why, Dalton," eagerly broke in Candage, “you lunch here every day, you know. I never come here now but what I find you. You are becoining a regular club man.” 312 SILKEN THREADS. As Candage passed the greater part of his leisure at the club, and as his leisure moments represented all those hours of the day which were not devoted to the requirements of his toilet, his remark was equivalent to saying that Dalton had become an habitué of the club- house, — which was indeed the truth. “I do get in here rather often,” Dalton ad- mitted. “I believe I am growing fond of society." “Strange," murmured Thurston Prose; "you are the last man I should have suspected of it." “Why?” inquired Dalton. “Because you are such a serious fellow," Prose lightly answered. “Because I supposed you were forever studying and inventing." “So he was," broke in the supercilious ac- cents of Reginald Candage. “So he was; al- ways puttering away over his infernal machines, you know; but he has given all that up since Barclay died. Look at his hands. They are as white as mine!” Dalton, with a sudden gesture, dropped the fork with which he was playing, and withdrew his hands from the view of his two companions. But in spite of the quickness of the movement Prose noticed that Candage was correct; that 316 SILKEN THREADS. saw, but he is also the most graphic raconteur I ever listened to. He has a wonderful fund of anecdotes, and he tells them better than any one you ever saw. To-morrow night you shall hear him, and judge for yourself.” The blasé eyes of Reginald Candage glistened. Here was something new. At twenty-five he had exhausted most of the pleasures of the world; but he could listen to a good story with avidity, and repeat it too, if he did not forget the point. So it was agreed that Candage should dine with Dalton on the following night, and listen to the model servant. And now the young men had pushed back their chairs and were upon the point of leaving the table, when the waiter brought a letter in and handed it to Dalton. It was Margaret's letter. The young man broke the seal, and apologizing to his friends, hastily opened and read his note, while Prose and Can- dage watched his changing color. A hard, cruel expression had come into Dalton's face, and his brows were knitted in a fierce frown. With a muttered curse he crushed the heavy paper in his hand. Then, twisting it between his fingers, he lighted it with a match; and as the burning paper flamed up he held it to the cigar between THE INVITATION. 317 his firm-set teeth. The flame twisted about the crumpled paper until it was entirely consumed, when Dalton set his foot upon the ashes, which had fallen to the floor, and ground them beneath his boot. Then for the first time observing the surprised faces of his companions, he colored again, and slightly laughed. “ It was a bill,” he said. “If so, a woman is his creditor,” thought Prose to himself, and silence fell upon the group. There was a relentless ferocity in Dalton's act that chilled them all. As if by mutual consent the three young men now rose from their chairs and went out into the air, standing upon the steps of the club- house before they parted. There, by the lamp- post, an Italian, holding a monkey by a chain, was grinding discordant sounds from a barrel organ on the street. The young men paused to look upon the antics of the beast, which, dressed like a French soldier, danced upon the sidewalk to the melancholy chords of the inhar- monious organ. It was a little South American monkey, with a careworn, plaintive face and bearded, serious lips; in its clutching fingers a tambourine was held. When the last wail of the tune had died away, the monkey snatched his 318 SILKEN THREADS. hat from his retreating brow, and bowed low to the men who stood before him. Then he ad- vanced upon them, and extended his brown and sinewy hand. Candage, with a weak laugh, gave the creature a piece of silver, which the animal spasmodically pocketed. Then he ap- proached Dalton with extended hand. Dalton shuddered and drew back, roughly repulsing the little animal with his foot. But the creature thought his gesture play, — alas! he was accus- tomed to rough caresses, — and he sprang upon the young man, and chattering perched upon his shoulder. With a low fierce cry, Dalton caught him by the legs, — the gay French uniform did not shield him from the ruthless hand, — and, swinging the creature to the full length of his long arm, Dalton dashed him against the lamp- post. It was like a flash and as soon over; and the quivering, mangled body of the dead monkey fell at his master's feet. The by-standers uttered a simultaneous cry of horror as they beheld the cruel act; and the impulsive Italian, bursting into tears, began to mourn over the dead body of his dumb com- panion, muttering to himself strange curses against the murderer of his pet. Prose and Can- dage involuntarily shrank away, while Dalton, THE INVITATION. 319 trembling and shuddering, looked from one to the other of the group, as if seeking pardon for the deed he had done. Then he addressed the mourning Italian, — "I am very sorry,” he said gently. “I was afraid, and not myself. I beg your pardon;" and he pressed a roll of money upon the man, ten times the value of the murdered beast. The Italian looked upon the gentleman; then upon the roll of bills. He would be glad to sell a monkey every day upon such generous terms. “That all right,” he answered, smiling, “ver cross monk, bittee;" and he showed his own white teeth in pleasant smiles. “Make no differ- ence, make no difference, ver cross monk, bittee, bittee;” and rubbing his hands he raised the dead creature from the gutter, and placed it beneath the red covering of the organ. With which for- mality he speedily departed, fearing lest the young man should demand the restitution of a portion of his money. Dalton turned towards his friends,- “I beg your pardon, fellows. Lately, I some- times think I am not quite myself; ” and with hurried steps he left the group and hastened up the street. Prose and Candage stood on the steps of the 320 SILKEN THREADS. club-house. “Dalton is certainly getting queer, you know," Candage remarked, as he watched the retreating figure of his friend. “Sometimes I think that his mind is a little upset since Barclay died.” CHAPTER XXX. THE RACONTEUR. D EGINALD CANDAGE, in his perfectly 1 fitting dress-suit, with his white cravat tied squarely upon his rigid upright collar; with his small and shiny patent-leather boots, and with his neat opera hat resting edgewise upon his knees, — was a pleasure and a pride to himself as he sat nursing his right leg in the parlor of the Daltons' mansion, waiting for the feast which his friend had promised him. The young man was drinking a glass of sherry and bitters in company with his host, chattering in the mean time like a cheerful magpie. “Yes, first time I've been by the house since Barclay died,” Candage was saying. “Don't like the idea, you know. I should think you'd hate to live in the same block.” Dalton made no reply to his friend's remark; but the other, without waiting, continued irrele- vantly, in allusion to the wager his friend had lost, — 21 322 SILKEN THREADS. “Awfully hard luck on you, old man.” Indeed, it was a task of no slight hardship to sit through a dinner with Reginald Candage as one's sole companion. At that moment a servant noiselessly entered the room, and announced that dinner was in readiness. “That's my new man,” whispered Dalton to his friend, motioning to the servant, who now deferentially stood in the door-way; and Can- dage, sticking an eye-glass in his eye, took a long, supercilious survey of the new treasure Dalton had so glowingly described. The man, with down-cast eyes, stood patiently at the door of the reception-room, holding it aside for his master and his master's guest to precede him to the dining-room. He was an unusually short man, of slight but vigorous build, with yellow whiskers neatly shaven about the mouth and chin. He was a very plain man, with retreating forehead and projecting brows. Yet he appeared a model servant as he stood there by the door, and Candage could not re- press the pang of envy which rose in his heart as he contemplated his friend's prize. The dining-room was large and spacious, but everything had been done to make it cheerful THE RACONTEUR. 323 for the two men who sat down to their solitary dinner. The table was laden with brilliant flow- ers and glittering glass; with burnished silver and snowy linen; and a velvet screen which had been drawn behind Dalton had the effect of making the room look smaller than it really was. Dalton cast a look of pride upon the model servant who had arranged that luxurious table, as noiselessly and deftly he waited upon him and his guest, supplying their wants with anx- ious forethought, and replenishing their manifold glasses in a way that called forth a smile of approbation, even from the scornful mouth of Candage. When the Roman punch and the cigarettes had been handed to the two friends, Dalton spoke to the servant with haughty accents, – “Gage, pour yourself a glass of wine.” The servant obeyed his master's extraordinary command, and poured out for himself a glass of champagne from the cooler, which stood up- on the sideboard. Then he stood motionless, looking questioningly at Dalton. It was the first time throughout the dinner he had raised his eyes; and Candage, as he looked in curiosity at the man, thought he saw a glance of peculiar menace in the small gray eyes which were fixed 326 SILKEN THREADS. fore, that she had a lover, and that, being young, she returned his love as fervently as it was given. But, alas ! my heroine had, too, a father; and this father frowned upon the lovers, and refused his consent to the union they both so ardently desired. It was not that the young man was not worthy of his daughter, — no, it was not that. The young man was in every way his daughter's equal, but he was not rich in his own right. The father was plunged in financial embarrassments ; in speculations so extensive and disastrous that nothing but extreme wealth could extricate him from the difficulties that beset his path. So he dismissed his daughter's lover with the hopes that her beauty and her sweetness might gain for her a richer prize. This richer lover was soon forthcoming; and Margaret —” The servant here broke off his story shortly, as Dalton raised his hand and interrupted him in a harsh and warning voice, “Take your eyes from off my face," he said, with changing color. “Pursue your story if you will, but do not stare at me;" and the servant, obediently turning his eyes to the floor, con- tinued his story in calm and measured tones: “The richer lover soon was found; and Mar- 328 SILKEN THREADS. ished designs which surrounded him on every side. Prominent among them was the glittering brass frame of an electric lamp which hung from the ceiling. Hubert mechanically took up his rasp and began to file the last screw of an inven- tion which promised him both fame and fortune. A few more cuts of the file, and his work was done. His lamp was in readiness. Up upon the roof he mounted, and connected his wires to the electric cords, which by a private arrange- ment were trained across the house and supplied him with electric force. But as Hubert stood upon the housetop his glance fell upon the fig- ure of his rival in a neighboring house, asleep. Asleep, and before a portrait of his Margaret ! Then a frenzy seized him ; his brain was on fire; Chinese gods, with bearded lips, grinned and mocked him on every side. A madness had come upon him, and he knew not what he did. With the poles of the electric wires still in his hand, he descended into his chamber and connected the battery to the galvanometer to test the strength of the electric current. It was of sufficient force to waft a soul to its eter- nity. Then, holding the poles carefully from his own body, he mounted to the roof again and looked down for a second time upon his 330 SILKEN THREADS. and free it. Then he descended the ladder for a second time, and opened the door which led into the studio. There was his rival sleep- ing calmly; there was the camera covered with its sable cloth; there was the picture of his faithless love smiling down upon him from its painted canvas; while on every side and all about him leered the bearded faces of Chinese love-gods goading him to the deed. Nearer and nearer, gliding across the room, he came behind his unconscious rival. There was no mercy in his eye; no wave of pity stirred his heart; but nearer and always nearer, creeping onward with velvet foot-falls, he approached the sleeping man. As he paused behind the chair, one of the wires caught the tripod, and the black cloth fell to the floor with a rustling sound. But it did not wake the sleeper. He merely stirred in his sleep, and smiled, — a smile which goaded the lover Hubert almost to delirium. Quickly gliding closer to his victim's chair, the velvet cover of which now glowed like blood in the reddening sunset, the lover Hubert placed the poles of his battery to his victim's head. There was a flash, and his rival was no more. Hubert was a murderer.” Again the servant paused, and looked upon THE RACONTEUR. 331 his master. Dalton had not moved. With fallen jaw and staring eyeballs, he sat immov- able in his chair ; while Candage, thrilled with horror, pressed a glass of wine to his own feverish lips. With a stealthy glance at his two listeners, the servant resumed the thread of his dismal tale: “Then the murderer, with one last look upon his victim, having replaced the cloth which had fallen from the camera, retraced his footsteps. He had regained his house, and the deed was done. Looking down through the crystal roof of the studio, he saw the dead man's face red in the glow of the deepening sunset. He had left no traces of his presence. No tell-tale knife would betray him; he had done the deed, and he was safe. He went down into his room again and washed his hands, — there was an in- visible stain upon them. He had done the deed, but felt no sorrow. Remorse had not yet come to him. Patience, gentlemen, my tale is almost told; the strangest part is yet to follow. I tell you, gentlemen, the lover Hubert was wrong when he thought he left no sign. One trace remained in that room of death, — a trace which should rise against him; a trace which must surely bring the murderer to the gallows !” 332 SILKEN THREADS. Dalton sprang to his feet with a wild gesture. "It is a lie,” he cried; “I left no sign!” And advancing upon the servant like a beast at bay, he said incoherently, — "Fiend, devil, whatever you may be, I say I left no sign! All else is true, — true in every damning detail, — but yet not that. I say I left no sign." “Mr. Dalton,” said the servant calmly, “I have not accused you. You accuse yourself.” “I do, I do,” cried the wretched man. “It's true; it's the truth of heaven ;” and Dalton sank back in his chair again, and covered his face with his hands. A terrible silence pervaded the brilliant room, and the burnished silver fruit- piece in the centre of the table reflected a face broadened with horror, as Candage looked from the servant to the master; the young man's blood seemed curdled in his veins. Thus the servant, with his watchful eyes still riveted on Dalton's face, stood by the carven sideboard, furtively moistening his lips with wine, while Dalton, with hands before his face, sat motionless in his place by the glittering table. At last he moved a little; then rousing, he sat upright, and confusedly looked about him as if it had been but a ghastly dream, and he had THE RACONTEUR. 333 suddenly awakened. He had often dreamed such dreams of late. Smiling faintly, Dalton turned his ghastly face upon the servant, who, still sipping his wine, stood by the sideboard, with his keen gray eyes bent fixedly upon his master. Then the realiza- tion of the exposure of his guilt came upon him. “Who are you, or what are you, that you know all this?” he asked in faltering tones. “I am a private detective," answered David Keene. CHAPTER XXXI. THE DEATH. D ALTON rose and confronted his small u antagonist. There was a look of deadly menace in his dark flashing eye ; a fearful threat in that clinched right hand which had not shrunk from violence before. He was deathly pale, but very cool, and his form seemed to tower above the insignificant figure of the detective, who, composedly sipping his wine, still stood by the carven sideboard. “You are a detective?" “Yes.” “You have dogged me for the past two weeks ? " “Yes." “And you had no pity?" “Had you such pity?". “No!” cried Dalton wildly, “I had no pity, nor have I now. What if I should strike you dead at my very feet?” THE DEATH. 335 “I should die, I suppose," answered the other with his silent laugh. “But I can't see how you would benefit by that.” “True, true," confusedly muttered Dalton as if to himself; “I should not. I have done enough; Barclay was enough — enough.” He seemed unconscious of the other's presence now, and muttered to himself as he gazed over the detec- tive's head with a dazed, vacant expression in his staring eyes. Keene took advantage of Dalton's silence to speak in his turn. He took a half step forward, and said firmly, “ Hubert Dalton, I arrest you for the murder of Bryce Barclay;" and throwing open the lapel of his servant's coat, the detective displayed the badge of the special police. “Come with me you must, willingly or unwillingly. I give you five minutes to decide." Keene deliberately drew his watch from his pocket and glanced at it, hardly withdrawing his eyes from those of Dalton. He knew the power of his glance, and not once in that whole interview had he with- drawn his searching eyes from Dalton's face. Hitherto Candage, looking from one to the other, had been a silent spectator of the scene. Now he broke the silence for the first time: to decit unwillin “Come 336 SILKEN THREADS. "I say, Dalton,” he said with piteous accents, “I would n't do anything rude, you know. You might regret it.” The drawling voice and feeble words recalled Dalton to himself again; and as he turned to- wards Candage, he saw his friend was trembling from head to foot. It was that glance at Can- dage that conquered him, for his whole face softened as he looked upon the shrinking figure of his guest. “Never fear, Reggy," he answered softly. Then, with a sad smile in his luminous eyes, he continued, “ Never fear, old man, I shall do noth- ing rude. “I will make no resistance, sir,” he said, ad- dressing himself to the detective. “I only ask you to give me a short time to collect my thoughts." “ Certainly, sir," Keene briskly answered. “I have only done my duty, but I have no wish to make that duty harder than it need be.” Dalton sank back into his chair again, and buried his face in his hands. He seemed to be sobbing; his whole form was shaking with the violence of his emotion. At last he mastered himself; he withdrew his hands from his face, and rose to his feet with a firm, brave smile. THE DEATH. 337 The table was between him and the detective, who had fallen back into his former posture, leaning against the sideboard. Dalton took a few steps forward, and held out his hand to Candage. “Good-by, Reggy," he said softly. “You won your bet after all, old man. What this man has said is true. I murdered Barclay. God forgive me!” Candage shook the proffered hand in silent sorrow. He was too deeply moved to think or speak; then, as he raised his eyes to Dalton's face, he was surprised to see it illuminated by a strange, wild smile. Suddenly Dalton withdrew his hand and plunged it into the breast pocket of his coat. “Goddesses?” he asked questioningly. “Oh, Dalton, never mind the bet!”. “Yes," the other answered with the same wild smile, “I should n't like to go out of the world with a debt unpaid.” The levity of the words and the sarcasm of the smile that accompanied them chilled Can- dage to the very marrow. He was powerless to refuse as Dalton pressed the gold upon him. “Now, sir, I am at your service,” Dalton said, with his hand still plunged in the bosom of his 22 CHAPTER XXXII. CONCLUSION. “VOU see I was right,” said David Keene. 1 The partners were again seated in Eley's private office at the detective bureau, discussing the crime and its strange ending. “ You see that I was right. The real question, after all, was, — what was done?” “Yes,” Eley answered with a sigh. “So it has proved. Tell me how you done it.” “Well,” said Keene, clearing his throat and beginning his narrative, “it was Horace P. Judd who put me on the right scent, after all. The absence of the rigor mortis seemed to have es- caped attention, until I noticed it. I thought the omission remarkable, and investigated it. Horace P. Judd said there had been no rigor mortis ; and I then learned, by consulting the physiologists, that this is an event which only occurs in people who have been struck by light- ning. Had Mr. Barclay been struck by light- ning? I asked of myself. Impossible; and yet CE CONCLUSION. 341 to prove. Then I decided to listen to him at night, in the event of his dreaming and talking in his sleep. I had hit upon the right way. Every night Dalton tossed about in his bed for hours. Then he would fall into a heavy slumber, and mutter in his sleep. I caught enough of his mutterings to become convinced of the part he had played. So one night I questioned him. Little by little, questioning him in his sleep, I elicited the entire history of the crime. Every little detail was brought out and cleared up. I was in possession of the whole story. I originally intended to arrest him alone, after the dinner; but when Dalton asked me for a story, the idea came to me that I would tell him the story of his own crime in every mi- nute detail, and bring him to the confession of his guilt in the presence of his friend. The re- sult of my attempt you are already acquainted with;” and Keene gave a little inarticulate laugh. He was proud of what he had done. Eley stretched out his hand to his partner. “I congratulate you, partner,” he frankly said, "for all you stole a march on me; and, Keene,” he continued slowly, “I'm free to confess I was in the wrong when I said I laid no stress on the pieces of silk and bits of gravel.” 342 SILKEN THREADS. Masters Edgerton, by earnest work and pa- tient self-denial, has pushed himself into that front rank of professional men which is ever ready for the advent of new-comers; it is only the ranks of mediocrity that are thronged. He no longer thinks of self-destruction. One who has been in jeopardy of his life knows its true value and its precious gifts. But he no longer lives for himself alone; and the silent vow taken in the crowded court-room when the jury re- stored to him the life he had wasted, has been the maxim of his happier days: — “I will live for others, not for self. I will let no day pass by without the knowledge that I have shared another's burden, or lightened another's sorrow.” And Margaret Fullerton, living out her life alone beneath the blue sky of that new repub- lic, thinks only of the three lives blasted be- cause she did not listen to the teachings of her heart. 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