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THE GIFT OF
WILLIS ARNOLD BOUGHTON
CLASS OF 1907





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THE TRIGGER OF
CONSCIENCE


Books by
RoBERT ORR CHIPPERFIELD
THE SECOND BULLET
UNSEEN HANDS
THE MAN IN THE JURY
Box
THE TRIGGER OF CON-
SCIENCE


THE TRIGGER OF
CONSCIENCE
BY
ROBERT ORR CHIPPERFIELD
Author of “The Second Bullet,” “Unseen
Hands,” etc.
NEW YORK
ROBERT M. MCBRIDE & COMPANY
1921


Hl 27% 7, 2 4ſ
Copyright, 1921, by
…' ROBERT M. McBRIDE & Co.
HARWARD COLLEGE Líºs A&M
Gift ºf
Wii L13 A, 25ughtor:
NOW. 8 1933
P ºr ; ºn f e dº i m t M 6.
United States of America
Pub l i s h e d , 1 9 2 1


CONTENTS
MR. GRANT INVITEs CRITICISM .
THE HORNET’s NEST .
UNDER THE DRAGON LANTERN
THE GLISTENING STRAND
RENw1CR CRANE ARRIVES
“MORE THAN ONE” .
THE MAN IN THE BUSHES
IN THE BoxwooD BUSHES
THE CURIOSITY OF MRs. SoweRBY
THE WOMAN UPSTAIRS
THE SHOT FROM THE AIR
“I KILLED HIM’’.
THE DRIVER OF DEATH
TELLTALE NUMERALs . - -
MRS. DORRANCE ADVANCES A THEORY
A PIECE of RIBBoN -
THE SHADow on THE DooB .
THE RosB-LEAF EAR .
“THE TRIANGLE TURN’’.
PAGE
II
III
IV
VII
VIII
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
18
33
52
64
83
99
115
132
148
161
183
200
214
232
249
265
280
299





THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
CHAPTER I
IMB, GRANT INVITES CRITICISM
THE golf course of the Broadlawns Country
Club lay basking in the mellow sunshine of a
late September afternoon. Vivid coats and sweat-
ers made bright splashes of color, and the striped
awning of the marquee upon the lawn challenged
the eye as defiantly as at the commencement of
the season. But the stout, white-haired old gen-
tleman on the veranda shivered and tugged at the
collar of his too youthful sport coat.
“Hello, Sowerbyl Been around to-day?” A
cold, rather gibing voice sounded just behind
him, and President Sowerby of the Tradesmen’s
Bank turned irascibly in his chair, and the gaitered
foot, which had rested carefully upon the veranda
rail, slipped to the floor.
Just behind him stood a handsome man of about
forty. The telltale lines about his shrewd eyes
and the curious patch, like a white postage stamp,
1


2 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
in the dark hair above each ear, only added to an
engaging countenance.
“Confound you, Bowles!” Rutherford Sowerby
exclaimed as he recognized the newcomer. “Why
do you sneak up on those rubber soles of yours
like a stage detective?”
He paused with a snort, and the other, in the
freedom of old acquaintanceship, laughed and
perched himself on the veranda rail. “Sorry I
startled you. Little touch of the gout to-day?”
he asked with half-bantering sympathy.
“No, it isn’t l” the old gentleman lied bravely.
“I’m waiting for my wife; never knew a woman
to be on time yet! How was the market? I
didn’t run into town this morning.”
“Pretty steady,” the broker responded ab-
sently, his eyes upon two figures, which, unseen
by his older companion, had started around the
corner of the veranda. One was a young woman
not yet out of her twenties, pretty in a fluffy, col-
orless, rather insipid fashion, and the other was a
slightly older man with a dapper little blond mus-
tache and prominent light blue eyes.
The couple halted instantly, and the woman
flushed and made a slight, almost imperceptible
motion of dismissal. Her companion, accepting
his dismissal, disappeared around the corner of


MR. GRANT INVITES CRITICISM 3
the veranda, and she came forward biting her full
lips. Bowles, the broker, smiled inwardly at the
incident. The woman was Sowerby's young wife,
and Philip Dorrance, treasurer—popularly known
as “husband”—of the Farr Rubber Company,
had been her companion. Ogden Bowles raised
his voice slightly and added in his bantering tone:
... “There wasn’t much movement on the Exchange,
but rubber seems to be booming. Good afternoon,
Mrs. Sowerby l’” He rose, and young Mrs. Sow-
erby flushed—as he had meant that she should—
and darted a venomous glance at him.
“Good afternoon,” she replied sweetly. “Have
you met the new secretary of the club—the one
whom the committee engaged to succeed poor Mr.
Martin? Mrs. Carter says he is rather a grouch,
but I believe he refused to advance her any money
this afternoon to pay her bridge debt. He told
her that her account on the books was already
quite heavy for this month, and, being a new man,
he couldn’t take the responsibility without con-
sulting the secretary of the club, Mr. Estridge.”
She smiled and turned to her husband. “Have I
kept you waiting, dear? I stopped for a minute
to speak to the Frasers and Mr. Dorrance. They
were watching Gerald Landon and Miss Dare
finish their round.”


4 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
Bowles’ face had darkened for an instant at
her thrust at Mrs. Carter. Ignoring her remark
about the secretary, he repeated, as he prepared
to depart: “Gerald Landon? That young friend
of the Frasers? I hope he shows up well later in
the tournament, for he's made the only decent
scores here this season. By the way, I understand
he is the assistant cashier at your bank, Sowerby?
What we need here is young blood to put some
pep into the game. I am sure a golf enthusiast
like yourself will agree with me. Please save me
a fox trot at the dance to-night, Mrs. Sowerby.”
As the broker moved away Sowerby thundered
at his wife. “What we need is less of his cool
impudence around here,” he said. “What busi-
ness is it of his how enthusiastic I am about
his infernal golf, and what business have you
to interest yourself in that Carter woman’s
debts?”
“Just—because,” Maud Sowerby responded.
“Gad, it’s the sort of thing a man wouldn’t have
mentioned l Commend me to women for making a
country club a hotbed of knocking and backbiting
and general cattishness!” Her husband stamped
his gouty foot and then swore vigorously, but her
equanimity was not disturbed.


MR. GRANT INVITES CRITICISM 5
“Go on, dear! You've called me the name of
about every other animal in the menagerie, so I
may as well be a cat, too,” she observed.
His fat face flamed in mounting, apoplectic
rage. “Cats aren’t in menageriesl They’re in
back alleys like the one you came from l’’ he ex-
claimed. “Stop that infernal tapping on the rail
with your fingers. You’re no longer at the type-
writer where I found you when I was fool enough
to marry you!”
Maud Sowerby’s breath drew in with a little
venomous hiss, but the nervous tapping of her
fingers ceased obediently. She was as much
ashamed of those stubby, thickened fingers as of
the plebeian origin with which the irascible old
man always taunted her when his gout got the
better of him. The next moment she rose lightly
from the low wicker chair.
“I think I'll join the Frasers.” In spite of
herself a little sharp note had crept into her
tones. “This constant washing of dirty linen
in public, my dear Rutherford, really ought to be
confined to back yards where alley cats con-
gregate l’’
As she left him the old man chuckled in vicious
glee. He was still chuckling when a tall, slender,


6 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
distinguished-looking, gray-haired man of fifty,
after a word or two with the club steward in the
doorway, approached him.
“Hello, Rutherford! Have you met the new
secretary of the club?” His voice, though confi-
dentially modulated, was suave and resonant with
the notes of a trained orator, and the smile, with
which he met the eyes of the bank president, was
the diplomatic one which had overcome the preju-
dices of more than one difficult jury in a cele-
brated case.
Rutherford Sowerby grunted. “’Lo, Sam!
What's all this about your infernal secretary?
Haven’t I always maintained that this club was
too small to need a salaried one? Aren’t you the
official, duly elected officer in that capacity? I
never did see why the steward couldn't keep the
tuppenny monthly accounts and bring them to you
to be ratified without any intermediary.”
“Yet you were one of the directors at the last
meeting who instructed the chairman of the house
committee to ask me to find a man for you.”
Samuel Estridge’s tone seemed not to have
changed, but it held a quality which made the
older man eye him more keenly. “I think you’d
better come along and have a look at him.”
Without another word Sowerby hauled himself


MR. GRANT INVITES CRITICISM 7
out of his chair, and the two strolled into the club-
house. They proceeded at once to the secretary's
office on the other side of the staircase from that
of the steward.
Here they found a stocky man of indeterminate
middle age, with a shock of sandy hair as heavy
as a wig and thick-rimmed glasses beneath his
eye-shade, poring nearsightedly over a ledger
behind the desk. In front of it stood a stout, ma-
jestic, elderly woman with a high, bony nose and
piercing dark eyes that glared across the counter
through a short-handled, diamond-studded lor-
gnette.
“I am positive that there is some mistake!”
she was saying in frigid, dominant tones. Then,
as she caught sight of the newcomers, she turned
to the lawyer. “Mr. Estridge, I really think that
Mr. Martin, no matter how ill he was before he
went West, ought to have gone more thoroughly
over the books with your new Mr. Grant here. I
am certain that my personal account is incorrect,
and, although I do not wish to go so far as to lay
it before the board—”
“My dear Mrs. de Forest, this is Mr. Grant’s
first day in active charge, you know.” The law-
yer’s voice was as winning as his smile. “I prom-
ise you that I will give him my personal assistance


8 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
and look into this matter at the earliest possible
opportunity.”
Cutting short the lady’s effusive declaration
that she would not dream of troubling him and
had no doubt that the trifling affair would adjust
itself, he led her adroitly into a discussion of the
afternoon’s bridge game. Presently the dapper,
blond, young Mr. Dorrance appeared in the door-
way and, with the conciliatory little cough he
usually reserved solely for addressing his own
wife, announced: “Mrs. de Forest, I have been
looking everywhere for you! Josephine and the
Frasers are waiting tea, and they wouldn’t
dream 5 y
The social arbiter of Broadlawns smiled gra-
ciously. “Of course! I'll join them at once. How
stupid of me!” With an inclination of her elabo-
rately coiffured gray head to the others she de-
parted in his company much after the manner of
a huge liner with a fussy little tug. Sowerby
growled in an aside to the lawyer: “Wish she
would lay something before the board, as she’s
always threatening to do, while I’m present at
the meeting! What I’d do to it But your
man here does seem to be—er—going a bit
farther than Martin. I hear he disputed Mrs.
Carter’s credit.”


MR. GRANT INVITES CRITICISM 9
The shock of sandy hair had not raised itself
an inch from above the ledger, and Estridge
stepped quickly forward as though he, too, had
not heard his companion’s remark.
“Getting on to the work all right, Grant? Mr.
Sowerby, this is Mr. James Grant, who will look
after the books for us in place of Mr. Martin.
Grant, this is Mr. Rutherford Sowerby, president
of the Tradesmen’s Bank in New York and one
of the directors of the club.”
The new secretary of the club acknowledged the
introduction with just the right shade of deference
and then replied to the lawyer’s question: “Yes,
sir, I think I shall get on to the work in time quite
satisfactorily. Murdock has been assisting me
to-day in his spare time.”
“‘Murdock?’ Yes, I’m sure you’ll find the
steward very helpful, and there is no reason why
you shouldn’t delegate a lot of the minor accounts
to him, Mr. Grant.” Samuel Estridge turned
away. “You needn’t stay cooped up in here all
the time, you know. Come on, Rutherford, I’ve
got something better than tea in my locker!”
Young Mrs. Sowerby appeared in the door of
the office. “Rutherford, the car’s waiting, and
you know you ordered it for five o’clock.” She
spoke hurriedly, and her eyes shifted as though,


10 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
strangely enough, she were trying to avoid meet-
ing the gaze of the man behind the desk. “How
do you do, Mr. Estridge? May we drop you at
your place on our way home?”
“Thanks, I’m staying on here a little longer.
Have you met our new house secretary, Mr.
Grant?” Estridge was watching her curiously,
and he noted the quick, uncontrollable flush which
mounted in her face.
“Yes, I–I’ve met Mr. Grant.” Her eyelids
fluttered and fell, and then she turned quickly to
her husband. “Rutherford, Whitcomb says that
the batteries 7 7
With feline cleverness she had scratched upon
a spot already sore. “Whitcomb's a fool!” Sow-
erby charged for the door. “See you to-night,
Sam. This is your fool nonsense, Maud, in want-
ing a bullheaded British driver because he looked
swagger. Swagger, my eyel Now he wants
the earth! Don’t I know the batteries of that
Car?”
His voice died away upon the veranda, and
Estridge turned with a little shrug to the new
secretary, but that worthy had bent once more
over his ledger, and the lawyer strolled out.
In the rotundalike entrance hall, where, as upon
the veranda, cozy little groups were having tea,


MR. GRANT INVITES CRITICISM 11
he came upon Ogden Bowles deep in conversation
with a tall, willowy woman, whose rich red hair
was drawn down over her ears like a Madonna by
Raphael. He would have passed them with a
smiling nod, but the broker stopped him.
“I say, Estridge, do sit down for a minute and
amuse Mrs. Carter. I’ve got to see the secretary,
and I am afraid she will run away from me! I
have been trying to persuade her to dine with the
Dorrances and me at the Mayblossom Inn—I’d
ask you, too, but I know that you are booked
already, unfortunately—and I’m not having any
luck.”
“Don’t try to amuse me, Mr. Estridge—all the
men do that—but take this chair by me and satisfy
my feminine and trivial curiosity.” Mrs. Carter
had large eyes of a peculiar golden brown, and
she knew how to use them. There was nothing
for the attorney to do but to acquiesce, and he
dropped into the chair indicated, as Bowles bowed
and turned toward the little office.
“Anything that interested you sufficiently to
arouse your curiosity could not be trivial, Mrs.
Carter,” he murmured mechanically.
“That isn’t worthy of you, Mr. Estridge,” she
replied. “One might expect that sort of thing
from Phil Dorrance, perhaps, if his wife were


12 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
not within hearing, but not from our most noted
criminal lawyer.”
“‘Criminal lawyer” sounds ambiguous, doesn’t
it?” he said. “But, seriously, you have aroused
my curiosity by declaring that you have any. I
have always looked upon you as one woman devoid
Of it.”
“It isn't very active.” As she spoke Mrs. Car-
ter’s glinting, topaz eyes shifted from him to the
tiny office at the right of the broad staircase.
“Tell me something about the club’s new secre-
tary—Mr. Grant, isn’t it? He seems to be rather
an unusual individual, not quite like a mere
clerk.”
“He isn't.” The attorney spoke easily enough,
and his tone had sunk to an even more conversa-
tional level, but he eyed Mrs. Carter’s profile,
clean cut against her banded, straight red hair,
with a shrewd glimmer of speculation. “I believe
he held a more superior position of some sort, but
he has accepted this until Martin’s return because
he is so keen on golf. He won’t be tied down to
the office since Murdock can do a lot of his work.
You’ve met him? I hope he hasn’t been officious
about the accounts or anything? These men who
feel superior to their positions so often are dic-
tatorial.”


MR. GRANT INVITES CRITICISM 13
Mrs. Carter laughed lightly, and one of her
long, slim, very white hands gripped the chair
arm until the wicker creaked. “Oh, dear, no! I
never bother about my club accounts except to
write a check for the total at the first of the month
without even glancing over my slips. I’m such a
bad business woman! But, when I went in to ask
this Mr. Grant some trivial question or other, a
little while ago, he seemed to mistake me for some
one else and was so politely incredulous about it
that it rather amused me. I’m sure I never laid
eyes on the man before, unless he has waited upon
me in some shop or bank. What did you say his
position was previous to his coming here, Mr.
Estridge?”
Her tone was a bored, idle one, but, as she
moved again restlessly in her chair, the attorney
caught another glimpse of her eyes, and their
eager, almost defensive, light did not accord with
her manner. Was it fear that he read in them—
the same fear which had covered the less well-
poised little Mrs. Sowerby with confusion?
“I didn’t say, but I’m quite sure he has never
waited upon any one in his life,” Estridge replied
deliberately. “I understand he was the confiden-
tial secretary for some very noted personage.”
“For whom?” A crisp voice behind him made


14 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
-
him glance over his shoulder to see that Ogden
Bowles had returned. In the usually debonair
broker, too, there appeared a slight, but signifi-
cant, change. The fine lines about his eyes seemed
to have deepened, and his lips were set. “Who
is this fellow, Grant, Estridge? You’ll forgive me
for overhearing a part of your conversation, but
it was unavoidable. The man seems rather a dub
to me.”
“Oh, give him time, Bowles; this is his first
day, you know.” The attorney laughed good-
naturedly, but in his mind a curious question was
forming. “I don’t know for whom the chap was
confidential secretary, but if you’re interested I
don’t doubt that I can find out from the house com-
mittee.”
“I’m not sufficiently interested for that,
thanks.” Bowles laughed also, but rather shortly.
“Mrs. Carter, is it to be the Mayblossom Inn?”
She rose with a slow shake of her head. “So
sorry, but I find that I have a slight headache,
and, if I am to return for the dance to-night, I
must rest. I’ll let you run me home to my little
cottage, though, if you like.”
After a final word or two with Estridge the
couple moved off down the veranda steps, and the


MR. GRANT INVITES CRITICISM 15
attorney sank back in the chair from which he
had just arisen, but he turned it so as to face
the door of the little office in which the new secre-
tary had been installed. What was the matter
with Mrs. Sowerby and Mrs. Carter and Bowles?
Could it be his own imagination, could his nerves
have gone back on him after that last big, grueling
contest of wits in court, or was there really some-
thing strange and sinister underlying the tranquil
surface atmosphere of this little club of suburban
acquaintances—greater even than he had conceived
in his knowledge of their petty affairs?
While he sat there lost in reverie Murdock, the
steward, approached. He was a man of forty-odd
with a slight touch of gray at his temples and the
expressionless face of the perfectly trained serv-
ant. Absently Estridge ordered a lemonade.
When the man brought it he remarked: “Mur-
dock, Mr. Grant says that you have been helping
him to-day with the accounts which Mr. Martin
left unfinished.”
Murdock coughed. “Well, yes, sir,” he mur-
mured. “Having a little spare time and knowing
the books from going over them with Mr. Martin,
I thought it was what the house committee would
wish, sir.”


16 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
His tone was apologetic, as though feeling that
he had overstepped the bounds of his appointed
duty, but Samuel Estridge nodded approvingly.
“Quite right, Murdock. Take as much off Mr.
Grant’s hands as you can, especially at first. You
know the books, and of course they’ve been kept
absolutely straight.”
“Of course, sir.” Murdock placed the empty
glass upon his tray and started to move off. The
attorney stopped him once more and spoke in a
lowered tone:
“Murdock, you’ve been a trusted employee of
Broadlawns since it was built, and, if anything
goes on at any time that strikes you as being—
er—not quite regular, I shall appreciate your com-
ing to me, as secretary, instead of first reporting
the matter to the house committee, you under-
stand?”
Murdock's face remained expressionless, but he
responded with a shade more emphasis: “Per-
fectly, sir. I have heard of nothing irregular, and
I am quite sure that there will be no difficulty
about the books. Thank you, sir.”
This time he departed without further com-
ment or instruction, but when he had disappeared
Estridge glanced once more through the doorway


MR. GRANT INVITES CRITICISM 17
into the office of the new secretary. The shock of
sandy hair had been raised for an instant from
above the ledger, and from behind a pair of heavy-
rimmed glasses two shadowed, unexpectedly keen
eyes seemed staring into his own.


CHAPTER II
THE HORNET’s NEST
EPTEMBER had vanished in a burst of
springlike warmth. October ushered in a
period of premature, nipping frost which drove
all but the hardiest of the golf players from the
course and speedily turned the leaves of the trees
about the clubhouse to the evanescent scarlet and
gold of autumn.
The veranda was now practically deserted.
Those of the all-year colony, who still forgathered
at Broadlawns for tea and afternoon bridge, pre-
ferred the spacious entrance hall and dining room
—the latter in reality a converted sun parlor. It
was here that two feminine members of the club
were lunching together one glowing day late in
the month.
“This salad is atrocious!” The larger, more
elderly of the two ladies shook her elaborately
dressed gray head indignantly. “I am really
tempted to lay the matter of the cuisine before
18


THE HORNET’S NEST 19
the board | As it is I would have invited you to
lunch at the house, Mrs. Dorrance, but I fancied
we might pick up two people here for bridge later.
Besides I am breaking in a new cook. You know
what that means !”
“Indeed I do, my dear Mrs. de Forest!” the
other replied. She was dark and beetle-browed,
and an undeniable shadow appeared upon her firm
upper lip. A tendency to embonpoint she curbed
with obviously Spartan courage. Her one known
act of self-indulgence had been her marriage to
good-looking, penniless, weak Phil Dorrance, twelve
years her junior. She had made him treasurer of
the great Farr Rubber Company, and, although
men looked with contempt upon him for the trans-
action, it was mingled with pity. For the “Em-
press Josephine,” as all Broadlawns called her
behind her arrogant back, was no easy task-mis-
tress. “Our own cook left this morning, but
Philip is bringing another out from town with
him this afternoon.”
“I thought he was playing off his match with
Ogden Bowles to-day,” Mrs. de Forest observed.
“No. I sent him in to Harlier’s with my emer-
alds; it occurred to me that I had better have
the settings looked over before the Hallowe'en
dance to-morrow night.” Josephine Dorrance


20 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
eyed her peach Melba and then pushed it reso-
lutely from her. “You will wear your diamond
necklace, of course?”
Mrs. de Forest shook her head, and her lips
tightened. “No. With so many nouveau riche
members coming into the club I decided that such
a display, at a mere informal Hallowe'en affair,
would be not only vulgar, but a bad example for
Alice. Girls—especially those with no money of
their own—do get such silly notions and expecta-
tions! You’ve no idea what it is to have a penni-
less, spoiled orphan niece on your hands!” Mrs.
de Forest sighed. “I had hoped that Alice would
be quite a help to me—a sort of social secretary,
you know—but my poor sister-in-law indulged her
so, and on positively nothing, my dear, that Alice
takes everything quite for granted l’’
The Farr rubber fortune was newer by two gen-
erations than the de Forest wealth, and Mrs. Dor-
rance quite enjoyed the sensation her emeralds
always created at the club, especially among the
lately admitted members. Therefore she raised
her heavy brows slightly as she replied: “I don’t
believe you will be troubled with Miss Dare very
long. That nice Landon boy who is visiting the
Frasers—”
“A mere bank employee of Rutherford Sower-


THE HORNET’S NEST 21
by's 1” Mrs. de Forest exclaimed. “I have for-
bidden Alice to have anything more to do with him
than sheer courtesy demands. After all she is
my niece, and I do not approve of even a wealthy,
mature woman marrying an indigent upstart,
much less an impressionable girl like Alice with
her future before her. She will keep Gerald Lan-
don in his place.” With this Parthian shot Mrs.
de Forest led the way from the dining room.
At that very moment Alice Dare was having
considerably more to do with the Landon boy than
sheer courtesy demanded. As a matter of fact,
she was seriously interfering with his driving of
the Frasers’ little runabout by cuddling her head
into his shoulder, and Gerald Landon did not seem
to object in the least. They were on a secluded road
several miles from Broadlawns, making rapidly
for a little, old-fashioned village and a certain
little old-fashioned cottage on its main street.
All at once Alice straightened in her seat and
asked for the twentieth time: “Oh, do you think
it will be all right, Gerald, darling?”
“Right as rain!” he responded promptly, avoid-
ing a rut in the road by the narrowest margin.
“I don’t know!” Alice replied. “There's just
one person in that club whom I'll be afraid to face,
and that person is the secretary. There’s some-


22 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
thing odd about him, Gerald; I don’t know
whether it’s that shaggy mop of hair that he peers
out from beneath when he asks one of those funny,
unexpected questions, or the way he stares after
one. He’s not disrespectful at all, nor even per-
sonal, and I can’t say that I dislike him; he simply
makes me uncomfortable. I wish I could see his
eyes without that shade or those heavy-rimmed
glasses.”
“Oh, he’s just an old codger who has been in
a rut always, dear, and country-club life is all new
to him,” Gerald replied. “Jack Fraser seems to
think he is clever.”
“So does Mr. Estridge and—and Mr. Sower-
by,” Alice said in a lowered tone. “I’ve seen
them talking to him a lot.”
“Well, I’m safe enough even if Sowerby has
taken a queer fancy to him,” Gerald observed.
“I’m not a member, you know, just a guest of
the Frasers, and Grant only bothers with his club
accounts and ledgers. Not a single one of the
crowd will see us until we get back.”
But the young assistant cashier of Sowerby's
bank was wrong. The solitary occupant of a big,
high-powered car, coming down one of the side
roads, had noted and recognized the couple in the
a-


THE HORNET’S NEST 23
little runabout, and he gazed after them specula-
tively as he swung his own machine back the way
they had come, toward Broadlawns. When he
neared the club, however, he made a detour down
a winding byway that was known as the “Glen
Road,” and here all thought of the other two was
driven from his mind when he came upon a second
couple.
These two people were as much engrossed with
each other as the first pair had been, and they
were equally oblivious to his proximity as he
slowed down the car to make as little noise as pos-
sible in passing them. They were seated upon a
rustic bench half hidden behind a rock; the man
wore a dapper town suit and the woman was
dressed in a blue sweater and sport skirt. Her
ash-blond hair was conspicuously fluffy.
“Fools l’” said the occupant of the big car as
he turned out upon the highway again and headed
for the club. “Fools l’’
An hour later Mrs. Jack Fraser emerged from
the caddie house and started alone for the club
veranda. She was a pretty little woman in the
late twenties with a sensible, humorous mouth,
healthily tanned skin, and wind-blown brown hair,
and she walked with a free, athletic stride devoid


24 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
of swagger. As she neared the veranda steps she
caught side of Ogden Bowles and hailed him
cordially.
“Jack and I have just been around,” she said.
“It was such a gorgeous afternoon that I couldn’t
resist it, but I really meant to call on Mrs. Carter.
I heard that she had been ill for the last few days,
and, as a matter of fact, we’ve hardly seen her
here at the club for the past month.”
Ogden Bowles hesitated, eyeing her frank, smil-
ing countenance for a moment as though uncertain
what to reply. Then he, too, smiled.
“I am sure that Mrs. Carter’s indisposition is
not serious. She has promised to come to the
Hallowe'en dance with me to-morrow night,” he
replied. “Won’t you come in and let me give
you a cup of tea, Mrs. Fraser?”
“You come in and join us,” she suggested in-
stead. “All the rest of the crowd are having tea
in the foyer.”
The atmosphere seemed more chilly indoors
than out in the sunshine, and a tiny fire had been
started upon the hearth. Rutherford Sowerby
had settled himself squarely before it, and Jack
Fraser and Samuel Estridge stood with their el-
bows on the mantel, deep in conversation with
him. The attorney appeared to have been remon-


THE HORNET’S NEST 25
strating, but Sowerby was continuing to speak in
a loud voice: “I don’t care! I tell you some-
thing’s got to be done. Here it’s been more than
a month since the affair happened, and what has
been accomplished? Exactly nothing!”
“Look here, Rutherford, unless you want the
unholy scandal that we’ve all been trying to avoid,
you’ll talk lower!” Estridge spoke in keen, in-
cisive tones with a quick glance toward the bay
window where Mrs. Fraser and Ogden Bowles had
joined Mrs. de Forest and Mrs. Dorrance, and it
was evident that a bridge game was being
arranged. “We’ve taken the only possible step
under the circumstances—”
“Well, that step will have to lead somewhere
during the next twenty-four hours, Sam, or that
unholy scandal you are talking about is likely to
spread through all creation!” The bank presi-
dent’s retort was made in a modulated voice. “It
happened at the Harvest Dance, if you remember,
and to-morrow night is Hallowe'en. If the same
thing or something like it occurs then we’ll all be
in a deuce of a hole!”
“But there are only a few of us who know, and
we can all watch,” Jack Fraser suggested. He
was as tanned and lithe and clear-eyed as his wife,
but half a head taller, with a look of strength and


THE HORNET’S NEST 27
bers of this club, on the very day that our investi-
gation assumed a practical form, who to the
trained eye gave every indication of guilt. Now
it is manifestly impossible that they could have
been in any conspiracy, and it is equally improb-
able that any of them had a hand in the affair.
We’ll have a merry dance to-morrow night if we
who know continue to go about glaring at each
other.”
“It’ll be a merrier one if the Harvest affair
is repeated 1’’ remarked Sowerby. “Oh, I admit,
Sam, that your plan was the only one we could
follow under the circumstances, but we might have
done ten times more with it as I contended from
the beginning.”
“And have everybody in the club, members and
employees alike, aware of what we were doing?”
demanded Estridge. He lowered his arm from
the mantel, straightened himself and added irrele-
vantly: “It is near the first of the month, and Grant
must have begun to get his accounts ready to date
so that he can add without trouble the little that
will come in later. Think I’ll go and have a look
at them. Hello, Dorrance!”
But Philip Dorrance seemed not to have heard
the greeting. He had just entered, clad not in his
usual hectic sport regalia, but in one of the dapper


28 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
business suits he was in the habit of wearing to
the offices of the Farr Rubber Company. His in-
significantly good-looking face was curiously white
and set as he made his way straight to the bridge
table.
Mrs. Dorrance was dummy at the moment, and
she glanced up expectantly from her outspread
cards. “I thought you might have come out on
an earlier train, Philip.” Her dominant, almost
masculine, tones carried to the farthermost cor-
ners of the foyer. “What did Harlier say about
my emeralds?”
Dorrance moistened his lips nervously and
shook his head. “You won’t be able to wear them
to-morrow night, my dear Josephine.” The reply
came with his habitual, conciliatory, little cough.
“You were right about the settings; they say at
Harlier’s that the whole collection must be thor-
oughly gone over.” -
With a little exclamation of annoyance Mrs. Dor-
rance turned her attention once more to the game,
and Jack Fraser remarked in an aside to Estridge,
who had lingered: “So the Empress Josephine
will have to appear without her crowning glory
to-morrow night! Perhaps it is just as well. Do
you know, I think, if it were not for disappoint-
ing my wife, and the fact that my brother


THE HORNET’S NEST 29
is coming out, I’d stay in town myself and estab-
lish a perfectly good, indestructible alibi for the
time of this Hallowe'en Dance.”
“No, you don't!” declared Sowerby firmly.
“We'll all stand or fall together, no matter what
happens; that’s agreed. By the way, do you
mean that brother of yours from Texas?”
Fraser nodded, and Sowerby turned to Estridge.
“Ever meet him?” he asked. “He’s an inter-
esting chap; we’ve had some dealings with him
at the bank. He owns large oil interests down
near the border. Older than you, isn’t he, Jack?
Does he still ride that hobby of his?”
Jack Fraser laughed. “Yes. Ralph is four
years my senior, but he is still a perfect kid about
collecting queer old weapons of all kinds, par-
ticularly firearms.” He, too, turned to the law-
yer. “I’ll be glad to have you meet him, for you
may be interested in hearing him rave about his
collection. He really has some of the most curi-
ous man-killing instruments, and not necessarily
ancient either, that were ever devised by murder-
ous-minded cranks. Heaven knows where he picks
them up around the globel But we were not dis-
cussing murder, thank goodness! At the worst
we may be in for a scandal, though possibly a
ruinous one.”


30 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
Samuel Estridge had nodded politely at the sug-
gestion that he meet the younger man's brother,
but there was a sudden tenseness of his easy pose,
and the other two, following his gaze, saw that it
was fixed upon the door of the house secretary’s
little box of an office. Philip Dorrance had strolled
over to it with an elaborate air of unconcern and
disappeared within, but, while the three men by
the fireplace watched, he came hurriedly out again,
and, fairly stumbling in his haste, made his way
to the veranda door and went out.
“By Jove, did you see that!” Fraser exclaimed
beneath his breath. “I wonder if the little bounder
has just discovered that he has overdrawn his
allowance for this month and is afraid to tell his
wife l?”
“Murdock!” Sowerby called to the steward,
who had paused a short distance away to remove
some empty glasses. “Bring us three of those
devitalized drinks of yours. Is Mr. Grant in his
Office?”
“Yes, sir. No, sir, Mr. Grant went out just a
few minutes ago; I don’t know where, sir.”
He glided noiselessly away upon his errand, and
Sowerby turned to the others. “You see? Dor-
rance was trying to find Grant, not leaving him


THE HORNET’S NEST 31
after an unsatisfactory interview. We’re getting
as gossipy as a pack of old women l’’
The glances of Fraser and Estridge met, but
they said nothing until the steward returned with
three tall glasses upon a tray.
“Murdock”—it was the attorney who spoke—
“do you recall a brief conversation I had with you
on the first day that Mr. Grant took over his
duties?”
The steward placed the glasses upon a table
before he replied: “Yes, sir. I have given Mr.
Grant all the assistance in my power, sir.”
“As I not only reminded you, but explained to
him, you have been with the club a long time and
are thoroughly familiar with the books,” Estridge
pursued. “I have no doubt that Mr. Grant was
glad to turn over a great many of the minor
accounts to you?”
Although his last words were a statement the
inflection made them so unmistakably a question
that Murdock realized the need of a reply, yet
once more he hesitated respectfully.
“Well, sir, I really didn’t know all about the
books, even in Mr. Martin’s time, only the club
accounts that have always been in my hands, and,
since I am just the steward, I suppose Mr. Grant,


32 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
being new, felt personally responsible. He-he
seems to be very careful and conscientious I
should say, sir.”
There was silence, save for an occasional mur-
mur from the bridge players, as Murdock disap-
peared again within the pantry, but a moment
later there came the rattle and clatter of a dropped
tray.
“Confound that steward!” Sowerby slammed
down his glass. “Did you hear that? No wonder
Grant doesn’t want him fussing about the books
He’s getting more careless every day. I’ve always
said it was a mistake to keep any club attendant
too long !”
Samuel Estridge smiled. “I told you a little
while ago that, on the very day our investigation
assumed a practical form, I could have named
three members of the club who gave every indica-
tion of separate guilt of some sort, or at least a
guilty conscience. We were only looking for one,
but I could now name at least five persons, any
one of whom—if the other four were eliminated—
might be seriously suspected. Gentlemen, do you
know what our well-meant efforts have stirred up
in this peaceful little community? A hornet’s
nest, and Heaven knows what will happen before
we can stamp it out!”


CHAPTER III
TJNDER THE DRAGON LANTERN
BBQADAWN's was glowing with strings
of varicolored lanterns. They were hung
from tree to tree and bobbing grotesquely in the
night wind which had turned soft and balmy with
the fickle mellowness of coming Indian summer.
Nearer the veranda the rows of motors, parked
in a semicircle on the driveway, sent the glare of
their lamps out into the darkness, and the club-
house itself was ablaze with lights and throbbing
with the syncopated melodies from the alternating
string orchestra and jazz band.
The far corners of the veranda itself had been
left discreetly in shadow, with only a bobbing lan-
tern here and there, and, in the brief intervals
between dances, fluffily gowned and somberly
coated figures appeared for a time and then van-
ished again within doors, leaving only an occa-
sional couple here and there, too absorbed to be
aware that the music had started once more.
33


34 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
Toward the hour before midnight, however, the
treacherous softness of the air sharpened, the
wind veered to the north and rose, and the sting of
frost drove even the hardiest and most persever-
ing of the sentimental couples to the shelter of the
conservatory. There, behind a bank of huge
chrysanthemums, a dapper young man in fault-
less evening attire strove vainly to persuade a
pretty, colorless, doll-like little woman to seat
herself on a rustic bench beside him.
“It’s no use, Dorry!” There was a note of
pettishness in her voice. “I came because you
said that you had something to tell me that I
ought to hear, but please hurry! I can’t stay a
minute!”
“You’ve got to hear me out, Maud.” Phil Dor-
rance spoke with strange doggedness, and there
was an unusual light in his slightly prominent
blue eyes. “You’ve played with me all summer,
you’ve led me to believe that you were ready to
chuck everything, and—”
“I thought we had all this out yesterday on the
Glen Road!” Maud Sowerby’s tones were un-
mistakably cold now and contemptuous. “I played
about with you simply because we were both
bored, and you know it. I’m not going to stay
here any longer and take the risk of being caught


|UNDER THE DRAGON LANTERN 35
in a tête-à-tête with you, Dorry. I thought that
what you had to say to me would be something
new—something, perhaps, connected with my own
protection and not your feelings.”
He winced at the palpable sneer, and the lips
beneath his small mustache curled viciously.
“Perhaps what I had to say concerned both, but,
since you have become suddenly so discreet, I
will not mention it. Shall I take you back now
to your husband?”
She looked at him, and the sneer gave place to
a whimper. “What is it, Dorry? Do you mean
that we are—are both going to get into trouble?
We’ve only carried on a mild sort of flirtation,
as you know, but my husband is a brute, and your
wife is a cat, and between them, if they wanted to,
they might take from us all that we have gained
by the years during which we have put up with
them l’” Her voice rose to a subdued wail. “I
couldn’t give up my lovely house and my cars
and all my luxuries and go back to the typewriter
again. I couldn't!”
“Suppose I hadn’t taken it for a mild sort of
flirtation?” Phil asked grimly. “Suppose I’d
burned both our bridges? What then?”
Her anger flamed up anew. “You couldn’t burn
mine!” she declared through set teeth. “You


UNDER THE DRAGON LANTERN 37
“Oh, Gerald, we must hurry! We can’t stay
a minute! Auntie is holding court in her corner
as usual, but, if she discovers that I’m in here
with you after all her injunctions, there’ll be a
dreadful scene when we get home. How—how did
Mr. Sowerby treat you at the bank to-day?”
“The same as usual—just as though I didn’t
exist.” Gerald Landon shrugged. “It is only
out here, you know, dearest, that he grants me
more than a passing nod. We’re safe enough,
Alice, darling.”
“Don’t!” She shrank away from him. “Sup-
pose somebody heard you call me that and told
auntie, and she went to him! He doesn’t like her,
but you know what influence she has out here.
If they both began investigating 3 y
“There goes that beastly music, and I’ve got to
haul Mrs. Dorrance around the floor!” Gerald
said gloomily, then with a swift movement he
gathered the girl into his arms.
She yielded to his kiss, but the next instant she
freed herself and placed a flowering shrub be-
tween them. “Gerald ! How could you! Some
9ne might have seen! There’s something strange
going on. I know it! Something that we
don’t understand, but it frightens me! Did you
see that notice on the bulletin board outside the


38 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
billiard room, that any member or guest of the
club, desiring to leave before the final dance,
would kindly see Mr. Estridge first? I have heard
heaps of people discussing it. Do you suppose it
means a special meeting of some kind? That Mr.
Grant isn’t in his office to-night!”
“I couldn’t help it, Alice. No one saw, and I
don’t know why you keep bothering about that
house secretary. The last I saw of him he was
standing right under the dragon lantern on the
veranda, right in front of that wide window which
faces across the foyer to the stairs and the two
little offices—his and Murdock's—on either side
of the balustrade. He was watching the dancing,
and I felt kind of sorry for him, poor chap, being
out of it all. And don’t you worry your darling
little head about old Estridge and his bulletins;
there never was a house committee on a country
club yet that didn’t try to show its importance
on every possible occasion. If it had been any-
thing serious Jack Fraser would have told me
about it, since he put me up here. But we must
hurry! Here comes Ralph Fraser for you now.”
Jack Fraser’s brother, from Texas, of whom
he and Rutherford Sowerby had spoken on the
previous day, was a big, broad-shouldered man
of thirty-five. His bluff, hearty, outspoken man-


DNDER THE DEAGON LANTERN 39
ner hinted at one who knew more of boom towns
than ultra-smart suburban colonies, and his keen
eyes took in the situation between the two at a
glance.
“Look here, Miss Dare, if I’m butting in we’ll
just forget all about this dance,” he began. “I’m
rotten at it, anyhow—can’t lift my hulking feet
off the floor.”
“Oh, no!” It was Gerald who spoke, but Alice
had seized upon the newcomer almost feverishly.
She feared that he had divined their attachment
and might blurt out to others that an engagement
existed between them. Gerald added hurriedly:
“I have this dance with Mrs. Dorrance, and was
only waiting until you came for Miss Dare. See
you both later l’’
He bowed, and then fairly bolted from the
conservatory. In addition to the ballroom the
great, round entrance hall had been given over
to the dancers, forcing the “old guard” to the
billiard room except for one corner, where Mrs.
de Forest sat majestically with a group of syco-
phants and social climbers about her.
Gerald noted with relief that she was still there
and holding forth to those who seemingly hung
upon her words; then he turned to survey the
scene for the partner for whom he had come so


40 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
tardily. Phil Dorrance came hurriedly up to him.
“I say, old man, have you seen anything of that
chap Grant? He's not in his office.”
“He’s out on the veranda there, I believe.”
Gerald added with hasty mendacity: “I’ve been
looking everywhere for your wife; I have this
dance with her, but I can’t find her.”
“Can't you?” Phil responded nervously in an
absent tone, and the other noticed all at once how
haggard he seemed to have grown. “I haven’t
looked her up myself since my last dance with her
an hour ago, but I suppose you’ll find her around
here somewhere. Grant is on the veranda, you
say?”
Without waiting for a reply, he was off, while
Gerald gazed after him for a moment in amaze-
ment. What could have been the matter with Dor-
rance? There had been an air of suppressed ex-
citement and strained anxiety about him; such as
he had observed on men during a run on the bank.
This troubled mien was utterly foreign to Dor-
rance’s usual complacently self-satisfied attitude.
And what could he want with Grant? The house
secretary’s office always remained closed during
a dance or other festivity, the steward attending
to anything necessary from his own office.


UNDER THE DBAGON LANTERN 41
Gerald glanced toward it across the hall on the
other side of the staircase and saw Murdock
seated behind his desk. The steward was watch-
ing the dancers from beneath respectfully low-
ered eyelids. Why hadn’t Dorrance gone to Mur-
dock if he had wanted anything?
At that moment Mrs. Dorrance came down the
staircase and approached him. “So sorry to have
kept you waiting, Mr. Landon,” she murmured,
forestalling the apology which Gerald himself had
been about to make. “Such a stupid accident! I
had to have my gown mended. Mr. Bowles is
usually a perfect dancer, but he must have an
attack of nerves or something to-night. We were
passing that open window there, where the dragon
lantern is swinging outside, when he stumbled
and his foot caught in my skirt. Of course I don’t
like to say anything, but I think the use to which
the men put their lockers these days is a disgrace
to the club.”
“Shall we dance?” Gerald asked diplomati-
cally. “Elsie—Mrs. Fraser—told me that Mr.
Bowles was bringing Mrs. Carter to the dance to-
night. Have you seen her?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Dorrance moved heavily off in
step with him, carefully conserving her breath.


42 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
“She must have been really ill. I thought it a
pose—didn’t bother to call—but she looks like a
ghost. Red-headed women always need high
color, or low lights.”
Midnight was approaching, and the scurrying
waiters were adding the last touches to the
supper tables in the restaurant. It had become
the custom of the club, since the war, to hold an
ordinary informal dance on this evening. Previ-
ously it had been given over to a masked ball
which was rivaled in gayety only by the ante-
bellum Election Night and New Year's Eve affairs.
Now, exactly at midnight, all the lights were to
be extinguished except a swinging lantern or two
outside, and, although no appropriate toast could
be drunk, a simple song of long ago would be sung
by the assembled company in memory of those
who would return no more to Broadlawns. Sup-
per would follow, and then dancing would be re-
sumed for an hour or two, but the fun would be
more subdued, and the party break up long before
the dawn.
More than one pair of eyes sought the tall clock
in the corner as the witching hour approached. A
tall, willowy woman, who entered from the ball-
room, leaning on Ogden Bowles’ arm, looked solic-
itously in the direction of the clock. Her face


UNDER THE DRAGON LANTERN 43
was waxen, and her large, topaz-glinting eyes
were deeply circled by not unbecoming blue
shadows.
“Perhaps I should not have urged you to
dance,” the broker murmured solicitously as she
paused, swaying for a moment with one hand at
her slim throat. “I hope it did not tire you too
much. Shall we sit out the rest in the conserva-
tory?”
Mrs. Carter shook her head, and her hand
slipped down and rested upon her breast as she
replied: “No, thanks, I am not tired, but just
a little dizzy, I think. Let us go out to the ver-
anda for a few minutes and get a breath of air.”
“You won’t take cold?” he asked. “Can’t I
get your wrap for you? You left it in the down-
stairs cloak room, I think.”
“If you will be so good.” She smiled faintly
at him. “I will wait for you in the conservatory.”
Yet, when he had departed upon his errand,
Mrs. Carter waited only until he had disappeared,
then moved swiftly over to the entrance door and
out into the chilly obscurity of the veranda. At
first she blinked in the sudden transition from the
brilliantly lighted foyer and could see nothing but
the faint, swaying blur of the lanterns. Then she
beheld a stocky, bareheaded figure with a shock


44 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
of heavy hair, standing over by the railing with
his back to her.
Save for his presence, the veranda was deserted,
and Mrs. Carter halted, but at that moment the
music of the one-step ceased, and the crunch of
footsteps on the gravel of the driveway was
plainly audible. She moved over noiselessly to the
railing, and had almost reached the unconscious
figure before she spoke: “Good evening, Mr.
Grant.”
“Ah, Mrs.-er—Carter!” The house secretary
turned deferentially and peered at her through
his heavy-rimmed glasses as he bowed. “I
had heard some of the other members say that you
were ill, but I’m glad that your indisposition has
passed.”
“Thank you,” she responded quietly. “It was
nothing serious. Ever since I came North again
to live I have found the first change from summer
to autumn very trying, but I have no doubt I
shall grow accustomed to it in time.”
“You have lived in the Southwest?” he asked
quickly.
“No, in North Carolina.” She spoke with a
trace of surprise in her well-bred, level tones, and
in the shadows the hand upon her breast tensed


46 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
“I would feel more curiosity as to the identity
of this mysterious double of mine, Mr. Grant,
were she not about the fiftieth of whom I have
been told. There must be something about auburn
hair which makes all its possessors seem akin.”
“If I dared I should scold you for coming out
here without waiting for your cape, Mrs. Carter!”
There was playful concern in Ogden Bowles’ tone.
“I looked for you in the conservatory, but found
no one there except little Miss Dare and Ralph
Fraser. Evening, Grant!” -
The house secretary returned the salutation,
and then, as the music started again, he moved
away and took up his stand once more in the win-
dow beneath the dragon lantern.
Mrs. Carter, instead of permitting her escort to
place her wrap about her shoulders, took it from
him and laid it over her arm.
“You would rather dance?” Bowles asked.
“This is the last before midnight, you know, but
I did not think you felt up to it.”
“I don't.” Mrs. Carter smiled wanly. “You’ll
forgive me, won’t you, if I run away to the dress-
ing room upstairs and rest for a few minutes? I'll
join you in the foyer after the singing is over
and the lights go up.”
“As my lady pleases,” he replied with a dar-


UNDER THE DRAGON LANTERN 47
ingly tender note in his tones. “You will find me
waiting for you at the foot of the stairs.”
At the moment before the music struck up Ralph
Fraser, in the conservatory, was asking in a curi-
ously detached tone: “Who is the Mrs. Carter
for whom Mr. Bowles was inquiring just now? I
don’t believe I have met her.”
“She’s that tall, awfully pretty, red-haired
woman he brought to the dance to-night,” Alice
Dare replied. “Surely you must have seen her;
she is so striking looking that she quite puts every
one else in the shade, although she never seems
to make the slightest effort to do so.”
“So she is Mrs. Carter.” Fraser paused and
then added: “I noticed her when they came, but
only because there seemed to be something oddly
familiar about her that I couldn’t place. Is she
a resident of the neighborhood?”
“Yes. She came from the South somewhere
about two years ago and purchased the Horton
cottage. Don’t you think the way she wears her
hair drawn over her ears makes her look posi-
tively saintly?” Alice demanded with girlish
enthusiasm. “Not another woman at Broad-
lawns would dare attempt it! I think that is one
reason why they are catty to her—all except Mrs.
Jack Fraser—but she is so sweet she never seems


48 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
to notice it. Oh, here comes your brother for me
now, and you have this dance with Mrs. Jack,
haven’t you?”
Gerald Landon, having thankfully relinquished
Mrs. Dorrance to her husband, appeared hopefully
in the door of the conservatory. As Alice passed
with Jack Fraser she gave him the coolest of
little nods, conscious that her aunt’s sharp eyes
were upon her from her stronghold in the corner
of the foyer.
Gerald hovered disconsolately in the doorway,
and once again his gaze traveled idly out over the
scene. The orchestra jazzed its maddest melody,
and the hands of the tall clock crept nearer, minute
by minute, to twelve. Waiters still dodged hur-
riedly between the dancers, with the final articles
for the supper room; Murdock, the steward, had
risen behind his desk and was reaching over with
a golf stick or came as though to intercept one of
them; all at once the merry pandemonium ceased
abruptly in the middle of a bar, the laughing, chat-
tering voices died, and in the sudden silence the
silvery chimes of midnight sounded from the
clock. As they rang out upon the stillness the
lights dimmed to a dull orange glow, and with the
twelfth note they went out. Only the weird glim-
**.
**


UNDER THE DRAGON LANTERN 49
mer of the dragon lantern on the veranda lighted
the scene. The dancers stood motionless, and
softly there pulsed out upon the air the throbbing
tones of the violins in the first notes of “Auld
Lang Syme.”
Gently, with the tenderness of reminiscence,
voices took it up here and there, swelling as they
were gradually augmented by others in the well-
known refrain:
“‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot—’”
A sharp report crackling across the wide foyer
brought the music to an abrupt halt. Almost si-
multaneously with it a woman screamed, and then
there came a choking cry and a hideous, slithering
sound, followed by a heavy thud from somewhere
outside.
“Lights!” Ralph Fraser’s quick, authoritative
tones broke the instant of strained silence, and,
after a fumbling interval, the foyer and then the
whole lower floor of the clubhouse burst into
effulgence.
That broke the tension, and every one crowded
eagerly forward in the wake of Ralph Fraser, who
had started for the veranda in the direction
from which the cry and dull sound of a fall had
come. But, in advance of all the others, Samuel


50 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
Estridge passed Mrs. Carter, where she had halted
at the foot of the staircase. The steward bent for
a moment beneath his desk, and then vaulted over
it as the attorney reached the veranda door.
After one look Estridge turned to Ralph Fraser,
at his elbow. “Back!” he exclaimed. “Keep the
women back!”
But it was too late. The onrush had been too
strong to be stemmed, and men and women to-
gether swarmed out upon the veranda. Beneath
the dragon lantern, before the open window which
looked in upon the foyer, something lay stretched
full length upon the floor. It was a man’s stocky
form, and there seemed something strangely fa-
miliar and yet unfamiliar about it. He was obvi-
ously a young man, scarcely in his thirties, with
wide-open, staring dark eyes and sleek black hair.
Under the swaying light of the lantern it seemed
that he leered horribly at them.
“Who is it? What has happened to him?” a
voice demanded sharply. And then they all saw.
Beside the still head there lay a crushed and
twisted pair of heavy-rimmed glasses and a wig
of coarse, sandy hair, while upon the breast a
splotch of crimson had widened slowly, and a tiny
rivulet trickled down from it to the floor.


UNDER THE DRAGON LANTERN 51
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Samuel Estridge
turned to the huddled, horror-stricken group be-
hind him, “it is the man whom you knew as James
Grant, our recently acquired house secretary. He
has been shot!”


CHAPTER IV
THE GLISTENING STRAND
T was Murdock, the steward, who first found
his voice. “Grant’s shot,” he said, and ad-
vanced excitedly, brandishing the golf stick which
he had stooped behind his desk to pick up the
instant before he vaulted over. “Who did it, sir?
He’s not—'?
Jack Fraser and Ogden Bowles were beside
Estridge, who bent over the body, and the former
replied briefly: “I’m afraid so. Ralph 1”
But his brother, after hearing the alarm, seemed
for the moment to have disappeared, and Estridge,
rising, took command of the situation.
“Jack, jump in your car and drive as fast as
you can for Doctor Fellowes.” He drew the
younger man aside for a moment; then, as the
latter nodded in comprehension and dashed head-
long down the veranda steps, he returned to the
terror-stricken group. “The rest of you go in-
side, please; let no one leave the club. Murdock,
52


THE GLISTENING STRAND 53.
round up all the waiters and cooks and other at-
tendants, and see that they are kept under guard
in the billiard room. Bowles, would you mind
going with Murdock to see that they are all de-
tained? Landon, call Rutherford Sowerby, will
you?”
“Who is this man, anyway?” Phil Dorrance's
voice fairly squeaked in his excitement. “Why
was he here disguised like that?”
No one paid any heed to him, however. Doctor
Fellowes was the general practitioner for the
Broadlawns colony, and he was the county coroner
as well. There had been a grave significance in
Estridge’s manner after his examination of the
body, and no doubt was left as to the grim capacity
in which the physician’s presence was required.
“I am here.” Rutherford Sowerby's deep
growl sounded close at hand, and he limped pain-
fully forward as the rest, in obedience to Es-
tridge’s command, retreated within doors. Here
Mrs. Sowerby created a counter diversion by
fainting.
“Well, Rutherford, somebody has done for our
man.” The attorney turned to the other. “Jack
Fraser is the only member of the house committee
present to-night besides ourselves, and I’ve sent
him for the coroner. I’ve also seen to it that no


54 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
one—member, guest, or club attendant—leaves
before they are officially permitted to do so.”
“Humph! Locked the stable door after the
horse was stolen, have you?” Sowerby stood
gazing grimly down at the body. “I heard the
shot, but I thought it was a bursting automobile
tire. I’m not surprised, though. I was fool
enough to let you and the rest of the house com-
mittee overrule me, but, if you’ll remember, when
the idea of planting him here was first suggested,
I warned you that he should have some associates
at hand to work with him. This wasn’t any one-
man job. They’ve got onto him, and he must have
discovered something at last. Or, suppose that
Harvest Dance affair has been repeated to-night
after all, and he’s been gotten out of the way!”
At this moment Ralph Fraser reappeared and
came quickly toward them.
“Mr. Estridge, you seem to be in charge,” he
remarked. “I’ve had a little experience with
affairs of this sort down where I come from, and,
if I can be of any assistance, please command me.
I take it that this Grant wasn’t just what he was
supposed to be.”
“He wasn’t,” Estridge replied briefly. He was
kneeling beside the body, rapidly göing through
the pockets, and now he rose with a long strip of


THE GLISTENING STRAND 55
paper in his hand. “You can help us if you will
be so good, Fraser. Here is a list of all the mem-
bers, guests, club attendants, and extra waiters
hired from the caterers for this occasion. Your
brother has gone for the coroner, but every one
else must remain until they are officially permitted
to leave by the authorities. Will you see to it?
Bowles and Landon are attending to it, but they
can’t keep an eye on every one, and naturally all
of us are technically under suspicion.”
“Where are all the chauffeurs and the watch-
man, anyway?” Sowerby glanced out at the semi-
circle of empty cars. “You slipped up there,
Sam!”
Ralph smiled. “That’s why I beat it indoors
as soon as I saw what had happened, and that
Grant had worn a wig and glasses, evidently for no
other purpose than to make himself appear some
one who he wasn’t. I'm only a guest here, gentle-
men, a stranger, and not in your confidence, but I
surmised something of the truth. Seeing that the
driveway was deserted I took it upon myself to
corral those whom you might overlook in the first
excitement. The chauffeurs and watchman were
shooting crap in that room off the kitchen, and, if
I’m any judge, they were all so intent that none
of them even heard the shot. But I took care to


56 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
explain to them that it wouldn’t be healthy for
any of them to leave the room until they were
sent for. I had the brass to use your name, Mr.
Estridge.”
“I’m glad you did, and you’ve rendered us all
a service in acting so promptly,” the attorney re-
sponded cordially. “If Doctor Fellowes isn’t out
on a case, Jack ought to have him here in a few
minutes now, but time is precious, and I’d like to
have all the data available for him and the other
county authorities that we can gather. Sorry I
can’t take you completely into our confidence now,
but, besides Mr. Sowerby and your brother, no one
present to-night, except myself, knows the real
identity of Grant, nor why he has been here
incognito.”
“No one but the person who fired the shot,
Sam,” Sowerby interrupted dryly. “He must
either have guessed the truth and been waiting
for this occasion and the moment of darkness to
rid himself of danger of retribution for what hap-
pened before, or planned another coup for to-
night. How many cars brought people here this
evening? Does anybody know? It would have
been easy enough, in that minute before the lights
were turned on again, for the murderer to have
made off with anybody’s car, or slipped away on


THE GLISTENING STRAND 57
foot through the shrubbery, for that matter. This
thing has been bungled from start to finish, but
no one would listen to me!”
“It has been bungled fatally as far as poor
Grant is concerned, and I feel criminally respon-
sible for not foreseeing the possibility of this
crime, but as for the rest—well ” Estridge
shrugged his shoulders. “Whoever shot him is
still in the clubhouse, Rutherford, you can depend
upon that, or, if he is skulking about the grounds,
he will soon be brought in. Do you remember our
conversation yesterday? You were impatient that
Grant had not accomplished the purpose for which
we brought him here, and you predicted a repeti-
tion of the Harvest Dance affair. I didn’t think it
expedient to tell you then what I had arranged on
my own initiative, but I happen to know our watch-
man’s predilection for a congenial crap game, and
Grant couldn’t have been expected to keep an eye
on everything to-night. I have some picked men
scattered about the grounds and the roads leading.
to the club. They have orders not to close in
before I give them a certain signal, no matter
what they hear, unless they catch some one tryin
to leave.” -
“Suppose they’ve closed in on Jack Fraserl’’
Sowerby suggested.


58 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
“No fear of that! You saw me draw him aside
before I sent him for the coroner; that was to give
him a countersign which would be recognized if
he were stopped,” replied Estridge. Whipping
a large silk handkerchief from his pocket, he
stooped once more and laid it over the face of the
dead man. Then he remarked: “We must not
move the body, of course, and I have reasons of
my own for preferring to remain beside it until
the coroner arrives. In the meantime, Fraser, if
you'll just go and see that Bowles and Landon
keep the crowd in order and quieted.”
“Certainly.” Ralph Fraser paused in the door-
way. “Have you examined the wound?”
“Only superficially,” the attorney responded.
“It was caused by a bullet of small caliber, and it
must have pierced the heart, but the autopsy will
determine the details definitely. There were no
powder marks, as you see, so it must have been
fired from some distance.”
“‘A bullet of small caliber,’” repeated Fraser
thoughtfully. “I don’t know how highly you rate
the capabilities of your local authorities, Mr. Es-
tridge, nor what is back of this little affair, but
it looks as though they would find their work cut
out for them, doesn’t it?”
He disappeared within, and Estridge turned to


THE GLISTENING STRAND 59
the bank president. “Rutherford, get rid of any
one who may happen to be in the locker room and,
when you’re sure that you are alone, use the
farthest booth from the door. Tell the operator
to give you a clear wire, and be careful not to
speak loud enough for the others to hear you.”
“Say, Sam, it seems to me there’s enough
darned mystery about this thing without your
making more of it! I’m a member of the house
committee, too, you know!” interrupted Sowerby.
“Of course we deputized you to engage this fellow
Grant, but what is the idea of stationing the
guards about without taking us into your confi-
dence? I suppose that notice on the bulletin
board, which has set so many tongues wagging,
meant that those who left early and didn’t come to
you for your fool, melodramatic countersign would
be held up. What excuse would you have given?”
“None but the truth,” Estridge replied quietly.
“That, in view of the fact that so many valuable
jewels were worn by the ladies present this eve-
ning, it had been thought best to station extra
watchmen about the grounds who would permit
no one to pass out without proving his identity.
As a matter of fact no one has attempted to
leave.”
“‘Thought best!’” snorted the other resent-


60 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
fully. “Who the deuce asked you to think for
the whole club, Sam? Not but what the idea was
a sensible one, but why didn’t you tell, at least,
young Fraser and me, as the only other
members of the house committee who intended to
be present? It was confoundedly irregular of
you! What's this mysterious ‘reason of your own’
for hanging around the poor fellow’s body till the
coroner gets here, and who was he, anyway?”
“Your last question will be answered if you’ll
telephone, as I was about to ask you, Rutherford.”
Estridge was unruffled by the outburst of his com-
panion. “Call up O’Hare’s Detective Agency in
New York and tell them that Jim Doyle, the oper-
ative whom they assigned to the job out here, has
been done in, and that the county authorities have
been notified. Give them the barest details, say
that you have got to be careful of an open wire,
that you are speaking for me, and that I will com-
municate with them personally and at length in
the morning.”
“So he was one of O'Hare’s men, eh?” The
bank president stared. “I presume you know
what that kind of a message will do, don’t you? It
will bring more of O'Hare’s private detectives out
here to clash with the local authorities.”
“That is precisely what I want,” returned Es-


THE GLISTENING STRAND 61
tridge. “Not a clash with the local authorities,
necessarily, but we can’t avoid notoriety now in
any case, and we need the most expert assistance
we can obtain. O’Hare is not the sort to let an
operative of his be killed in the line of duty with-
out knowing why and by whom, and, if I’m not
mistaken, he’ll put his star man on the job as
soon as he can get him here. We’ll need him,
Rutherford—we're in deep waters.”
“Not too deep for you to swim in, though!”
Sowerby’s small eyes crinkled at the corners. “I
forgot your record in the courts, and I’ll take back
what I said; I guess you can do the thinking for
the club, Sam. I’ll phone O’Hare, and then, if
you want me, you will find me with the rest.”
Estridge then reached inside the sash and
pulled down the shade. Next he closed the window
and stood for a minute staring down at the body
of the dead detective. Doyle, or Grant, as the
other club members had known him, had not been
off duty on this night of all nights as the attorney
very well realized. Why had he taken up his
station at that particular window and never left
it? Was it merely to watch the dancing, to carry
out his impersonation of the house secretary, the
employee who was yet accorded the privilege of
looking on at that in which he might not share,


62 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
or had he had some deeper motive for maintaining
that point of vantage?
The opened window gave an unobstructed view
of the huge entrance hall which was being used
for the overflow from the ballroom; a view, also,
of his own closed office door, of Murdock's desk,
and the wide staircase between, as well as
glimpses of the conservatory on one side, and the
supper room on the other. Surely the detective
could not have chosen a more central and, at the
same time, unobtrusive position, yet there were
other windows in the row on either side of the
veranda door from which he could have looked in
on precisely the same scene—windows above which
no glowing lantern hung to make him so sure a
mark in that moment of semi-darkness!
Estridge glanced involuntarily up at the gro-
tesque dragon swaying above him, and he discov-
ered that the light within it was flickering crazily.
He knew that most of the lanterns had been strung
on electric wires connected with the main switch,
so that they, together with the brackets and chan-
deliers within doors, might be extinguished for
that midnight moment of respect to “absent
members,” but at stated intervals along the ver-
anda some were to have been fitted with candles
and left to give a slight glow of light. The dragon


THE GLISTENING STRAND 63
lantern must have been one of the latter, and now
its short candle length was guttering; had the
pseudo-secretary known of this arrangement?
While the attorney stood meditating the candle
flared suddenly and went out, and the writhing
dragon became merely a decoration in red and
black, and the lantern itself suddenly collapsed
and fell to the floor at his feet. Estridge started
mechanically to pick it up when something within
it caught his eye—something which gleamed in
the electric lights like a coil of sparks.
With an exclamation he glanced about him at
the deserted veranda, then, stooping swiftly be-
neath the line of the window ledge, lest his shadow
show against the shade, he drew forth from the
base of the lantern a strand which glittered in his
hands like living fire.
Backing away from the window, he straightened
and looked down at the still form at his feet.
“I know now.” His lips formed the wolds in
a toneless whisper. “You turned the trick, I)oyle,
even though it cost you your life! You made good,
and no man can do more!”


CHAPTER V
RENWICK CRANE ARRIVES
THE shrill note of the siren, which cut the
night air not many minutes after Estridge’s
discovery, was followed by the droning roar of
an engine, and Jack Fraser’s car swirled madly
up the curving drive to stop with a jolt before
the veranda steps.
“Is that you, Estridge?” the latter called
cautiously. “We’re in luck. I found the sheriff
playing checkers with Doctor Fellowes and
brought him along, too!”
“Good evening, doctor, or rather good morn-
ing, for it is past midnight.” Estridge advanced
and held out his hand as a tall, slightly stoop-
shouldered man with a trimly pointed gray beard
mounted the steps, followed by a corpulent, but
surprisingly active, figure. “Sheriff, I suppose
Mr. Fraser has told you of the crime which has
been committed here to-night. I am prepared to
give you all the details in our possession and to
64


RENWICK CRANE ARRIVES 65
assure you that no one has been permitted to leave
the premises.”
They shook hands, and the coroner proceeded
straightway to his investigation of the body, but
Sheriff Coburn, after a more cursory glance at
it, turned again to the attorney.
“I’ll let the doc have his innings first, Mr.
Estridge, but I’d like the truth about what Mr.
Fraser tried to tell us while we were whizzing out
here. I understand that the dead man has been
acting as an employee of the club for the past few
days, but he was actually a city detective, engaged
on the quiet by some of you to find out who has
been committing some robberies.” His usually
good-natured eyes blinked resentfully in his round
face. “I suppose our country methods weren’t
good enough for you city folks who have settled
out our way, but that’s neither here nor there.
Your smart operative has let the thief get the
drop on him, and now it’s up to us after all. We’ll
want the whole story, sir, that we should have had
in the beginning.”
“You’ll have it, sheriff.” Estridge's tone was
the blandly conciliatory one which many an assist-
ant district attorney knew to the cost of his pres-
tige and the loss of the State’s case. “Some minor
discrepancies appeared in the club's accounts after


66 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
the departure of our former secretary, Mr. Mar-
tin, which we-the house committee—preferred to
make up out of our own pockets rather than start
a scandal.”
“Didn’t strike you, as a lawyer, that you were
pretty near compounding a felony, did it, Mr. Es-
tridge?” The sheriff rubbed his chin reflectively.
“Hardly,” Estridge observed. “Martin could
have had nothing to do with the crime which we
employed this detective to investigate; the rob-
bery took place after his departure for the West
—on the night of our Harvest Dance, in fact. You
would have been notified at once, but the victim
herself objected to any stir being made about it
in the neighborhood and preferred to call in a
private detective from the city.”
“‘Herself?’ repeated the sheriff. “One of the
ladies was robbed? What was it, jewelry? Who
was it?”
“It was Mrs. de Forest, and she was robbed
of this.” As he spoke the attorney drew from his
pocket the glistening strand, which he had found
coiled about the base of the dragon lantern, and
extended it to the county official who retreated a
step, his eyes bulging.
“You don’t say!” he exclaimed. “That’s not


RENWICK CRANE ARRIVES 67
Mrs. de Forest’s necklace, the famous de Forest
diamonds?”
Samuel Estridge nodded. “They dropped or
were clipped from her neck some time during the
Harvest Dance which was held late in September;
as soon as she discovered her loss, with rare pres-
ence of mind, she made no scene, but reported the
matter quietly to various members of the house
committee, of which I was one. After the dance
was over we held a special meeting, and the course,
which we subsequently adopted, was decided
upon,” he resumed. “I was deputized to engage
a man from O’Hare’s agency to come down here
and pose as the new club secretary in order to
get in touch with both members and attendants
and discover, if he could, the identity of the thief.
You see, sheriff, every one here that night was
virtually open to possible suspicion of having
stolen the string of diamonds, just as every one
present this evening is a possible suspect of
murder.”
“Then this man didn’t find out who had taken
the necklace?” demanded the sheriff as he took
the strand of gleaming jewels from the attorney
and ran it gingerly through his pudgy fingers.
“Mr. Fraser didn’t have time to tell us whether


68 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
Grant had made an ante-mortem statement or
not.”
“Grant—or Doyle, to give him his real name—
must have died instantly, and I am afraid we shall
never know the whole truth about to-night,” re-
sponded Estridge gravely. “We can only be cer-
tain that he discovered the hiding place of the
diamonds and was keeping guard beneath it until
such time as he might take possession of them
without the knowledge of the thief; but the latter
must have suspected his intention and fired the
fatal shot when the lights were lowered for a few
minutes at midnight.”
“What were the lights lowered for? You folks
dance till all hours out here. You say that this
fellow Doyle was keeping guard beneath the place
where the diamonds were hidden; then, if the body
hasn’t been moved ” The sheriff was not per-
mitted to finish his question.
“It hasn’t,” said Estridge. “They were inside
that Chinese lantern which swung just above the
window all this evening. I only discovered them
myself by accident, a few minutes before your
arrival. The lantern fell, and, if you will examine
the diamonds, even in this light you will see that
congealed candle grease is still adhering to them.”
Doctor Fellowes had concluded his preliminary


RENWICK CRANE ARRIVES 69
examination of the body, and now he approached
silently and listened while the attorney briefly, but
concisely, summed up the events of the night.
“What do you make of it, doc?” Sheriff Co-
burn asked with the familiarity of lifelong asso-
ciation. “How far off was the shot fired?”
“A considerable distance, I should say; I don’t
want to commit myself before the autopsy, but I
think a high-powered pistol of small caliber was
used, and it might have been fired anywhere from
twenty to forty feet away,” Doctor Fellowes re-
plied cautiously. “The bullet penetrated or
passed very close to the heart.”
The sheriff was obviously much impressed.
“You’ve hit on a mighty valuable clew right
there! It would take a pretty good shot 3 y
He broke off suddenly, remembering the presence
of Samuel Estridge. While the sheriff walked
over to examine the dead man for himself, the
coroner asked: “You’ve got a light motor truck
here belonging to the club, haven’t you, Mr. Es-
tridge? I’ve seen it going to the station with
golf bags. I’d like to remove the body in that for
the autopsy. Have you notified the detective
agency of his death?”
“Yes; another member of the house committee,
President Rutherford Sowerby of the Tradesmen’s


70 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
Bank, has done so.” Estridge paused. “I may
add that only he, Mrs. de Forest, Mr. Jack Fraser,
and myself were aware, until to-night’s tragedy,
that the necklace was stolen, or that Doyle was
other than the club secretary he pretended to be.
The other members of the house committee, who
were present at the special meeting after the Har-
vest Dance, have been either ill or away since that
night, and we had not then decided in what capac-
ity we would introduce a private detective here.
For reasons which are obvious, of course, we
should like to keep this whole affair as quiet as
possible and avoid all the scandal and notoriety
that we can, at any rate, until the identity of the
criminal has been discovered.”
Doctor Fellowes shook his head. “You won’t
find that very easy if every one rushed out here
after the shot was fired and saw that the man had
been palpably disguised,” he remarked. “The
caterer’s people and the orchestra from the city
are bound to talk to reporters.”
“Oh, you’ll have to stand for the notoriety, all
right, Mr. Estridge!” The sheriff had hung the
lightless lantern again on its hook and rejoined
them in time to catch the drift of the coroner’s
words. “Even if Mrs. de Forest hasn’t told them
by now of the theft of her necklace, it’s all bound


RENWICK CRANE ARRIVES 71
to come out at the inquest. Here’s Mr. Fraser.”
Jack Fraser had parked his car, stopped for a
brief conversation with one of the special guards
who had been stationed about the grounds, and
now he ascended the veranda steps and came
toward them. Arrangements were quickly made
for him to take out the light motor truck and
drive the coroner and his gruesome charge back
to the village. The sheriff and Estridge entered
the main hall of the clubhouse.
A strange sight met their gaze where so short
a time before groups of light-hearted people had
dominated the scene. The center of the floor was
deserted and littered with gloves, handkerchiefs,
and broken-plumed fans. Young Mrs. Sowerby
was stretched upon a bench which had been hastily
drawn from the conservatory. Jack Fraser’s wife
and Alice Dare were ministering to her, and, near
the closed door of the late pseudo-secretary's little
office, Phil Dorrance had buttonholed the reluctant
Gerald Landon and appeared to be questioning him
excitedly. At the foot of the stairs, where she
had halted when the report of the shot came, Mrs.
Carter had seated herself, and Ogden Bowles bent
solicitously above her, but of Rutherford Sowerby,
Ralph Fraser, and Murdock there was no sign.
Sounds of varying degrees of hysteria from the


72 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
conservatory, ballroom, and supper rooms indi-
cated where the rest of the women members and
guests had taken refuge—all save two. Mrs. de
Forest was once more in her chair in the corner,
tacitly reserved for her at all club functions, but
her usually erect figure was huddled, and her face
seemed suddenly to have become lined and very
old. She was staring straight before her, appar-
ently oblivious to the soothing utterances of her
one faithful satellite, Mrs. Dorrance, but she
roused herself and glanced up as the attorney and
the sheriff approached.
“I have been a proud old woman, Mr. Coburn,
and indirectly that poor young man’s death lies
at my door!” she said brokenly. “If I had not in-
sisted to the house committee on avoiding village
gossip and the hounding of society reporters from
town by having a private investigation conducted,
he would never have come here to meet his end l’’
The sheriff had always been secretly in awe of
this grand lady of the fashionable colony which
had invaded Broadlawns and, like most of the na-
tives, had cloaked this feeling beneath an attitude
of swaggering independence. But, before her dis-
arming self-abasement, his good nature reasserted
itself, and he replied with grim humor: “No,
ma'am. You would probably have called in Con-


RENWICK CRANE ARRIVES 75
quiet about losing it at all as you have during the
past month. Of course all the folks here to-night
know that Grant was at the club in disguise, and
that he was murdered, but no one knows why, and
no one but the murderer himself knows yet who
pulled the trigger.”
‘‘Take it!” Mrs. de Forest extended the neck-
lace with a gesture of repulsion. “I feel as
though there were a stain upon it! But I don’t in
the least understand.”
“Mr. Estridge will have to explain to you later,
ma’am; I’ve got other things to do now before
the coroner gets back. You know that we work
kind of independently in a case like this, and we
can’t keep the folks here up all night.” Sheriff
Coburn wrapped the diamonds in his handkerchief
and stowed them carefully in an inside pocket.
“Got mighty near onto a hundred people here,
counting extra help and all, I understand from Mr.
Fraser, and it will be some job to weed them out.
Mr. Estridge, can I see you for a minute?”
“Look here, sheriff, what was your idea in hang-
ing that lantern back on the hook from which it
fell when the candle guttered?” the attorney asked
when they had taken their leave of the lady and
started toward the billiard room.
The sheriff winked slyly. “Unless you yourself


76 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
put that necklace there, Mr. Estridge, nobody
but us and the coroner knows that it has been
discovered. I put the lantern back in place before
Mr. Fraser came up to the porch after parking
his car, and I figured that, as soon as he dared, the
thief would be looking for the jewels where he
hid them,” he replied. “That wouldn’t be right
away—not within half an hour or so after the
body was taken off—for fear of drawing attention
to himself, but I’d like to swear you in as a
special deputy, until I can get one of the boys out
from the village, and have you kind of hang around
where you can watch that lantern from now on
and see who goes near it. As a club member you
could do it in a natural sort of way that would
scare the fellow off, whoever he is, without his
actually suspecting that you knew anything. Got
a revolver or pistol here at the club?”
“None that I know of, sheriff,” Estridge said.
“Suppose, in spite of my presence near that lan-
tern, either inside the window or out on the ver-
anda, the murderer takes a chance and, on some
plausible excuse attempts to remove it? He must
be pretty desperate, you know, and he’s playing
for high stakes. I’m not as young as I was, but
I’ll tackle him if you say so.”


78 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
Estridge replied to the coroner’s inquiry. “The
watchman and the chauffeurs are in a room off
the kitchen, and you’ll find the members and guests
scattered about within doors.”
“Good! This is Constable Meeks.” Doctor
Fellowes indicated the tall, shambling, ungainly
figure which had occupied the spare seat in the
little runabout. “Any parties, club members, or
extra help whom he conducts outside you’ll know
the sheriff and I have finished with for the time
being. Mr. Fraser can give them the word that
will let them past your special watchmen if they
should be stopped in the grounds.”
Estridge nodded to the constable, and the three
entered the hall. Estridge then took up his soli-
tary vigil. Pacing the veranda he seemed lost in
thought, but in reality he was watching keenly for
a flitting shadow against the windows, or a
stealthy movement among the branches of the
shrubbery that swayed and rustled in the night
wind upon the lawn.
The other candle-lit lanterns had long since gone
out, and the one which had contained the necklace
hung inert. Its once fiery dragon had become an
indistinguishable design of inky black, but no one
approached it either from within the house or
without. Presently a club bus or two rattled up


RENWICK CRANE ARRIVES 79
to the door and departed with the orchestra, jazz
band, and extra waiters and cooks. Later the
members and their guests began to depart in their
various cars, each group escorted to the steps by
the constable.
A distant village clock struck three, and still the
attorney’s vigil remained unrelieved and unre-
warded. With the departure of Mr. and Mrs. Dor-
rance, bearing the still hysterical Mrs. Sowerby,
the constable came toward the watcher and an-
nounced: “Sheriff Coburn told me why you were
out here, Mr. Estridge. He and Doc Fellowes
reckon they’d rather have you in there with them
now, being as it was you hired that city detective
that got killed, and I’m going to take your place.
Ain’t seen anything suspicious, have you?”
Estridge assured the constable that he had not,
and, relinquishing his commission and the weapon
which was sagging down his coat pocket, he re-
, turned to the hall of the clubhouse. Here he found
Rutherford Sowerby holding forth.
“This is an outrage! You people are only try-
ing to show your petty authority by keeping us
here, but I have an important directors’ meeting
in town in the morning, and I need my rest!”
“That's all right, sir!” the sheriff retorted pug-
naciously. “You folks don’t mind cutting up and


80 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
raising high jinks till morning when you’re giving
a party, but when it comes to a murder inquiry
you're not to be kept out of your beds.”
“‘High jinks!’” The irate bank president was
ready to explode. “I’ll have you know that I’ve
had gout for the past ten years! As for this
murder, I know no more about it than you! I
was playing bridge with three other members in
the card room when the lights dimmed at midnight,
and we had barely risen when the sound of the
shot came. Samuel Estridge had taken command
of the situation by the time I reached the veranda,
and he asked me to go and telephone to O'Hare’s
Detective Agency in town and tell them that their
man had been killed. I did so and then went to
see that none of the chauffeurs or waiters left the
premises. Good heavens ! My estate in this one-
horse village of yours is worth over sixty thousand
dollars; you don’t think I am likely to run away,
do you?”
“I guess we can trust you, Mr. Sowerby,” the
coroner interposed smoothly. “We’ll want you
at the inquest, but you will be notified, and,
if Sheriff Coburn agrees, we will excuse you
now.”
“I should like to take my wife home, also,”


RENWICK CRANE ARRIVES 81
Jack Fraser interrupted. “She was dancing with
my brother, and I was dancing with Miss Dare
when the signal came for the singing of ‘Auld
Lang Syne.” Neither of us left our partners’
sides until the report of the shot. At least a score
of people must have seen us.”
“It is an imposition to keep the rest of the
ladies here, anyway, at this hour!” Ogden Bowles
declared hotly. “I’m not a member of the house
committee, and I don’t know why Grant was killed
or who killed him, but the ladies, at least, should
be exempt from this all-night grilling! Mrs. Car-
ter, for instance, is really ill, and Mrs. de Forest
and her niece—”
“Thank you, Mr. Bowles.” From her chair,
where by her very presence she seemed to domi-
nate the group, Mrs. de Forest cast a withering
glance upon him. “Neither my niece nor myself
are of the weakly hysterical breed! I will speak
for us both, and we will remain to see this inquiry
through 1”
Before any one could speak again the roar of
a car with the muffler cut out sounded from the
drive, and it drew up at the steps. Constable
Meeks’ slightly nasal tones came to them mingled
with a quick authoritative masculine voice, and


82 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
then the door opened, and a slender, lithe young
man strode into the room.
“I have motored out from the city in response
to a telephone message from here,” he announced.
“My name is Renwick Crane.”


CHAPTER VI
“MoRE THAN one”
S the newcomer mentioned his name, Sowerby
and Bowles glanced at each other, and Es-
tridge started eagerly forward. Even the sheriff
uttered an exclamation beneath his breath. In the
past year or two Renwick Crane had become cele-
brated for his success in the solving of more than
one notoriously baffling crime, and the newspapers
had sung his praises to the chagrin of the regular
metropolitan police department. O’Hare had sent
his star man to avenge the death of a lesser
colleague.
“Mr. Crane, I believe we have met in court.
I am Samuel Estridge.” The attorney spoke
hastily and turned toward the local officials. “I
am sure that Coroner Fellowes and Sheriff Coburn
will be delighted to have so distinguished a con-
sultant. You have come, of course, to inquire
into the circumstances of the death of your friend
who was known among us as the house secretary,
83


84 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
James Grant. As the reason for his presence
here has not been generally disclosed I propose
that the coroner, the sheriff, Mr. Sowerby, and
Mr. Fraser of the house committee, and you and
I go into a brief, private session. If the rest of
you will wait, I promise you that we shall not be
long.” -
He led those whom he had named to the billiard
room and closed the door. The others divided
themselves insensibly into couples. Mrs. Jack
Fraser seated herself beside Mrs. de Forest, and
Alice Dare, after hovering about her aunt for a
moment, retired to a discreet distance behind her
chair, where she indulged in a whispered con-
versation with Gerald Landon. Ralph Fraser and
Ogden Bowles were talking by the fireplace, and
only Mrs. Carter sat alone and a little apart.
Her pale, almost classic, face between the bands
of rich red hair was as expressionless as ever, and
her slim hands were folded in her lap, but her
lids drooped over her tawny eyes, and it seemed
with difficulty that she essayed a faint smile when
Bowles at length crossed to her side.
“You are utterly worn out!” he said. “It is a
shame to keep you here after the shock of the
tragedy, particularly as you are not well. I blame
myself for persuading you to come this evening.”


“MORE THAN ONE” 85
“Indeed you mustn't,” she replied softly. “I
am unnerved, of course, but it is of that poor
man I am thinking, and of the strange mystery
of his presence here. He was a detective, we know
that, but I have heard of no robbery at the club,
have you?”
Bowles shook his head. “It’s bound to come
out at the inquest, anyway, so I can’t understand
why the house committee are so secretive now. I
shouldn’t be surprised if the matter turned out
to be more of a domestic scandal than a criminal
affair,” he said. “However, I’m not a he-gossip,
and people don’t kill for the mere sake of preserv-
ing a reputation!”
“Not without warning, even down where I came
from,” Mrs. Carter agreed. “It really does seem
rather silly not to tell the members of the club
why a detective was employed to spy upon them,
especially now that the poor man is dead.”
Behind locked doors in the billiard room, Ruth-
erford Sowerby was voicing somewhat the same
sentiment, but in less complimentary terms.
“As long as that old she-dragon’s necklace has
been recovered, I don’t see why the whole story
shouldn’t be given to the boys of the press when
they come swarming out in the morning !” he ex-
claimed. “I could have bought the thing for her


86 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
twice over, and now it has created the worst scan-
dal a country club ever endured, aside from caus-
ing the death of that poor fellow, Doyle. Doctor
Fellowes says he’ll hold the inquest on Monday
at the latest, and that is only two days off. This
is Saturday morning.”
“I want those two days.” Renwick Crane spoke
quietly, but with an intensity of purpose which
brooked no denial. “Since the coroner and the
sheriff have been good enough to give me a free
hand in my own investigation and have agreed to
coöperate with me in every way compatible with
their offices, may I suggest that, until it is needed
as evidence at the inquest, the dragon lantern be
taken down with the other lanterns and put away
as is usual after an entertainment? I have brought
some of my own operatives with me from the
agency, and one of them will watch any one who
approaches that lantern until it is put in evidence.
Your constable can be released for more important
duty.”
“But what could be more important?” asked
Jack Fraser in surprise. “Surely when you get
the man who had a guilty knowledge of the where-
abouts of that necklace, you will have caught the
murderer of James Doyle!”
“Not if he can present an alibi, which you are


“MORE THAN ONE” 87
unable to shake, for that minute of semidarkness
during which the shot was fired!” Crane retorted,
rumpling his curly brown hair. “Don’t you see,
gentlemen, that you’ve got merely the vaguest
sort of circumstantial evidence as to why the mur-
der was committed, but not even an idea of the
possible identity of the murderer? I’m not out
here to discover who stole that necklace or hid it
in that lantern; I’m here to find out who killed
Jim Doyle!”
His crisp, clear-cut tones broke slightly as he
mentioned the name of his late associate, but his
keen gray eyes flashed, and he set his jaw in no
uncertain lines. The dominating force of the
man’s personality, together with his peculiar in-
sight and power of deduction, which had gained
him his reputation, began to be manifest even to
the local authorities, and the sheriff exclaimed:
‘‘I never thought of that! There might have been
more than one of them in the plot!”
“Doctor”—Crane turned to the coroner—“the
most superficial examination of the wound should
have shown the general direction from which the
shot came.”
“It did,” Doctor Fellowes responded. “I told
you that I wouldn’t commit myself before the
autopsy, but I have already given you my unoffi-


88 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
cial opinion, as I had previously given it to Mr.
Estridge and the sheriff, that the shot was fired
from a distance of twenty to forty feet, straight
in front of Doyle. Of course it might have come
from a little to the left or right, which would de-
pend on how he was standing. Only the autopsy
will show the depth of penetration and the course
of the bullet—whether it was slightly upward or
downward—but it undoubtedly passed through
the open window before which he stood.”
“That's good enough as a working basis.”
Crane’s glance darted to the attorney. “Mr.
Estridge, what architect designed this club?”
The unexpected question made the others eye
each other in surprise, but, as though following
the detective’s train of thought, Estridge smiled
as he replied: “Peter van Horn, of Hopping &
van Horn, in the city. However, a copy of the
plans of the club, drawn to scale, are filed in the
secretary’s office here, and I am sure that the rest
of the house committee will be glad to place them
at your disposal at any time.”
“Thanks. Then suppose we join those of your
members who are still being detained?” Crane
suggested. “I noticed several ladies present, and,
as Mr. Sowerby remarked before, it is nearly
morning.”


“MORE THAN ONE” 89
The cold light of dawn was indeed faintly
streaking the east when they reëntered the hall
to find the little groups much as they had left
them, save that Alice Dare had fallen asleep on
the bench that had been brought from the con-
servatory, Mrs. de Forest was nodding in her
chair, and Mrs. Fraser pacing nervously back
and forth. Of the women, only Mrs. Carter main-
tained her attitude of impassive, yet alert, calm.
Crane, after discovering that the majority of the
members and guests who had been detained were
not in line with the window, dismissed them sum-
marily. The sheriff turned to Mrs. Carter.
“Mrs. Carter, this is Mr. Crane, a detective,
who has come out from town to look into the death
of Mr. Grant.”
Mrs. Carter bowed. “Mr. Crane's reputation
has preceded him,” she said demurely. “We did
not know until to-night, however, that the poor
man, whom we had all grown to like and trust as
the new house secretary, was a detective also.”
“You have no idea why he was here, Mrs.
Carter?” asked Crane.
Her eyes widened. “I cannot imagine, but I
Suppose the house committee had some excellent
reason. I have scarcely given that a thought.
His death and the manner of it seem all a part of


“MORE THAN ONE” 91
She paused again with a shudder, but the de-
tective inexorably urged her on.
“What did you see then, Mrs. Carter? What
did you hear? What were your impressions?”
“I don’t know !” She passed a hand across
her eyes. “It was all confused, like some hideous
phase of delirium ! I remember a dreadful,
crumpling sound as of something heavy and soft,
falling—some woman screamed—it may have been
I, but I was unconscious of it. I have a vague
recollection of some man’s voice calling for the
lights to be turned on, and then they flashed sud-
denly in my eyes, and everybody rushed forward,
but I couldn’t move; I felt as though I had turned
to stone ! I don’t know how long I stood there
before Mr. Bowles came and told me that poor
Mr. Grant had been shot—that he was dead!
Then I collapsed, my limbs seemed to give way
beneath me, and I sat down on the stairs. It was
only gradually that I became aware that people
were fainting and hysterical all about me. I was
simply stunned. Really, that is all that I can tell
you, Mr. Crane.”
In spite of the repression, which it was evident
that she had placed upon herself, her face ap-
peared all at once drawn and haggard, and Ren-
wick Crane, with a softening of his manner, said,


92 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
“Well, with the permission of the sheriff and the
coroner, we won’t trouble you any further, Mrs.
Carter. You live near here?”
“Yes, scarcely a mile away, at the Horton Cot-
tage. I shall be glad to receive you there at any
time and give you any assistance in my power, but
I really know nothing more than I have told you.”
She hesitated before she added: “But is Mr.
Bowles going to take me home? He brought me
to the dance last night in his car.”
The eyes of the others turned involuntarily to
the fireplace, before which Bowles stood with
Ralph Fraser and Gerald Landon, and an added
tension made itself manifest in the air. As though
conscious of it himself, the broker unconsciously
squared his shoulders as he advanced, and,
although he smiled with an assumption of ease,
his eyes shifted slightly before he met the detec-
tive’s gaze.
“By Jove, I believe Estridge, Landon, and my-
self are the only ones left who haven’t given an
account of ourselves yet for those fateful moments
when the lights were out !” he exclaimed with a
laugh. “Estridge, of course, is out of it.”
“I should think he was 1” said Sowerby, glaring.
“I’ve known Sam Estridge all my life, and, more-


“MORE THAN ONE” 93
over, he was in the card room watching a bridge
game when the shot was fired. I would have been
out on the veranda myself as quick as he was if it
hadn’t been for my gout and the fact that some
fool woman got in my way!”
“And I,” said Bowles, “can attest to Mr. Lan-
don’s presence here in the main hall. Doubtless a
score of others can give the same testimony.”
Bowles’ smile had become less strained. “I saw
him, but whether he saw me or not I don’t know.
I was standing alone in the door leading to the
smaller supper room—that one over there, to the
right of the steward’s desk. Mrs. Carter had
promised me the final dance before the singing,
and, when at the last moment she decided that
she must go upstairs and rest until supper, I told
her that I would be waiting for her at the foot
of the stairs after the singing. She was to go
in to supper with me. During the final dance I
went into the smaller supper room to see that
our table had been arranged, and, when the jazz
music abruptly ceased and the string orchestra
started up the introduction to ‘Auld Lang Syne,’
I came to the door to add my voice to the general
chorus. It was then that I saw Mr. Landon stand-
ing in the conservatory door opposite. I remained


94 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
where I was until the sound of the shot came.
Then I rushed out upon the veranda with the
rest.”
There was a slight pause, and then, as it was
broken by neither the sheriff nor the coroner,
Renwick Crane asked: “You live here in Brook-
lands, Mr. Bowles?”
“No, I merely run out occasionally and put up
here at the club if there is room; if not, at the
Brooklands Inn. I am a broker with offices in
Wall Street and a bachelor apartment in town at
the Margrave. I shall hold myself unreservedly at
your service and that of the authorities here.”
He paused and added with his old, easy manner:
“As a member of this club, I feel as deeply as
any of the rest can the fact that this poor fellow
came to his death in the performance of his duty,
even though I was not in the confidence of the
house committee and I did not dream that he was
other than he appeared.”
“Well,” the sheriff remarked after a glance at
the coroner who nodded, “I guess, if Mr. Crane
don’t want to ask you any more questions just
now, we won’t keep you longer from taking Mrs.
Carter home. Did you notice Mr. Bowles, Mr.
Landon?”
“No, I was watching the dancers, but I'm


“MORE THAN ONE” 95
mighty glad he saw me, for I, too, was alone,”
the young man responded frankly. “I ran out
on the veranda with the rest when Grant was shot,
and Mr. Estridge, who had taken charge, asked
me to call Mr. Sowerby. I am employed in town
in the bank of which Mr. Sowerby is president. I
am not a member of this club, but a guest of Mr.
and Mrs. Fraser, with whom I am staying.”
“Since every one now present has accounted
for himself or has been accounted for, may I sug-
gest that all may be permitted to leave?” Samuel
Estridge remarked. “Mr. Crane will be accom-
modated here at the club, of course, and it may be
that you gentlemen would like to question the
stewards and other attendants.”
He turned to the sheriff and coroner, and, after
a brief consultation between them, the latter an-
nounced: “Mr. Estridge is right. All of you are
well known to me, and most of you are my pa-
tients; I think I can depend upon your presence
at the inquest. Sheriff Coburn and I represent
the county authorities, and Mr. Crane is working
with us. I know you’ll give him all the assistance
you can, and in the meantime we won’t detain
you any longer.”
During the bustle of departure which ensued,
Crane observed that Mrs. de Forest made an


96 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
almost imperceptible gesture toward him and then
walked into the ladies’ cloak room, imperiously
waving back her niece. Mrs. Fraser was already
wrapped in her cloak, and Bowles was solicitously
assisting Mrs. Carter with hers in the foyer. The
detective, as unobtrusively as possible, managed
to slip away. He followed the elderly woman and
found her alone.
“Shut the door!” she commanded without pre-
amble, and, when he had complied, she faced him
before the long mirror. “Young man, the sheriff
is a good detective of chicken thieves, and as a
coroner, Doctor Fellowes may be efficient in ordi-
nary cases, but I’ve heard of you and some of the
things which you have accomplished, and I’m
going to trust you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. de Forest,” he responded
with immense respect. “Do you mean that you
heard or saw something which you have not men-
tioned? Have you a possible theory as to who
shot my former associate?”
“I’ve lived too long to form theories about
anything, and you needn’t thank me until you
learn how trivial a supposition I have to suggest
to you!” she retorted. “I caught only a glimpse
of the body on the veranda. The sound of the
shooting had stunned me for a moment, and I


“MORE THAN ONE” 97
was slow in rising from my chair; I had scarcely
reached the door when Mr. Estridge ordered
everybody back, and I was not sorry. I am not
squeamish ordinarily, but neither have I any
hysterically morbid tendencies, and I had no desire
to look upon the result of a tragedy for which I
felt indirectly responsible. It was on my behalf
that your unfortunate colleague was engaged to
come here.”
She paused, and the detective, who had not
shifted his gaze from her face, seized quickly upon
one salient phrase which she had used.
“You say “the sound of the shooting,” Mrs. de
Forest,” he repeated. “I understood that only
one shot was fired.”
Mrs. de Forest's stately shoulders rose in a
slight shrug.
“So they tell me,” she replied. “As I have
just informed you, I did not catch more than a
glimpse of poor Mr. Grant’s body, but I gathered
from the gruesome details imparted to me that
there was but one wound. Nevertheless, although
I am getting on in years, Mr. Crane, my senses
are, I think, still unimpaired, and I fancied—I
could almost have sworn—that two distinct, but
practically simultaneous, detonations rang through
the rotunda. It may have been merely the echo,


98 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
of course, the effect of the acoustics, or just an old
woman’s notion. I offer it to you for what it may
be Worth.”
“And I accept it most gratefully,” Renwick
Crane assured her in a very sober tone. “I shall
not betray your confidence, but I will give the pos-
sibility you have suggested my fullest attention.
It may be that more than one person was con-
cerned in the theft of your necklace, and more
than one person in the murder of Jim Doyle!”


CHAPTER VII
TEIE MAN IN THE BUSHES
EN O'Hare's star detective finally escorted
Mrs. de Forest back to the entrance hall
they found it occupied solely by the latter’s niece.
Alice Dare rose sleepily at their approach.
“Are you ready to go home now, auntie?” she
asked in the dazed accents of a child suddenly
awakened. “The car’s been waiting for ever so
long.”
“Then it can wait a few minutes longer!” the
elderly lady retorted tartly. “Alice, this is Mr.
Crane. He has come out to investigate the death
of that other detective. My niece, Alice Dare.”
The sleepy look vanished all at once from the
girl’s eyes. In its place there came a swift gleam
of apprehension, but she responded to the intro-
duction and added hesitatingly: “It-it was ter-
rible, of course, Mr. Crane! I do hope you will
be able to find out who did it. How could any
one—”
99


102 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
Drawing an envelope and pencil from his pocket,
he made a rapid sketch, placing crosses and ini-
tials here and there. With a satisfied nod he
returned them to his pocket just as the coroner
appeared in the hall leading to the rear.
“I thought you had gone, doctor,” he remarked.
“I’ve just got rid of the last of the club members
who were here when I arrived. I presume you
have depositions from those who had already
left?”
“The sheriff and I got what we could from them,
but it wasn’t much—mostly hysteria on the part
of the women and a muddle of conflicting and un-
wanted opinions on the part of the men,” Doctor
Fellowes replied. “With the exception of a Mr.
and Mrs. Dorrance and Mrs. Sowerby, those you
met were the only ones, as far as we have been
able to discover, Mr. Crane, who seemed capable
of giving us any assistance in our investigation.
The only members or guests, I mean. Murdock,
the steward, was behind his desk—there to the
left of the staircase. I’ve just come from having
a little talk with him.”
“I should like to interview him myself if it is
not too late,” remarked Crane. “Those three
members of the house committee have gone home,
I suppose?”


THE MAN IN THE BUSHES 103
Doctor Fellowes chuckled. “Mr. Fraser took
his wife home, and his brother accompanied him,
but old President Sowerby wouldn’t budge a foot
until they telephoned from his house that his wife
was in hysterics. He went then, all right, but
you could hear him swearing all down the
drive. His voice covered the noise of his car.
He’s afraid he’ll miss something, or Lawyer
Estridge will get in ahead of him on the investi-
gation.”
“Is Mr. Estridge still here?”
“Yes. He is waiting in the billiard room for
a word with you when you have finished inter-
viewing the witnesses. Murdock will stay up until
Mr. Bowles returns. He'll show you to your room
and see that you are comfortable. He’s an odd
character—that steward,” the coroner added re-
flectively. “I’ve known him around here ever
since the club was built, and I can’t make him
out. Anybody can see that he’s taking what hap-
pened last night mighty hard, and yet, for all
that, he doesn’t forget a detail of his duties. He
appears to be half man and half machine.”
“Oh, well, if he is going to tuck me in to-night—
or rather, this morning—I won’t bother to talk
to him now. I think I’ll see what Mr. Estridge
wants with me and then turn in for an hour.


104 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
I suppose that Murdock is not in solitary
charge?”
Doctor Fellowes responded to the implied ques-
tion with simple directness.
“Sheriff Coburn is on the job, and he has an
eye on him as well as on all the rest within doors.
I think you must have seen the constable on the
porch out there just now. We’ve no more occa-
sion to suspect Murdock than any one else in the
building. I’m bound to tell you, Mr. Crane, that
we’ve searched the club from top to bottom,
and we can’t afford to take chances on anybody
leaving it now, who either belongs here or might
have sneaked in past the guards in the grounds.
Well, I’ll get on home and to bed for an hour
or two before the autopsy.”
“Before you do perform it, doctor, I wish you'd
phone to me up here at the club. I want to come
down and have a look at the body as it was when
you first saw it,” Crane said earnestly. “I’m not
asking this for sentimental reasons alone, though
I liked Jim, and we’d worked on many a case to-
gether, but because it may help me in my own
investigation. We are not rivals, you know, sir,
but partners—you and the sheriff and I–and it
is not my chief's wish or mine to have me appear


THE MAN IN THE BUSHES 105
in the case at all. The only thing we are after
is to find out who murdered Jim Doyle and have
the guilty party get what’s coming to him or to
them.”
The coroner held out his hand. “I’m sure of
that, Mr. Crane, and I’ll be glad to phone to you
in time. If you and your chief want to avenge the
death of one of your own men, Sheriff Coburn and
I—even more than the members of this club—be-
cause we’re natives here—want to find out the
truth and clear the name of the village as well
as the club of Broadlawns. I guess we can work
together, all right! Good night, or rather, good
morning!”
The genial doctor departed, and Crane turned
thoughtfully toward the billiard room. Within,
stretched out upon one of the wide leather seats,
which divided the wall space with the cue racks,
he found Samuel Estridge. The lawyer's eyes
were closed and his hands were peacefully relaxed
at his sides.
Thinking that the other was asleep, the detec-
tive was about to retreat, but Estridge opened his
eyes and arose. “Have you finished with the wit-
nesses, Crane?” he asked. “I don’t want to urge
you to tell me anything that you would prefer to


106 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
keep to yourself at this time. I haven’t waited
here to bother you with my half-baked theories,
but to offer you any possible assistance that I can.
As the secretary of the club and one of its old
members, I may be able to help you with the iden-
tity and the position of the members. Murdock,
the steward, can furnish you with a list of the
entire club membership, and the coroner, being
the general medical practitioner of the neighbor-
hood, could probably tell you a great deal about
their idiosyncrasies, but—”
He paused suggestively, and Crane smiled and
finished for him. “But he represents the local
authorities, at least until the inquest. I do not
think he could tell me anything, Mr. Estridge,
that would be of material assistance to me at this
stage of my investigation, but you can help me a
lot if you will. Just who, for instance, are the
Frasers?”
“Thoroughly good people in every way,” re-
plied the attorney emphatically. “I’d vouch for
them personally any time. Jack Fraser is man-
ager of the Mexamer Oil Company's New York
branch, and his wife is a fine little woman. They
have lived out here for six or seven years.”
“And Mr. Jack Fraser's brother?” pursued
Crane.


THE MAN IN THE BUSHES 107
“He’s something of a stranger here, the guest
of the Jack Frasers. Ralph Fraser comes from
Texas, and President Sowerby likes him; he’s
had some dealings with him at the bank. He
seems to be all right.” Estridge paused suddenly
and then added: “He might be of some technical
assistance to you, for I understand that he is quite
an amateur enthusiast about weapons of all kinds,
especially firearms.”
‘‘I may call upon him. What about the young
girl—the niece of Mrs. de Forest—she is an heir-
ess, isn’t she?” asked the detective perfunctorily.
Estridge smiled in his turn.
“On the contrary, the child is an orphan with-
out a penny of her own, but, according to present
indications, she will not be dependent upon her
aunt for long. That good-looking Landon boy,
who is a house guest of the Frasers, has a respon-
sible position in Sowerby's bank and—but I’m
talking like a gossipy, romantic old maid!” He
shrugged good-naturedly. “Anybody else I can
tip you off about?”
“I haven’t interviewed Murdock yet, but the
coroner says he is an odd sort of character,”
Crane remarked.
The attorney eyed him keenly for a minute.
“We’ve always found Murdock straight enough,”


108 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
he said at last. “He’s a taciturn person, but
there has never been any criticism as to the way
he performed his duties. Beyond that I do not
believe that we’ve thought much about him, one
way or another.”
“I see,” Crane replied. “Do the other people
whom I interviewed to-night all belong to the
club? The red-haired lady, Mrs. Carter, for one
instance?”
“Yes. She came here two or three years ago
from the South and bought the Horton cottage.”
Once more Estridge’s gaze narrowed. “As I told
you, I do not want to force your confidence, Crane,
but why do you ask about these people in par-
ticular?”
“I am going to take you into my confidence,
Mr. Estridge.” The detective spoke frankly.
“Preposterous as it may appear to mention any
of them in connection with the case, I have discov-
ered so far in my investigation six people, and
only six, who, from their positions alone, could
have fired through that window before which the
dragon lantern hung. It is possible, of course,
that some one may have crouched in the rear hall
beside the main staircase and after shooting have
retreated in the direction of the kitchen and pan-


THE MAN IN THE BUSHES 109
tries, but we must take up the more obvious sup-
positions first. Murdock was behind his desk, and
Mrs. Carter on the staircase.”
The attorney frowned. “Except in your ordi-
nary routine I think Mrs. Carter may safely be
eliminated, but you spoke of six persons. Who
were the other four?”
“The two Fraser brothers and Mrs. Jack Fraser
with little Miss Dare stood here, near the door
of the billiard room. This room, as you know, is
separated by the secretary’s locked door and the
narrow rear hall from the main staircase. These
are the only people I have as yet found who were
within a radius of that window.”
Samuel Estridge paced thoughtfully across the
room. When he turned the frown had disappeared,
and his face resumed its wonted impassivity, as
though a mask had fallen over it, obliterating all
expression.
“I am glad that we are speaking confidentially,
Mr. Crane, for you can realize that I am in rather
a delicate position as one of the house committee,”
he remarked smoothly. “As I told you I have no
possible theory to offer, but may I voice a sugges-
tion? Is there a chance that the shot which killed
Doyle might have been intended for another? I


110 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
mean, could he have been mistaken in the shadows
outside the window for some one else?”
The detective shook his head. “The bullet which
killed Jim Doyle was intended for him alone,” he
responded decidedly. “It is a pity that you your-
self were not nearer than the cardroom at that
moment, Mr. Estridge. I should like to have had
your opinion of the sound of that shot!”
“There were many other people in the rotunda
at the time,” Estridge remarked. “It appears
almost a miracle that the bullet should have
threaded its way among them to the window, but
I presume that, when the dancing stopped, they
insensibly divided into little groups and backed
against the wall, leaving the center of the hall
clear. You haven’t interviewed Mr. and Mrs.
Philip Dorrance, or Mrs. Rutherford Sowerby.
They were permitted to depart before your
arrival. But, I believe, they were also in the
rotunda when the lights were lowered for the sing-
ing. Then there is another guest of the club,
Ogden Bowles—but I forgot. He was standing in
the door of the smaller supper room, out of range,
wasn’t he?”
There was a wearied note in the attorney’s
tones, but it was now Crane's turn to regard the


THE MAN IN THE BUSHES 111
other sharply. In court Estridge had never been
known to let the most minor and irrelevant detail
of a case slip his alert mind. What the detective
read in his countenance, however, was merely a
look of blank fatigue, and he decided that there
was nothing further to be gained by prolonging
the interview.
“I’ll see the rest of them later, and, in the mean-
time, I won’t detain you now, Mr. Estridge. I’ve
got to have a talk with Murdock and then get an
hour's sleep before I tackle the job again.”
“I have a small cottage near here where I keep
bachelor’s hall. Any one can direct you to it. If
you care to come to me in strict confidence, as you
have just now, I shall be glad to give you the
assistance of any information which may occur
to me.” The attorney held out his hand. “Until
I see you again, Mr. Crane.”
The village constable had long since ceased his
vigil when the two emerged upon the veranda, and
the dragon lantern, in common with all the others,
had vanished. Before the window where it had
hung, instead of the sinister crimson stain, there
now appeared a freshly scrubbed space upon the
floor, which glistened in a ray of the morning sun,
and the steward arose from his knees at their


110 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
mean, could he have been mistaken in the shadows
outside the window for some one else?”
The detective shook his head. “The bullet which
killed Jim Doyle was intended for him alone,” he
responded decidedly. “It is a pity that you your-
self were not nearer than the cardroom at that
moment, Mr. Estridge. I should like to have had
your opinion of the sound of that shot!”
“There were many other people in the rotunda
at the time,” Estridge remarked. “It appears
almost a miracle that the bullet should have
threaded its way among them to the window, but
I presume that, when the dancing stopped, they
insensibly divided into little groups and backed
against the wall, leaving the center of the hall
clear. You haven’t interviewed Mr. and Mrs.
Philip Dorrance, or Mrs. Rutherford Sowerby.
They were permitted to depart before your
arrival. But, I believe, they were also in the
rotunda when the lights were lowered for the sing-
ing. Then there is another guest of the club,
Ogden Bowles—but I forgot. He was standing in
the door of the smaller supper room, out of range,
wasn’t he?”
There was a wearied note in the attorney’s
tones, but it was now Crane's turn to regard the


THE MAN IN THE BUSHES 111
other sharply. In court Estridge had never been
known to let the most minor and irrelevant detail
of a case slip his alert mind. What the detective
read in his countenance, however, was merely a
look of blank fatigue, and he decided that there
was nothing further to be gained by prolonging
the interview.
“I’ll see the rest of them later, and, in the mean-
time, I won’t detain you now, Mr. Estridge. I’ve
got to have a talk with Murdock and then get an
hour’s sleep before I tackle the job again.”
“I have a small cottage near here where I keep
bachelor’s hall. Any one can direct you to it. If
you care to come to me in strict confidence, as you
have just now, I shall be glad to give you the
assistance of any information which may occur
to me.” The attorney held out his hand. “Until
I see you again, Mr. Crane.”
The village constable had long since ceased his
vigil when the two emerged upon the veranda, and
the dragon lantern, in common with all the others,
had vanished. Before the window where it had
hung, instead of the sinister crimson stain, there
now appeared a freshly scrubbed space upon the
floor, which glistened in a ray of the morning sun,
and the steward arose from his knees at their


112 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
approach. He seemed as little disconcerted, as
though the brush and pail were his usual imple-
ments of employment, but he addressed himself
apologetically to the attorney.
“None of the servants would touch this, sir,
and, after taking down the lanterns, I thought
best—”
“You took down the lanterns?” Estridge asked.
“Just now, sir.” The deprecation deepened
in his tone. “It should have been done before, but
a person from the village told me he had orders
that nothing was to be disturbed, indoors or
out.”
“Ah, quite right; that was the constable, no
doubt.” Estridge turned to Crane and, indicating
the steward, announced: “This is Murdock. He
will show you to your room and answer any ques-
tions you may choose to put to him.”
Murdock bowed slightly. “Mr. Crane's room
is ready for him, sir. The coroner told me to
have it prepared.” He seemed scarcely to glance
at the detective, but addressed himself once more
to the attorney. “Here is your car being brought
around now, sir. Mr. Bowles returned a few mo-
ments ago and retired at once, but he instructed
me to awaken him if he could be of any service to
you.”


THE MAN IN THE BUSHES 113
“He cannot. I am going home and follow his
example, Murdock. So long, Mr. Crane, and good
luck.” Estridge descended the steps and was
climbing into his car when a subdued hubbub arose
from around the east corner of the veranda, and
a man appeared, his bulldog features alive with
excitement.
“Mr. Estridge! Stop a minute, sir! There's
been more dirty work here last night! One of our
boys, that was stationed on the lawn on that side
of the house, is lying in a clump of bushes with a
gash on the back of his head that you could put
your two fingers in 1”
Estridge started back as Crane descended the
steps. The detective explained, a slight tremble
for once manifest in his level tones, “It is one of
the special men I had sent out from the city for
last night. He isn’t dead, Saunders?”
“No, but he’s dead to the world!” Saunders
responded. “He’s laid out with one of the nasti-
est swipes I ever saw, and I’m blessed if I know
how any one could have got to him and hit him
hard enough with this to lay his head openl”
As he spoke he held out in the palm of his hand
something which glittered in the sun, and the
attorney motioned to Crane to take it. The latter
complied, and, after an instant's glance at it, he


114 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
and Estridge gazed at each other in wordless
questioning.
The object which the detective held was a tiny
pistol almost as small as a toy, but upon its highly-
polished barrel appeared a dark blotch; the second
sinister indication they were to behold of that
night’s work.


CHAPTER VIII
IN TEIE BOXWOOD BUSEIES
6 ºf Y O and call the sheriff, Murdock!” Estridge
turned with a start to where the steward
stood gaping at them from the veranda. Then to
Saunders he added: “Show Mr. Crane and my-
self where he is. Which one of the boys is it?
Who found him?”
Saunders stared at the mention of the private
detective’s name. Rousing himself he replied to
the last question first.
“I did, sir. The head cook was having us in
the kitchen in relays for some hot coffee, and I
went looking for Pete Lindsay—that’s who it is.
He was on the stand for you in the Lockwood case.
I knew about where he’d been stationed last night,
and I called, but got no answer, and finally I see
the two feet of him sticking out from underneath
these bushes.”
While he talked Saunders had led them around
115


116 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
the corner of the club house to a clump of ancient
boxwood. Here, on the edge of the driveway, a
short, stocky figure lay motionless. The man’s
broad, freckled face was upturned in the sunlight,
and his arms were extended helplessly above his
head.
“I dragged him out by the feet, just after your
car passed around to the front, Mr. Estridge,”
explained Saunders. “The little toy pistol was
winking up at me from the grass, and I picked it
up, and then, as I turn Pete over and see that he
was still breathing, I didn’t stop to call for any-
body, but I ran to catch you before you should
beat it away.”
“He was lying squarely on his back in the
bushes?” Crane spoke for the first time.
“No, on his side. His feet was kind of twisted
one over the other.” Saunders glanced again at
the tiny weapon in the detective’s grasp. “It
must have taken a guy with an arm like a pile
driver to crown him and lay him out cold with
that toy thing, let alone to sneak up on him from
behind through those thick bushes.”
“That is just what I was thinking,” Crane re-
marked. Thrusting the pistol into his hip pocket,
he suddenly dived into the mass of shrubbery, just
as Sheriff Coburn appeared on the run, the


IN THE BOXWOOD BUSHES 117
anxious-eyed Murdock trotting discreetly in the
rear. Between them they carried the unconscious
man into the clubhouse and placed him on the
steward’s bed. Estridge went to the private tele-
phone booth in the locker room to summon Doctor
Fellowes.
In the excitement none of them had observed
the fact that the detective had not accompanied
them within doors. As the attorney emerged from
the booth he found Crane awaiting him.
“What do you think of this latest development,
Mr. Estridge?” the latter asked.
“Frankly I am almost past the stage of coherent
thought !” Estridge responded. “I have handled
many a bizarre case in court in my time, but this
outranks them all! Of course that terrific blow
on Lindsay’s head could never have been caused
by the tiny weapon which Saunders found, no
matter what strength lay behind it—that is a fore-
gone conclusion.”
“Not if the pistol were used to strike with,
perhaps, but suppose it had been thrown?”
“What?” -
“A missile as light and small as that, if flung
from a distance and—let us say—a height of one
story from the ground, might have caused such a
wound, provided that Lindsay’s back was turned


IN THE BOXWOOD BUSHES 119
“Mrs. Carter has stated that the sound of the
shooting dazed and numbed her faculties. In such
a condition some one might have slipped past in
either direction, for the staircase is wide, remem-
ber,” Crane replied. “If any one were hiding
upstairs, awaiting that moment, they could have
crept down a few steps, fired, and then retreating,
thrown the pistol from an upper window. If the
autopsy shows that the bullet took a sharply
downward course and was of a caliber to fit this
tiny weapon the conclusion is inevitable.”
He produced the pistol once more, and Estridge
exclaimed impatiently:
“We’re getting nowhere, man! Nothing but a
series of suppositions. An examination of this
pistol should show whether a shot had been fired
from it, and how recently. Then, when the owner
of it is discovered, or at least the identity of the
person in whose possession it was last seen, the
matter will be fairly obvious. Only one bullet was
fired at Doyle.”
The detective smiled slightly. “You heard it
merely as a muffled report, Mr. Estridge; that is
a pity. One witness has already voiced the opin-
ion that two distinct detonations, so close together
as to be almost simultaneous, rang through the
rotunda, and that witness was unconsciously cor-


120 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
roborated by another who said that the shot
seemed to ‘echo.” One cartridge only has been
fired within the last few hours from this pistol,
but was it the bullet which killed Doyle? Here
is Doctor Fellowes in his car. While he attends to
your man, Lindsay, I think I will just have a look
about the second floor.”
The doctor found the second victim of the night
suffering from a bad scalp wound, but already
conscious.
“What hit me?” the latter repeated faintly over
and over. “I didn’t see nothin’, nor hear a step.
All of a sudden somethin’ fetched me a crack, and
what little light there was went out for fair!”
“You are sure you didn’t hear anything?”
Samuel Estridge insisted, as Doctor Fellowes
deftly dressed the wound. “I don’t mean a step
behind you, when you turned to light your pipe,
contrary to orders, Lindsay, but a sound of any
sort, in or near the clubhouse, other than the music
and singing.”
The man made a sheepish grimace of admission.
“I don’t know how you found out about my
pipe, Mr. Estridge, but my throat was parched
for a smoke. I heard the song stop with a bang
and a lot of women hollerin', but they’d been
makin' a racket all the evenin', and you couldn’t


IN THE BOXWOOD BUSHES 121
tell whether they was laughin’ or cryin'. I’d had
my orders not to interfere, and I thought it was
all part of the fun. I turned my back to light up
for just a minute when somethin’ crowned me.”
“You heard no other sound?” Estridge’s tones
had taken on a deeper note. “Just an instant
before you were struck, I mean. Think, Lindsay!”
Lindsay contracted that part of his brow which
was visible from beneath the bandage in a painful
effort at concentration. “Seems to me there was
a kind of a scraping noise, but I supposed it was
the branches of trees rubbin’ together. I ain’t
used to country sounds, and I didn’t think nothin'
of it.”
In the meantime the detective had hastened up
the staircase. The main upper hall ran the entire
width of the clubhouse, with a window at each
end. Lesser halls branched off from it toward
the rear, and around the gallery to the front were
the ladies’ dressing and cloakrooms. Crane gave
a cursory glance into one or two of the rooms
which lined the back corridors and were evidently
for the use of transient guests. Then he turned
his attention to the windows. That at the left end
of the hall was closed, but the other had been
opened, and the detective walked quickly over to
it and glanced out. As he had expected, it looked


122 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
directly down upon the driveway from the garage
and the clump of boxwood before which Lindsay
had been stationed. It would not have taken a
particularly muscular throw or deliberate aim to
have struck him that blow, even had he had time
to light the match and reveal his presence by its
flare. If the pistol had been flung blindly straight
from the window it could scarcely have avoided
hitting him.
The cloakrooms, which Crane entered next,
were a disordered litter of fans, handkerchiefs,
and small fancy receptacles for carrying cosmet-
ics. The pillows on the couch in one of the dress-
ing rooms were deeply indented, showing that
some had rested there for a part of the previous
evening at least.
Nothing further of significance rewarding his
efforts, the detective descended the staircase to
find Murdock hovering about its foot.
“I’ve some coffee and toast here for you, sir,”
the latter announced, wetting his thin lips nerv-
ously as he spoke. He appeared older by ten
years than on the previous night, and the gray at
his temples was more evident in the broad light
of day.
“Thank you, Murdock.” Crane seated himself
at the little table, and, as the other served him, he


IN THE BOXWOOD BUSHES 123
added: “I understand from Mr. Estridge that
you have been here a long time.”
“Since the club was built, sir; that’s what
makes it so awful—what happened last night—
aside from the shock about poor Mr. Grant.
There’s never been a hint of a scandal, never even
a hitch in any of the entertainments, nor a com-
plaint from a single member that was serious
enough to be laid before a meeting of the board,
let alone the suspicion of a crime, until last eve-
ning. I shouldn’t wonder if it would entirely
disrupt the club, and I was as proud of it as a
member himself could have been l’” Murdock,
the silent, had suddenly waxed loguacious, but his
tones were still habitually deferential. “From
the very day that Mr. Grant came to take the
place of Mr. Martin I am sure that none of the
members nor club attendants had the slightest
idea that he was anything more than the house
secretary he pretended to be—except, of course,
those who engaged him. I cannot imagine even
yet why a detective should have been installed
here, but as to his murder y 2
“Go on!” Crane commanded tersely as the
other hesitated.
“Well, sir, I know it’s not my place to offer
an opinion, especially to a person—er—a gentle-


124 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
man of your experience in such cases, but couldn’t
that have been the work of an outsider, some one
who, perhaps, had a private grudge against him?
With the crowd that was here last night there
would be plenty of chance for a stranger to slip
in and out unnoticed, even though I was behind
my office desk there all the time.”
“You were there when the shot was fired?”
Crane ignored the suggestion.
“Yes, sir. I remember that one of the hired
waiters tried to pass from the rear hall to the
supper room in the midst of the singing, and I
was just reaching out to stop him when the sound
of the shot came.”
Crane turned and regarded the broad desk top
reflectively, then once more gazed at his in-
formant.
“You stretched out your hand to touch this
waiter from behind your desk?”
Murdock flushed but replied promptly: “No,
sir. Now and again the gentlemen members leave
their golf bags in my office, instead of taking them
back to their lockers; there are usually two or
three of them there, just as there were last night.
When that waiter started to pass I was afraid he
would disturb the singing, so I fumbled at random
in one of the bags at my feet, picked out a golf


IN THE BOXWOOD BUSHES 125
club and was trying to tap him on the arm with
it when the shot rang out. The club was still in
my hand when I vaulted over the desk top—I was
too much excited to remember the little swinging
door—and ran out on the veranda with the others.
I didn’t see from what direction the shot came,
and I hadn’t even noticed Mr. Grant at the window
there until we found him lying dead. Then Mr.
Estridge sent me to collect the extra cooks and
waiters and regular attendants in the billiard room
until the sheriff and coroner should come. That’s
really all I can tell you, sir.” -
“Did you notice any one move after the singin
started, except that waiter?” Crane asked.
“No, sir.” For once Murdock raised his eyes
and gazed straight into those of the detective. “I
was thinking of them the song was intended for.
They were all gentlemen whom I’d served for
years, and who wouldn’t be coming back to the
club, ever.”
Crane pushed back his chair and rose. “Let
me see inside that office of yours; I’d like to know
just where you were standing when you heard the
shot.”
Without a word Murdock turned, folded back
the hinged top of the counter and, opening the
narrow, gatelike door, ushered his visitor inside.


126 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
“Here, sir. I was standing right here and the
waiter was there between me and the newel post
when I reached down.”
“Into a golf bag at your feet, I think you said,
Murdock!” The detective’s tones had suddenly
crisped. “Where is that bag now? There is only
a shelf of ledgers under the counter.”
Murdock stared down stupidly. “Why, it’s
gone!” he exclaimed. “I’m positive there were
three, for I had to move two for room to stand.
Yes, there they are—one in front of my little safe
and the other under the letter rack. The gentle-
man who owned the third must have taken it home
with him when he went, and he'll miss his stick. I
left it in the billiard room or somewhere about, in
the excitement.”
He had once more become the well-trained
servant, and his distress at such a trivial error
would have been almost comical under other cir-
cumstances.
“Never mind about the stick!” Crane said im-
patiently. “This club member must have been a
very enthusiastic golfer to remember his bag at
Such a time! Who was he?”
“I don’t know, sir.” A suspicion of a shrug
lifted Murdock's lean shoulders. “If I’m busy


IN THE BOXWOOD BUSHES 127
somewhere else they just drop their bags over the
counter, and this one may have belonged to a guest
of one of the members. I couldn’t even tell you
who owns those other two.”
It was at this juncture that the coroner made
his reappearance from the room where, in his
capacity as physician, he had attended Lindsay.
Seeing the detective, he exclaimed: “Oh, there
you are, Crane! Been looking for you. Thought
you’d like to ride down to the village with me;
you mentioned it, if you remember.”
“Thank you, doctor, I should.” Crane emerged
from behind the steward's desk. “Murdock, while
I’m gone you might find that golf club you spoke
of and see if you can identify its owner by it.
Now, doctor.”
But, as they descended the veranda steps to
Doctor Fellowes’ waiting car, an alert-eyed young
man arose from a garden bench and came forward.
“Man about forty, gray hair at temples, walks
like a cat; know him, Mr. Crane?” he asked with-
out preamble.
“I know him,” the detective responded briefly.
“Took 'em down, without looking inside one,
and carried 'em into the house heaped up in his
arms, as careless as though they were a bundle of


128 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
straw. Same man you found scrubbing.up under
the window later, but he didn’t look around. Noth-
ing more doing since.”
“All right, Jewett. Go around to the back and
get some breakfast; say I sent you. When I re-
turn I’ll have further instructions for you.”
Crane followed the mystified doctor into the car,
and, as they rattled down the drive to the open
road, he added to the latter: “That was one
of the operatives from our own agency whom I
brought out from town. He relieved your con-
stable in his watch over the dragon lantern. You
are going to perform the autopsy now?”
“Yes. There's no doubt, of course, that the
man was killed with that pistol which was found
beside the body of the man I have just attended.
I understand that you have it, Mr. Crane, and I’ll
want it as evidence at the inquest.”
“It is in my pocket now, and I will turn it
over to you as soon as we reach your house, if you
like,” Crane said. “It’s almost as small as a
toy.”
“Small enough for a woman to use, eh?” asked
the other.
“Quite,” Crane acquiesced gravely. “Or for a
man, either, if he wanted to throw suspicion upon
a woman.”


IN THE BOXWOOD BUSHES 129
The doctor glanced up quickly, but he made mo
comment until they reached his home where, in
a small outbuilding, he conducted the few autop-
sies he had been called upon to perform.
“Come into the house for a minute,” he said.
“I want to get my instruments— Hang it!
There’s some one in the office! I can’t be both-
ered with patients now.”
But the big, broad-shouldered, keen-eyed man
of thirty-five or more, who arose at their entrance,
proved to be no patient.
“Hello, coroner!” he exclaimed in bluff, hearty
tones. “My brother, Jack, suggested that I drop
in to see if I could be of any assistance to you,
shooting irons being my middle name. Mr. Crane,
I guess you saw me in that bunch at the club a
few hours ago, though you didn’t put me through
any third degree. I’m Ralph Fraser.”
The detective nodded pleasantly. “I remember
you, Mr. Fraser. Doctor, if you will just let me
have a look at the body, I’ll come back and talk
to your guest here until you have finished the
autopsy, or until you need him.”
He accompanied the coroner to the little out-
building, examined the body of his late associate
<without visible expression of other than profes-
sional interest, and then returned to the office.
*


130 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
Ralph Fraser was pacing the worn strip of carpet,
his huge, well-knit bulk seeming to fill the narrow
confines of the room.
He paused expectantly, and Crane placed his
hat on the table and then seated himself.
“Rotten affair, that!” Fraser observed with an
expressive gesture toward the window, through
which the little white-washed building was visible.
“I was right in the hall, not thirty feet from where
the poor fellow stood out on the veranda, and yet
I couldn’t have told the direction from which the
shot came !”
“That is a puzzling matter to determine some-
times,” Crane responded, and then abruptly
switched the subject from the present and its
attendant circumstances. He alluded to Fraser’s
adopted State and its resources until the coroner
rejoined them. “What's the verdict, doctor?”
he asked quickly before Fraser could speak. “I
don’t mean the details—they will keep until the
inquest. If it isn’t asking too much would you
mind telling us in confidence what caliber bullet
killed Doyle?”
“A thirty-two,” responded the coroner gravely.
The result of his disclosure was extraordinary.
Fraser sprang from his chair, and his strong voice
rose almost to a shout. “What! Say that again,


IN THE BOXWOOD BUSHES 131
Will you, doc? You're dead certain that it was
a thirty-two?”
For answer the Coroner held out in his palm a
tiny, steel-coated object. Fraser seized and eag-
erly examined it. Then, with a smothered ejacu-
lation, he returned it, and, dropping back into his
chair once *; he passed his handkerchief
hastily across his forehead.
“Mr. Fraser”—Renwick Crane's incisive tones
Sut the tension in the air like the thrust of a
knife—“what do you know of this? With what
size bullet did You think Doyle had been killed?
Did you think it Was the other shot? The shot
that missed?”


THE CURIOSITY OF MES. SOWERBY 133
I was absolutely certain, from the volume of
sound, that the weapon used must have been a
thirty-eight.”
“Yet, surely, you heard, from the coroner's
preliminary examination of the body, that the
wound was caused by a bullet of very small cali-
ber,” Crane declared.
“Gentlemen, I am a stranger here, not a mem-
ber of the country club, but a guest of my
brother.” Fraser smiled slightly as he rose.
“Down where I come from it isn’t healthy for an
outside party to set up his opinion against that
of the folks in charge, and I thought, of course,
that the autopsy would prove my conviction to be
the correct one. That is why I dropped around
this morning, and why I was so surprised just
now to find that my judgment had been at fault.
I must apologize to the doctor here for thinking
that I knew more than he did about it, but I didn’t
have a glimpse of the wound, you know. I guess
you wouldn’t take much stock in any help I might
offer you, after making such a bull as that, Doctor
Fellowes. I’ll be getting on back to my brother’s
place. I will stay on for several days’ visit,
though, and, if I can be of any service at any
time, you will know where to find me. Mr. Crane,
I shall be glad to horn in on your investigation,


134 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
too, and trail along whenever you say the word.”
“You may easily have mistaken the bark of a
thirty-two for that of a thirty-eight, especially
since, as you say, the acoustics of the hall confused
you at the moment, Mr. Fraser.” The detective's
tone was pleasantly ingratiating now, but his eyes
were steady and rather hard. “However, if a
totally untrained ear could distinguish between
two distinct, but almost simultaneous, shots,
surely you would have been able to do so; that is,
provided there had been two shots instead of one.
It is a mere supposition as yet, of course.”
Ralph Fraser paused in the doorway. “I’ve
been proved wrong once in this case, and I ought
to have horse sense enough not to venture a fur-
ther opinion,” he remarked. “However, I’d be
willing to wager my bottom dollar that only one
shot was fired last night.”
When he had taken his departure the coroner
and the detective eyed each other in silence.
When they heard the gate latch the former asked:
“Were you serious about that, Crane, or was it
a bluff? Have you actually witnesses who are
prepared to swear that two shots were fired?”
“Not actually.” Crane smiled. “However, our
friend Fraser evidently had some good reason of
his own for believing, or at least suspecting, that


THE CURIOSITY OF MES, SOWERBY 135
the weapon used was not this one.” As he spoke
he took from his pocket the pistol which had felled
Lindsay. “This is, as you see, a thirty-two, a
single shot has been fired from it, and you know
where it was found. Of course, doctor, if your
autopsy has shown that the shot which killed
Doyle was fired straight in front of him and on a
level with his breast—”
Doctor Fellowes shook his head. “I will be
frank with you, Crane. That was my first opinion,
based on a hasty examination of the body at the
club, but I’ll have to modify it in part now. The
bullet took a downward course and must have been
discharged from several feet, at least, above
Doyle's head; how far would depend naturally
upon the distance of the assassin from his victim.”
“Yes, if Doyle were standing upright, but what
if he had been squatting upon bent knees, the
upper part of his body still erect, in order the
better to see in at the window?” asked Crane.
“In that case any one within the hall of Doyle’s
own height might have fired point-blank at him—
any one, of course, within straight range,” the
doctor conceded.
Crane began pacing the floor reflectively. All at
once he paused on the threshold and faced the
other. “Doctor, do you realize that a straight


136 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
range may not mean the rear of the hall, alone?
Have you noticed the width of that window before
which Doyle was stationed? I didn’t arrive in
time to see the position of his body, but, from
what testimony I have been able to gather, it was
lying in a crumpled heap under the lantern.”
Doctor Fellowes nodded gravely. “That was
how I found it when I got there, and Mr. Estridge
assured me that its position had not been dis-
turbed in any way. But it has been my experience
that, during the excitement following the discov-
ery of such a crime, the body is frequently moved,
if only in the effort to learn whether life is extinct
or not.”
“But, even if it had not been disturbed, the po-
sition in which you yourself saw it would not
prove that Doyle had been directly in the center
of the window space, would it?” asked the detec-
tive. “Might he not have been peering in at the
extreme right or left of the casing?”
The coroner started. “Why, certainly 1 And
in that case—”
“In that case he would have been within range
of almost a complete semicircle of the rotunda—
a semicircle which would have reached from the
conservatory entrance, where young Landon stood
alone, around to the door of the Smaller supper


THE CURIOSITY OF MBS. SOWERBY 137
room, where Ogden Bowles had halted, also alone.
It would take in all those who stood in the radius
between.”
“But this pistol!” The coroner picked it up
from the table as he spoke. “Doesn’t all the cir-
cumstantial evidence point to the fact that the
fatal shot was fired from it, and that it was flung
out of that window at the end of the upper hall,
immediately afterward?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t necessarily prove that the
murderer was hiding up on the second floor,”
Crane objected. “He might easily, in that minute
of stunned sensibility on the part of the people,
which followed the sound of the shot, have either
slipped past Mrs. Carter and up and down the
stairs in time to join the general hue and cry,
or he might have dashed down the hall leading to
the rear and so up the back staircase. As I under-
stand it, in the confusion that followed the dis-
covery of the crime, it was quite ten or fifteen min-
utes before any one thought of counting heads.
We know at the agency why Doyle was sent down
here, of course, and that knowledge will enable
us to eliminate a lot of people from suspicion.”
“The loss or theft of Mrs. de Forest’s neck-
lace,” said the coroner.
“‘Loss?’” repeated the other.


138 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
“Yes. The sheriff has taken charge of it, you
know, and an examination shows that the clasp
was defective; it might have slipped from the old
lady’s neck at any time after she put it on in
her own home until she missed it at the Harvest
Dance and reported the matter to the house com-
mittee, a period of several hours.” Doctor Fel-
lowes paused and then went on: “Whoever picked
it up has been evidently waiting for a large reward
to be offered, or he was afraid to dispose of it,
not understanding why a public announcement of
the loss was not made.”
“Loss or deliberately planned theft, wherever
that necklace has been hidden during the past
month, it was placed in the dragon lantern last
night and for a particular reason.” The detective
made an impatient gesture. “That’s beside the
point. We're investigating the murder of Jim
Doyle, and I can’t help feeling that there is some-
thing which has been overlooked, some trifling clew
that would give us the key to the whole affair.”
“This pistol ” began the coroner.
“Splendid bit of circumstantial evidence, but,
unless it has been seen in some one’s possession
lately, it would take a month to trace it back from
the manufacturer to the original purchaser and
so on down the line. It is not a new model and


THE CURIOSITY OF MERS. SOWERBY 139
hasn’t a single mark of identification beyond the
usual number, maker’s name, and the year in
which it was patented. No, doctor, I think I shall
try a new trail even if I have to blaze it.” Crane
picked up his hat. “I’d like a little more intimate
knowledge of the people up at the country club
than Doyle’s reports gave us. Most of the mem-
bers are your patients, aren’t they?”
“The majority of those who make Broadlawns
an all-year home,” Doctor Fellowes responded.
“Their places are all in the neighborhood. The
Sowerby place is the nearest; it is that big" stone
house with turrets, the one we passed just over
the hill. On the top of the next hill Mrs. de For-
est’s old Colonial house stands, and the others of
that set are clustered down in the valley. Mrs.
Carter’s little cottage is sandwiched in between
two old farms, within a mile of the club. I have
got to call on a patient of mine off Eastville way,
but I’ll be glad to run you first anywhere you
say.”
“No, thanks. I think I will stroll around the
town a little and get a line on the country club
crowd from the local angle. I’ll be at the club
later if you want to consult me.”
Yet, when Crane had seen the doctor’s little car
disappear down the village street, he turned his


140 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
2.
steps rapidly back in the other direction—to the
turreted stone house over the hill. He noted the
wheel tracks of many vehicles on the driveway as
he approached and was not surprised when, in
response to his ring at the entrance door, a har-
assed butler informed him that Mr. Sowerby was
not at home and Mrs. Sowerby had absolutely
nothing to say for publication.
“I do not represent the press,” the detective
retorted. “Kindly tell Mrs. Sowerby that Mr.
Crane—”
He got no farther. The mention of his name
wrought a miraculous change in the servant’s
manner. “Come right in, sir. Mr. Sowerby has
gone up to the country club, but I’ve had instruc-
tions that Mrs. Sowerby would be at home to you,
of course, if you should call.” The man spoke in
a nervous undertone. “This way, sir.”
He led the detective into a small drawing-room.
A tiny wood fire crackled on the hearth, and the
heavy scent of fresh violets in low bowls vied
with the cloying, sensuous odor of incense from a
bronze brazier. The daylight had been all but
excluded by thick curtains which shrouded the
windows, and a low wing chair had been drawn
up suggestively near a tall, cathedral-backed one.
As Crane seated himself in the latter he smiled


THE CURIOSITY OF MES. SOWERBY 141
inwardly. The stage had evidently been set for
a carefully rehearsed scene, but why so much effort
to make an impression upon him? He had learned
that Mrs. Sowerby went into a fit of hysterics at
the time of the shooting and was one of the first
to leave the club, escorted by the Dorrances,
before his arrival. Was she merely another of the
neurasthenics with whom he had more than once
come into contact, or had she some deeper reason
for this reception?
She had evidently hoped for his coming, planned
for it, and it could not have been difficult to get
her self-important husband back to the scene of
the previous night’s tragedy. Crane thought of
the irascible, rheumatic Rutherford Sowerby in
this dim, scented, boudoirlike apartment and
chuckled to himself. A faint, silken rustle came
to his ears, and he turned to greet the small figure
in trailing, violet draperies which appeared in the
doorway.
“You’re the wonderful Mr. Crane, aren’t you?”
she asked. “I felt so relieved directly I heard you
had arrived. I knew you would clear up this
dreadful mystery for us! Please sit down and
tell me if you have discovered who did that—
that fearful thing last night.”
She motioned toward the chair, and, as he re-


THE CURIOSITY OF MES. SOWERBY 143
Why has he been there all this past month, dis-
guised and watching us all, and the mystery of it
makes the whole affair seem like a perfect night-
mare l’’
Could that be mere avid curiosity in her tone,
or something bordering on anxiety? Crane paused
before he responded: “I am sorry, Mrs. Sowerby,
but I am afraid I cannot tell you that just now.
You were present when the shot was fired?”
She shuddered and shrank back within the
screening wings of her chair.
“Yes—no l I—I was in the conservatory—
alone. I had gone there to get away from the
dancing and noise, for I had a slight headache
and didn’t want any supper. Then I heard the
crash of the shot in the midst of the singing, and
some one told me what had happened, and I went
into hysterics. I don’t see how a highly strung,
sensitive woman could have helped it!”
“A Mr. and Mrs. Dorrance brought you home, I
believe. Are they intimate friends of yours, Mrs.
Sowerby?” Crane asked.
She gave a nervous little laugh, and the fingers,
which had been tapping the arms of her chair
suddenly clutched them. A full minute passed
before she replied in a voice of studied naïveté:
“What a funny question, Mr. Crane! The Dor-


144 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
rances happened to be the first to leave, and my
husband or somebody asked them to take me home,
as I was quite beside myself! We are all intimate
out here in a way, but they are no closer associates
of ours than any other members of our set at
the club. Mr. Dorrance is an amusing sort of boy,
but his wife, being so much older, doesn’t go in,
for many things except bridge, and, as I have
always been far too stupid to learn that, I really,
know her merely as an acquaintance. Have you
interviewed them?”
“Not yet.” He rose. “I am sorry you cannot
tell me anything more definite about last night’s
affair, but I won’t detain you any longer, Mrs.
Sowerby. By the way—from where you were
seated in the conservatory could you see the main
staircase? Another lady member of your club, a
Mrs. Carter, was standing just at its foot, and,
although the murder did not shock her into hys-
teria, it stunned her so that I have been able
to gain no valuable impressions from her,
either.”
“I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Carter in hysterics
under any circumstances!” Mrs. Sowerby ex-
claimed with a hard little laugh. “She would pose
if the heavens fell!”


THE CURIOSITY OF MBS. SOWERBY 145
“Who is she?” Crane asked with seeming indif-
ference.
“Nobody knows. She appeared here alone
about two years ago and got into the club, some-
how, but none of the women have taken her up
beyond being civil to her. I don’t think she minds,
though, with all the men yapping at her heels as
they do. She made a perfect fool of Phil—Mrs.
Dorrance’s husband—a season or two ago, but
now it is a bachelor for a change—that broker
who runs out from town to play golf.” Mrs.
Sowerby caught herself up hastily and added with
a belated return to her childlike manner: “Please
don’t think I am catty, Mr. Crane, I’m not really,
but you quite see what I mean, don’t you? I
couldn’t help showing my feelings by becoming
hysterical last night! No woman with any heart
could have l’’
“I quite understand.” The detective spoke
with bland sympathy. “You were alone in the
conservatory when the crime took place, I think
you said, Mrs. Sowerby?”
“Yes. There may have been other people there,
of course, but I had hidden myself away in a
corner behind some palms and didn’t see nor hear
any one.”


146 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
“When the sound of the shot came did you
leave the conservatory, or did some one come
there to tell you what had happened? Who told
you?”
“I don’t know! I cannot remember!” she
replied. “Of course I must have gotten out into
the foyer somehow, but everything was so con-
fused and horrible ! I caught a glimpse through
the window of of that poor thing lying out there
on the veranda, and the next thing I can recall is
of having given way completely, and Mrs. Fraser
and some other ladies were attending me. Oh, I
shall never forget the sight of that poor man!
Why was he sent here to spy upon us? Dear Mr.
Crane, surely you can tell just little me! I don’t
carry tales, really, truly 1”
Her hand was on his arm, her coaxing face up-
turned very close, and the blue eyes were gazing
straight into his. For a moment Crane deliber-
ately dropped his mask of elaborate deference.
“Why are you so anxious to know, Mrs. Sow-
erby?” he demanded bluntly. “Surely you have
nothing to fear from the presence of a detective?”
With a shrug she stepped back and again that
hard little laugh rose to her lips.
“Scarcely!” The shrill, shrewish note was
dominant now in her tones. “One doesn’t like


THE CURIOSITY OF MES, SOWER BY 147
to think, however, that, among one's associates,
there may be a person guilty of anything which
would bring them under surveillance. Good morn-
ing, Mr. Crane!”
Once more out in the bright sunlight and strid-
ing down the drive, Crane added a significant note
or two to his mental data. Mrs. Sowerby was or
had been infatuated with the man named Dor-
rance, and she was jealous of Mrs. Carter; she
had told two slightly conflicting stories of her
own actions at the moment of the shooting, and,
in spite of her denials, she was deeply and per-
sonally concerned in learning the motive for
Doyle's presence at the club, although in ignorance
of the loss of the necklace which had occasioned it.
Why was she so concerned? Could there be
wheels within wheels in this quiet, conservative
community? Could there, after all, have been
some other possible motive than the theft of the
necklace for the murder of Jim Doyle?


CHAPTER X
TEIE WOMAN UPSTAIRS
RETURNING to the village, Crane possessed
himself of a small car at a renting garage.
After consulting a road map he started by a wide
detour toward the club. The machine he had
hired was of an antiquated model and slow and
halting in its gait, but it had the double advantage
of a dull, neutral-gray color and a silent motor.
The road he had chosen led away from the
estates of the country club colony, through a
region of small farms, out upon a pleasant high-
way, bordered on the right by rolling fields and
on the left by a deep glen. Through the dense,
but almost leafless, trees there came the trickle
of a waterfall.
Crane had passed no vehicles upon the way
except an occasional farm wagon, but, as he
reached the glen, an approaching rumble and roar
came to his ears, and he drew up at the extreme
right of the road just as another car thundered
148


150 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
began to make his way cautiously down the steep
declivity through the crackling underbrush.
The sound of the voices came nearer, and, as
Crane reached a sort of path which wound along
the bank of a narrow stream, he saw a man and
a woman approaching. The man was young and
dapper, with a small, blond mustache, and he was
evidently under stress of some violent emotion,
for he gesticulated jerkily as he trotted along
beside his taller companion, who walked steadily
with a free, swinging stride. She wore a clinging
sweater, and the sunlight, striking down through
the naked branches of the trees, glowed on her
bare head and turned it to molten copper.
Crane did not know the man, but he had little
difficulty in recognizing Mrs. Carter, and he
slipped hastily behind a clump of low-growing
evergreens, as the couple approached.
“I tell you it’s life or death!” The man’s
voice fairly broke in his excitement. “Don’t you
suppose I realize my position as it is? No mercy
would be shown—”
“You speak of mercy?” They were abreast
of the detective now, and the contempt in the
woman’s rich, calm tones was as keen as a knife
blade. “Women have shown me scant mercy in


THE WOMAN UPSTAIRS 151
my life; why should I ruin myself now in order to
help you to see that another doesn’t suffer?”
“Then I'll tell!” The man’s voice rose in a
cry of rage. “I swear to Heaven I’ll tell!”
“Very well, you cur!” Mrs. Carter’s tones had
not risen, and, as the couple rapidly receded down
the path, the detective could barely distinguish
her words. “The world is wide, and Broadlawns
is only a tiny corner of it.”
The man began to plead in an indistinguishable,
vehement murmur, and Crane scrambled back to
the road and hurriedly cranked up his car. He
drove back the way he had come until he reached
a crossroad. A glance at the map showed him
it must be a short cut to the club. The reason
was apparent now for Bowles' jealous rage. But
what was the secret which the inscrutable Mrs.
Carter had defied her companion to disclose, and
who was the other woman he was trying to induce
her to save from suffering?
His reflections were interrupted by a deep-
toned, resonant hail, and, looking up sharply, he
beheld the head and shoulders of Samuel Estridge
rising from behind a trim hedge of privet.
“Just the man I want to see!” the attorney
exclaimed. “Come in and have lunch with me,


152 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
Crane. I’ve been puttering around the club all
the morning waiting for you to turn up, but they
told me you had gone off with the coroner.”
The detective was only too glad to accept, not
only because of this signal honor paid to him by
one of the most eminent members of the bar and
the opportunity to study him at close range, but
because he felt that no one else in the colony
could give him more information of the sort he
required.
He drove in between pillars of the privet,
turned his machine over to the chauffeur, and
followed his host into the ivy-covered brick
cottage.
“I hired that old bus there in the village. After
the autopsy I left Doctor Fellowes and called on
Mr. Sowerby, but I learned that he, too, had gone
up to the club,” Crane explained.
Samuel Estridge's eyes twinkled. “I fancy
your time wasn’t wasted, however, if you were
looking for any gossip of the colony,” he observed
dryly. “Did the autopsy disclose what we ex-
pected?”
Crane nodded. “I don’t think I am violating
any professional confidence of the coroner’s in
saying that the weapon which knocked out your
man Lindsay was unquestionably, as far as the


THE WOMAN UPSTAIRS 153
present circumstantial evidence goes, the same
that was used to kill Doyle. How is Lindsay? I
forgot to ask the doctor.”
“Conscious and coming around all right, but
the only thing he can remember, just before some-
thing hit him, was a sort of scraping noise; might
have been the raising of that upper hall window,
eh?”
“Yes—Mr. Estridge, I’m not going to accept
your hospitality and abuse it, nor am I stupid
enough to think that I could attempt to pump the
cleverest cross-examiner in the courts to-day and
get away with it!” Crane laughed with boyish
frankness. “However, I do want some dope on
the crowd out here that only you can give me,
if you will.”
“Gladly Come along into the dining room, our
chops are getting cold.” The attorney laughed
also and led his guest into the austere Jacobean
room. He waited until his man had served them
and withdrawn before he added: “I’m afraid,
Crane, that I’m reaching the age when a man
loves to gossip. What can I tell you?”
“First of all I must confess that I did get a bit
of illuminating gossip to-day, but not in the way
that you imagine, sir,” Crane responded candidly.
“In an investigation of this sort, where I am fol-


154 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
lowing a blind trail, the little, insignificant details
about the lives of the people who were present
when the crime was committed, sometimes provide
unexpectedly valuable clews, even though they
themselves are unquestionably innocent. For in-
stance, can you tell me anything more about Mr.
Fraser’s brother than that he comes from Texas
and has done some banking business with Mr. Sow-
erby's institution? I met him again this morning,
and he seems to be a bug on weapons, especially
firearms.”
“So Jack told me, but I never met Ralph Fraser
until yesterday afternoon,” Estridge remarked.
“He goes in more for collecting freak man-killing
inventions, I believe, than the sort which usually
come under your professional notice or mine. I
don’t mean bombs, but pistols and daggers, dis-
guised more or less innocently, after the manner
of the old sword canes. He seems to be rather
an ingenuous sort of fellow for such a blood-
thirsty hobby, and, since you have already got the
weapon with which, in all human probability, the
murder was committed last night, I don’t believe
he will be of much use to you.”
“I merely used him as an illustration,” Crane
averred. “Then there is the broker, Mr. Bowles;


THE WOMAN UPSTAIRS 155
what is his particular hobby, other than golf and
defying speed laws?”
“I don’t believe I know,” replied the attorney
thoughtfully. “He hasn’t been a member long,
but he was proposed and seconded by two mem-
bers of the house committee, one of whom is ill,
and the other away just now. I never realized
it until you spoke, but I do not believe that any
of the rest of us know much about him or his
personal proclivities.”
“I gather that he was rather more of a ladies’
man,” Crane observed slyly. “By the way, Mr.
Estridge, I don’t mean to be indiscreet, but I have
heard that there is a woman member of your club
about whom no one seems to know very much,
either, although that is the worst that any one
appears able to say against her. Can you tell
me where she came from and who were her social
sponsors? I work mostly by a process of elimi-
nation, you know, and I like to have all the irrele-
vant factors tabulated and out of my way.”
The attorney hesitated for a moment frown-
ingly, and then his brow cleared. “I can see no
harm in giving you the information which, with a
little more time and trouble, you might easily
obtain elsewhere. The lady to whom you refer


156 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
came from Raleigh, North Carolina, about three
years ago, deposited negotiable stocks and bonds
for a substantial amount in one of the local banks,
and purchased the cottage which she now occupies.
Of course being a stranger here and alone I will
admit that she was looked at rather askance by
the other matrons of the colony, but she made no
attempt to force herself upon the society of any
one and lived for several months in the strictest
seclusion. Then gradually people began taking
her up, and at length somebody proposed her at
the club. I have been given to understand that
she has a substantial income from her late hus-
band’s estate.”
“Does any one know what her late husband’s
business was, or his first name?” asked the
detective.
Again the attorney hesitated before he replied:
“His name was Amsa, or Abner, or some such old-
fashioned name. I have heard that he was elderly
and retired when she married him, and she was
a mere girl. If I were a married man myself, Mr.
Crane, I might be able to give you more intimate
details, but, being just a bachelor, the ladies do
not confide in me. However, it has been hinted
that her life wasn’t particularly happy—the old
story of May and December, I suppose—and his


THE WOMAN UPSTAIRS 157
death was more of a relief than a sorrow. At
least that is the reason which is given for her dis-
taste to discuss the past. There, you see, Crane,
I told you I feared I had reached the age when a
man loves to gossip !”
Accepting the final remark as a hint the detec-
tive turned the conversation away from personali-
ties, and it was not until just as he was taking
leave of his host that he asked, as though in an
afterthought: “Know any blond young man
around here who wears a little mustache and
dresses like a fashion plate, only a little more so,
Mr. Estridge? He has rather a high voice, and I
imagine he thinks pretty well of himself.”
The attorney laughed carelessly. “Oh, you
mean young Phil Dorrance! No one takes him
very seriously, I am afraid. He and his wife are
in the crowd up at the country club, but you didn’t
meet him because they went home early and
escorted Mrs. Sowerby, whose nerves had gone to
pieces. He is a harmless sort, too, and we’ve all
known him for years.”
Crane laughed in return. “I didn’t suspect
him, sir, of carrying the popgun Thanks so
much for your good hospitality and your good
counsel; I am sure I shall profit by both.”
Chugging off down the road, the detective


158 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
turned a curve in leisurely fashion and then,
secure from observation, he studied his map again.
The way to the country club he had already
ascertained, but, after a prolonged scrutiny, he
selected a veritable network of byways, which
finally brought him to the gate of a modest little
villa modeled after the Elizabethan style. Here
he left his car in the roadway and, proceeding up
the path, was on the point of ringing the bell
when a woman’s voice called from the garden:
“You are Mr. Crane, aren’t you? If you want to
talk to me, wouldn’t you rather sit out here? It
is not really cold yet, you know.”
Turning he beheld the woman of the sweater
whom he had seen that morning on the glen road.
Her coppery hair glowed in the sunlight. She
beckoned invitingly to a garden seat, and nothing
loath the detective complied, involuntarily com-
paring this reception with that of the morning
from another hostess. Whatever Mrs. Carter’s
secret might be, she was evidently unafraid or
unashamed of its possible consequences. Glancing
into her clear eyes Crane felt a shade of com-
punction.
“I am very sorry to intrude upon you, Mrs.
Carter.” Genuine sincerity rang in his tones.


THE WOMAN UPSTAIRS 159
“I have just been lunching with Mr. Estridge,
and, of course, our conversation hinged upon last
night's tragedy at the country club.”
“Naturally, Mr. Crane, since you have come out
here to investigate it.” Her steady eyes regarded
him unblinkingly. “Is there any way in which I
may assist you?”
“It is barely possible, Mrs. Carter. You will
forgive me for recalling to you the moment which
so unnerved you last evening, the moment in which
the shot was fired which killed my colleague.” He
watched her face narrowly as he spoke, and it did
not blanch nor weaken as Mrs. Sowerby’s had
done.
“Perfectly, Mr. Crane. Do you think that I or
any one else present could forget it? That poor
young man!” The lines of settled sorrow had
deepened around her mobile lips.
“You had been up in the ladies’ dressing room,
resting, I think,” Crane went on. “Was there no
maid assigned there?”
“Oh, yes, but I fancy she had gone down to
the kitchen or pantry. There was no one there
when the singing started, except, of course, Mrs.
Sowerby. I left her and then came downstairs.”
“What!” The exclamation arose unbidden to


160 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
the detective’s lips, and instinctively he amended
it. “Only Mrs. Sowerby 1”
“Yes, Mr. Crane. When I descended the stairs
Mrs. Sowerby was resting on a couch in one of
the dressing rooms. There could have been no
one else on that upper floor.”


CHAPTER XI
THE SHOT FROM THE AIR
T seemed to Crane, despite his long years of
training in self-control, that his face must
have betrayed his surprise at Mrs. Carter’s aston-
ishing revelation, but he did not permit his glance
to waver, and his voice was as steady as her own
calm one. “You did not hold any conversation
with Mrs. Sowerby when you came upon her in
the dressing room?”
“No. There are two rest rooms, you know, and
I had been reclining in the other one; I merely
glanced in her room as I passed. I do not know
when she went downstairs. As I told you, the
sound of the shot, just as I reached the bottom,
stunned me so that I was practically oblivious
to everything about me for some little time. But
in what way can I help you, Mr. Crane?” She
hesitated and then added: “I trust the matter
will be cleared up soon and the murderer discov-
161


162 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
ered, not only in the interests of justice, but be-
cause I am thinking of going away.”
She glanced off as she spoke toward the little
cottage, half hidden among the bare trees, and
there was an unmistakable note of wistfulness in
her tones. The controversy, which he had over-
heard in part in the glen that morning, returned
to the detective’s mind, and her final words rang
again in his ears: “The world is wide and Broad-
lawns is only a tiny corner of it.” Had she defied
Dorrance to the end, and would what he meant
to tell ruin her and drive her forth from her quiet
home?
“Isn’t your decision rather a hasty one, Mrs.
Carter?” His tone was that of studied indiffer-
ence, but the one in which she replied was slightly
shaken.
“No. I have not discussed it, but for some time
I have considered returning to my old home. As
soon as I can arrange my affairs and dispose of
my little place here I am going back.”
“To Raleigh?”
“Who told you I came from there?” Her voice
had steadied once more, but each word came slowly
as though carefully chosen. “As a matter of fact
we lived quite a little way out in the country,
several miles from any one, except negroes and


164 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
cerning every one who was on the scene of the
crime.”
“I quite understand,” she replied. “My mar-
ried life was not altogether happy, chiefly be-
cause of the loneliness and isolation in which my
husband lived. He was elderly and had many
eccentricities, but, after his death, I found pleas-
ant friends in Raleigh during the short period
of my stay there, and those I have made here
are less congenial.”
“What was your husband's full name, Mrs.
Carter, and when did he die?”
“Asa Carter; his death took place about three
and a half years ago. My maiden name was
Nina Shirley, and I came from Charlotte. I was
an orphan when I married Mr. Carter, eleven
years ago. Doubtless some of my former school
friends in Charlotte would remember me, but I
have seen none of them since my marriage. My
husband would tolerate no visitors, and my desul-
tory correspondence soon languished. Our near-
est post-office address, by the way, was a tiny ham-
let called Mosely. I think, Mr. Crane, that that
is all the information I can give you.”
Her air of finality was pointed, but the detec-
tive made no move to depart. Instead he asked:
“Do you know of any enmity which you may have


THE SHOT FROM THE AIR 165
incurred, Mrs. Carter, either here, or elsewhere?
Is there any one, man or woman, to whom you
may, however unconsciously, have given cause to
harm you?”
“What a strange question l’” She spoke in a
low voice scarcely above a whisper. “Why
should any one wish to harm me, Mr. Crane?
I came here a stranger, desiring only peace and
seclusion, and I sought no society, the people
hereabout sought me. It was only after repeated
urging that I consented to become a member of
the country club, but I have participated very lit-
tle in the social life there and have made no really
close friendships. To my knowledge I have not
an enemy in the world.”
“You say that you have made no close friend-
ships, yet, among all the people here, with whom
have you most frequently been associated?”
For a moment her smooth brow wrinkled as
though in thought, and then she replied hesita-
tingly: “There is always rumor and gossip about
a woman alone, especially in a small, circum-
scribed country-club community. I have avoided
any but the most formal associations with the
members, although Mrs. Fraser has been very
cordial, and I have found little Miss Dare most
unaffected and charming.” She paused. “I


166 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
have occasionally consulted Mr. Estridge or Mr.
Sowerby about investments, and, when I first
joined the club, Mr. Dorrance offered to teach me
to play golf, but I did not care for it and proved
a poor pupil. After several seasons I found my-
self barely acquainted with the others, with the
exception of Mr. Bowles. He has been assiduous
in his attempts to relieve my loneliness. If any
gossip has reached your ears it must be in con-
nection with his attentions to me, but they are
merely those of a friend; I have no intention of
ever marrying again. Really, Mr. Crane, I can-
not understand what these questions may mean'
Has any one been making any absurd accusations
against me?”
Resentment struggled with a sort of resigned
tolerance in her tone, and, with the insufficient data
at his command, the detective dared not betray
the knowledge gained by overhearing that con-
versation in the glen. But another phrase, which
had been used by the woman before him, returned
to his mind: “Women have shown me scant mercy
in my life.” He decided to make one last effort.
“No one has been making any direct accusa-
tions, Mrs. Carter, but, as you say, there are al-
ways rumors and petty gossip in a place like this,
not only about you, but about all other young and


THE SHOT FROM THE AIR 167
attractive women, and they are most cruel to their
own sex. These are merely routine questions, for
you, in common with the others who were present
at the moment of the murder last night, have es-
tablished your position. But can’t you tell me
if there is any woman who has been unkind to
you and whom you have in your power to aid or
injure if you would?”
Mrs. Carter rose, and the setting sun glinted
on her copper-red hair as it had done that morn-
ing, her voice, too, holding the same note of con-
trolled contempt. “I realize now that you have
already been listening to what you call petty gos-
sip about me, Mr. Crane, but I do not know to
what you allude. None of it has reached my ears.
However, as I have already stated, I have not an
enemy in the world, nor is there any one, man or
woman, whom I could injure if I would.”
Crane rose also, and his frank, boyish, ingra-
tiating laugh broke the tension in the air. “Mrs.
Carter, I may tell you in confidence that, in my
preliminary interviews with the different ladies
of the country-club colony, each one has seemed
to consider the others their potential enemies. I
will not trouble you further now, and I will not
intrude upon you again until the inquest, unless
it is absolutely necessary.”


168 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
His hostess’ manner softened to graciousness as
she accompanied him to the gate. “I wish it were
within my power, Mr. Crane, to aid you in your
inquiry, but the horrible affair of last night is as
much of a mystery to me as it must have been to all
those present, except the murderer himself; more,
in fact, since some of the house committee, at least,
must have known why poor Mr. Grant—or Doyle
—was installed in the club in the first place, where-
as the majority of us were, and still are, ignorant
of the motive for his presence there.”
Taking leave of her, the detective cranked up
his little car and descended into the valley. Here
the homes of the country-club colony clustered
about the Colonial mansion of Mrs. de Forest. It
was not to that august matron, however, that he
paid his next visit, but, aided by the directions of
a small boy whom he met by the roadside, he
pulled up before a modern bungalow, its grounds
still ablaze with late autumn flowers, and, alight-
ing, asked for Mrs. Fraser.
She appeared almost upon the heels of her trim
little maid, and her firm handclasp held no hint
of other than the sentiments which she expressed
in her greeting. “Can I help you in any way,
Mr. Crane? My brother-in-law said that he met
you at the coroner's this morning, but, unfortu-


THE SHOT FROM THE AIR 169
nately, both he and my husband have gone over
to the club. However, if I may be of any assist-
ance, I shall be only too glad to answer any ques-
tions to the best of my knowledge.”
“Thank you.” He accepted the seat to which
she motioned him in the spacious, chintz-hung
drawing-room and regarded her appreciatively
across the little tea table, at which she proceeded
to busy herself. Her mouth was sensitive, but
humorous, her eyes candid and clear with the at-
mosphere of the clean out-doors which had tanned
her skin an honest brown and tinted her chestnut
hair with a faded gold. “I asked for you, Mrs.
Fraser, but it was really Mr. Ralph Fraser I
wanted to consult once more, for I understand
that he is quite an authority on firearms.”
“That sort of thing is a hobby with Ralph, but
I know very little about it; I have a horror of
killing things.” She gave a little shiver.
“Whenever Ralph comes to see us he brings some
new freak pistol or deadly trick knife. He goes
to all kinds of trouble to find these things, but it
is merely the enthusiasm of the collector.”
“And your husband does not share it any more
than you?”
She laughed. “Oh, Jack goes duck shooting
every year, but, aside from that, I believe his only


170 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
passion, beside business, is golf; he is as crazy
about it as I am, and, if this dreadful thing had
not happened at the club last night, we were going
to teach Ralph to play during this visit. He
brought down an outfit of everything suggested
to him in a sporting-goods shop.”
“Did he bring anything else, Mrs. Fraser?
Any new freak weapon which he may have added
to his collection? I should like to see it if he
did. I am interested in such things myself,”
the detective remarked casually.
“I don’t know.” She handed him a cup of tea
across the little table. “Ralph only arrived on the
final train before the dance last evening, and I was
so busy dressing and seeing that he was served
with a belated dinner that I really did not pay
much attention to him beyond a hurried greeting.
I believe I did overhear him tell Jack that he had
some rather remarkable curiosity to show him
later. If it is in the line of his hobby I am sure
that he will be only too delighted to exhibit it
to you, too.”
Crane stirred his tea reflectively for a moment
and then observed: “Of course I am trying to
interview every one who was present when my
colleague was killed last night, but it is rather a
large order, in so short a time, before the inquest.


THE SHOT FROM THE AIR 171
Can you help me by telling me something about
the rest of the people who were there?”
Mrs. Fraser raised protesting hands.
“Don’t ask me for current gossip, please! I
never listen to any; perhaps that is why I am on
cordial speaking terms with every one. They
have all been here longer than we, with the ex-
ception of Mr. Bowles, who only became a member
this season, and Mrs. Carter, who settled here
two or three years ago.”
“Mrs. Carter is one of your best friends, is
she not, Mrs. Fraser?” Crane put the question
in an idly inconsequential tone, but his hostess’
surprise at its tenor made her reply with naïve
haste: “Why, no. I was among the first to call
upon her, and I found her very interesting. You
see, we all know each other’s every mood so well
out here that, at times, we bore each other to tears,
and a new personality is welcome. I tried to draw
Mrs. Carter out and make a real friend of her,
but there is something baffling about her. This
something, while it does not actually repel one,
seems to hold one at arm’s length. She has al-
ways been very pleasant, but I do not feel that I
know her any better than on the day of my first
call.” Mrs. Fraser paused and drew a deep
breath. “But all this is dangerously close to


172 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
gossip, isn’t it? Mrs. Carter is reserved, but
really very charming.”
Crane placed his teacup upon the table. “Miss
Dare is also a newcomer, is she not? And Mr.
Landon, too?”
“Oh, Alice Dare is sponsored by her aunt, Mrs.
de Forest, who is quite the leader of everything
out here, and Gerald Landon is our own house
guest and a dear boy. Jack put him up at the
club for the season, and he plays splendid golf l’’
she exclaimed enthusiastically. “I think you
know that he has a position in the bank of which
Mr. Sowerby is president, and he and Alice—but
there—I am gossiping again!”
Crane smiled. “I have already heard rumors
of an engagement between them, Mrs. Fraser, so
you are not telling tales out of school.”
Her face sobered. “That rumor is a little pre-
mature, I am afraid, for they are both mere chil-
dren without a penny between them, and Mrs. de
Forest has more ambitious plans for her niece.”
“Mrs. de Forest is very wealthy herself, is she
not?” the detective asked. “I have heard of
some famous diamonds of hers, and her estate on
the hill seems to be the most pretentious on the
countryside.”
“Oh, yes, she has a great deal of money, I be.


THE SHOT FROM THE AIR 173
lieve, but Alice is an orphan and wholly depend-
ent upon her,” Mrs. Fraser responded, adding,
with a little laugh, “I suppose the whole neigh-
borhood has heard about the famous de Forest
necklace, but she hasn’t worn it lately. I fancy
it is too gorgeous for our modest set out here.
You are not going, Mr. Crane? My husband and
his brother ought to be back from the club very
shortly, and they may be able to give you infor-
mation of more value than I have been able to do,
especially as Jac 33
She caught herself up suddenly, biting her lips,
and Crane was quick to follow up her slip.
“What, Mrs. Fraser? Why do you think that
your husband would be especially able to give me
information of value?”
She flushed beneath the clear tan of her cheeks
and, after hesitating, drew a deep breath. “I am
afraid that I have gone too far, now, not to ex-
plain, but I hope you will believe me. My husband
has never betrayed the confidence of any one else
to me, but wives have a sort of way of divining
things, you know, and Jack is a member of the
house committee of the club. I do not know why
that poor detective, who was shot last night, was
ever engaged to come out here, but I believe Jack
does know, just as you must. That is why I


174 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
thought that he would be better informed of the
situation and able to help you.”
“You have not asked him, Mrs. Fraser?”
Crane smiled as he held out his hand, and she
smiled, too, as she placed hers within it.
“No, Mr. Crane. I knew that he would have
told me if he could, but I observed last night, in
the excitement following the shooting, that he did
not seem as surprised as the rest at the penetra-
tion of your associate’s disguise, nor even at the
fact of the murder itself, and he was anxious only
to discover the author of it. Of course he could
not have anticipated the crime, but that he was
not astounded when it did take place shows that
there must have been a very serious reason for
the employment of a private detective at Broad-
lawns—a reason as serious as life and death it-
self! I am wondering 3 y
“Yes?” he asked, as she hesitated once more.
“Why that moment of all others was chosen
for the murder, virtually in the presence of a score
of people, when the poor fellow might so easily
have been done to death at any time during the
past month in one of his solitary rambles about
the lonelier stretches of the golf course. Could he
have been on the point of succeeding, in whatever
his quest was, or could some one else among us


176 THE TRIGGER OF CONSOIENCE
it toward the porch and the window where the
dragon lantern hung?”
“No,” she responded slowly. “I remember dis-
tinctly that. I was facing straight across the hall,
past the foot of the staircase and in the general
direction of the steward's desk and the entrances
to the dining and smaller supper rooms. I was
singing with the rest and had raised my eyes
slightly, as most amateurs do when they reach for
a higher note than their usual range. That is how
I happened to see the tiny flash, I suppose, for
it seemed to start quite far above my head, above
the heads of any one there, and, in the brief sec-
ond before it disappeared, I fancied that it moved
slightly in a downward course. It was as though
the shot were fired from the air.”
“You say that you were looking past the foot of
the stairs, but, if that moving spark, which you
saw, were above the heads of any one standing on
the floor of the rotunda, could it not have come
from somewhere upon the staircase itself?” asked
the detective. “Think carefully, Mrs. Fraser, for
it is important.”
But Mrs. Fraser shook her head with decision.
“No, Mr. Crane. That was the first thought
which came to me after the lights were turned
on and the body discovered, but the flash was much


THE SHOT FROM THE AIR 181
Fraser brothers, evidently awaiting him on the
veranda, but, with a wave of his hand in greet-
ing, he kept on around the drive to the rear.
There the ubiquitous Murdock hastened out to
him before he had fairly alighted, and he re-
quested that the two men, who had come out with
him from the agency, be summoned.
“Walsh,” he began without ceremony to the
younger of his operatives, “I want you to catch
the next train into town—the club bus will take
you to the station. I may want my own car here
as well as this flivver. Go straight to the old man
and tell him I want you to go to Charlotte, North
Carolina. Find out all you can about a young
girl who lived there eleven years ago, an orphan
named Nina Shirley, who married a rich, elderly
man named Asa Carter and went to live on an
estate near Mosely, a village not far from
Raleigh.”
Walsh, who had evidently been hearing the gos-
sip of the club servants, smiled knowingly. “I get
you, sir,” he answered. “Tall, good-looking
vamp with red hair pulled down tight over her
ears.”
“Not red hair—black!” Crane interrupted him
brusquely. “I don’t believe it was red until she
came North, Walsh. Find out, if you can, why


178 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
a detective should have been installed in our
peaceful little club without the knowledge of the
majority of the members in the first place, and,
in casting about in my own mind, I could think of
only two reasons which might be even remotely
possible; theft, or some impending social scandal.
None of those on the opposite side of the hall,
when the lights were lowered, could have been
thought of as guilty of the former, for the steward
is the essence of integrity, and the rest were all
members like ourselves. As for scandal—sordid
enough to reach the divorce courts, I mean—that
is equally unthinkable. I had a vague idea, with-
out an iota of knowledge to back it up, that some
one might have had a private reason, quite apart
from our lives out here, for fearing Doyle's pres-
ence. Of course it is the most probable thing,
isn’t it, that, in the darkness, some stranger stole
up from the rear hall beside the staircase—”
It was Crane's turn to shake his head. “And
going out into the center of the hall, fired that
shot which seemed to come from up in the air?
No, Mrs. Fraser, I think we must dismiss that as
even a possibility. But, if you know of no scandal
and no theft, may I ask why you thought Doyle
was sent out here?”
“Well, there have been a series of petty thefts,


THE SHOT FROM THE AIR 179
I believe, from the men’s lockers. Besides, minor
complaints have been made about the way the
club accounts were kept during the summer. Our
real clubhouse secretary left very suddenly and
supposedly went West for his health, just before
Mr. Doyle appeared among us, you know, and,
although I had no more reason to suspect him
of dishonesty than my own husband, I cannot
think of any other reason for Doyle’s having been
engaged to come to Broadlawns at all.”
“Mrs. Fraser”—Crane paused at the doorway,
to which she had accompanied him—“you will
learn at the inquest why my colleague was sum-
moned here, and, in the meantime, I want to thank
you for being as candid with me as you have.
I will promise you to keep your confidence.”
‘‘I may have been indiscreet, but I told you
only what I thought it was my duty to disclose,
even though I may have been mistaken about that
little flash of light,” she responded. “If it is not
necessary I do hope that you will not mention my
silly little suspicions to any one.”
He promised and took his departure, but, as he
turned his flivver into the road that led to the
club, the detective realized that his clear-eyed,
level-headed hostess had told him as much as she
dared of her real suspicions, that she would not


180 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
have mentioned them had they been either petty
or silly, and that in her he had discovered a pos-
sible ally who might prove as valuable as Estridge
himself.
He had started out that morning without a pos-
sible clew to guide him. Now he was returning to
the club with a multiplicity of vague indications
which pointed in so many different directions that
he scarcely knew which to endeavor to trace first.
Why had Mrs. Sowerby lied and claimed to have
been in the conservatory? In reality had she been
upstairs at the moment the fatal shot was fired?
What was the secret which Dorrance had threat-
ened to divulge concerning Mrs. Carter, and
whence had come her sudden decision to leave
Broadlawns?
Aside from these questions, however, two others
had presented themselves to Crane's mind. These
he determined to have settled without loss of time
by his operatives. One was borne of a too hasty
reply in the coroner's cottage that morning, and
this question was unconsciously attested to by a
remark of the lady whom he had just left; the
second was the result of a ray of sunlight strik-
ing through the bare branches of trees.
On his arrival at the club he found a group of
men, among them Rutherford Sowerby and the


THE SHOT FROM THE AIR 181
Fraser brothers, evidently awaiting him on the
veranda, but, with a wave of his hand in greet-
ing, he kept on around the drive to the rear.
There the ubiquitous Murdock hastened out to
him before he had fairly alighted, and he re-
quested that the two men, who had come out with
him from the agency, be summoned.
“Walsh,” he began without ceremony to the
younger of his operatives, “I want you to catch
the next train into town—the club bus will take
you to the station. I may want my own car here
as well as this flivver. Go straight to the old man
and tell him I want you to go to Charlotte, North
Carolina. Find out all you can about a young
girl who lived there eleven years ago, an orphan
named Nina Shirley, who married a rich, elderly
man named Asa Carter and went to live on an
estate near Mosely, a village not far from
Raleigh.”
Walsh, who had evidently been hearing the gos-
sip of the club servants, smiled knowingly. “I get
you, sir,” he answered. “Tall, good-looking
vamp with red hair pulled down tight over her
ears.”
“Not red hair—black!” Crane interrupted him
brusquely. “I don’t believe it was red until she
came North, Walsh. Find out, if you can, why


182 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
she wears it in that fashion; I think there may be
a reason with a story behind it.”
After he had concluded his instructions and
Walsh had departed Crane turned to the other
operative. “Jewett, without asking any questions
of anybody or making yourself too conspicuous, I
want you to nose around the clubhouse and see if
you can find in the wall of either the big, round
entrance hall or the conservatory the mark of a
single bullet hole.”
“Yes, Mr. Crane.” Jewett spoke as stolidly as
though he had been asked to find a package of
cigarettes. “About how large caliber a bullet
would it be?”
“Unless I am very much mistaken, Jewett, it
will be of the smallest caliber known—.22, and you
will find the mark of it considerably higher than
your head.”


CHAPTER XII
‘‘I KILLED HIM’’
6 6 ELL, Mr. Crane, have you been making
much progress?” Rutherford Sowerby
demanded. The detective had joined him and the
Fraser brothers on the veranda, a few minutes
later.
Crane shook his head noncommittally. “I
can’t tell just yet, Mr. Sowerby. I stopped at
your house this morning, and, although you were
not there, Mrs. Sowerby very kindly received me.”
“What?” demanded the ungallant husband.
“A fat lot of valuable clews she could give you!
All the gossip and petty scandal of the neighbor-
hood l’’
“It wasn’t what Mrs. Sowerby told me, so much
as what she did not tell me, which I found of
partial interest in regard to the case.” Crane
smiled and turned to the younger of the Fraser
brothers. “Everybody is most hospitable to me
out here. I had lunch with Mr. Estridge, and just
183


184 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
now, Mr. Fraser, your wife gave me a very delight-
ful cup of tea.” As he spoke, however, the de-
tective looked beyond Jack Fraser to the latter’s
brother-in-law and observed that Ralph Fraser’s
face had turned a dull, brick red.
“Did she give you any information of value?
By Jove, I wish she or some one could !” Jack
Fraser exclaimed. “Aside from all selfish notions
about the scandal of the thing and its reactions
upon all of us here, more or less, it is the con-
founded mystery and the cowardly way the poor
fellow was done to death that gets me! Of course,
except for my brother here—”
“Oh, don’t mind me!” Ralph Fraser rejoined.
“I’m only an outsider; you three know why he
was brought down in the first place and that ought
to give you a line on the man who killed him.
You can mark my words, though; this inquest of
yours out here on Monday won’t amount to a hill
of beans. I’ll watch the papers for the real re-
sults when I get back to Texas and Mr. Crane
has had a chance to work out the case.”
“I hope to work out some minor details, at least,
in connection with it before that, Mr. Fraser,”
Crane remarked.
“Unless my brother is held as a material wit-


“I KILLED HIM” 185
ness, which seems a most remote contingency, he
has decided to go directly home again.” Jack
Fraser turned to the bank president as he spoke.
“It will disappoint Elsie a lot, for she had looked
forward to converting him to golf during this
visit. But, after this tragedy, of course, the club
will be closed for the autumn and winter, at least.”
“Yes,” Ralph assented somewhat grimly, “after
I let a clerk in a sporting-goods store sell me a
mail bag full of dinky little clubs and a couple of
boxes of balls!”
“That is one funny thing about it!” Jack
laughed. “If you happen to be a novice and you
leave it to those chaps they usually load you up
with all sorts of useless things, but the one who
sold you that outfit of yours, Ralph, must have
been caught napping, for he left out one of the
most essential, if not the most essential, of the
lot! I went through your bag at the house this
morning and found that you have no driver!”
“Thought you brought your golf bag with you
when you came over to the dance last night, Fra-
ser,” Sowerby remarked. “I’ve got a battered
old driver that you can use, if they keep the course
open. Don’t play any more myself since I broke
my ankle in that motor accident, a year ago, though


186 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
my wife will persist in calling it gout! However,
we’re getting away from the main issue. About
that shot last night, Mr. Crane—”
But Renwick Crane had slipped away quietly,
without a word of excuse or apology, and, saun-
tering past the conservatory, where Jewett was
painstakingly looking for the microscopic bullet
hole, he found his way to the locker room at they
rear. Its sole occupant was a slim, but athletic-
appearing, young man in the late twenties. A
healthily tanned, smooth-shaven countenance
turned in eager curiosity to the detective. “Hello,
Mr. Crane! How are things coming with your
investigation? I guess you don’t remember me,
meeting such a crowd of us here last evening.”
“Yes, I do,” Crane said. “You are the Fra-
sers’ friend, Mr. Landon, aren’t you? You stood
in the entrance to the conservatory when that shot
was fired, I think you told us.”
The young man nodded. “Funny thing about
that,” he remarked. “It must have been my
nerves, of course, but I am in pretty fair condi-
tion and not usually jumpy. I could not actually
have heard that bullet strike Doyle’s body, even
without the roar of the shot still pounding in my
ears, but I could swear that I heard a dull sort
of ‘ping,’ right near me, at the same instant that


188 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
all the lights were turned on full. I can tell you
that, in spite of all that I went through overseas,
I had a sickish minute when I ran out on the ver-
anda with the others and saw that poor chap ly-
ing there! I liked him, and I believe that I got
to be more chummy with him than any of the mem-
bers of the club. I’m only a guest here, and, of
course, I had no more suspicion of his real identity
than those of the rest of us.” Landon glanced
up with a whimsical twinkle in his eyes. “May-
be he suspected me, though, of whatever it was he
came out here to investigate! I don’t think so,
for it seems to me that it was I who sought his
society, and he was a quiet sort of fellow; never
talked much or asked a single question that I can
remember. I used to drag him out to play a
round of golf with me now and then. Just think
of it! He handled this very driver many a time!”
As he spoke the young man held out a golf
club, and Crane took it and examined it gravely,
mentally noting its weight and shape and general
difference from the others in Landon's bag. He
handed it back and asked casually: “Haven’t seen
an odd driver lying about here anywhere, have
you?”
“No. I’m just sorting out my own clubs from
Jack's, for I’ve played my last round of the sea-


‘‘I KILLED HIM’’ 189
son. As soon as the inquest is over I shall be off
for town.”
Crane sauntered leisurely around the room, idly
examining such lockers as were open, with the air
of an interested visitor, but his keen, darting
glance missed nothing. Then, with a nod to Lan-
don, he strolled back into the rotunda once more
and to the left of the conservatory entrance.
Jewett, who was still pottering about within,
suddenly heard a low, peculiar whistle. He hur-
ried out to find his superior eying, with great ab-
sorption, a small spot in the oak paneling of the
wall, just above his head.
“That’s just a wormhole; I saw it before,”
Jewett remarked. “There are plenty more of
them in the paneling on the other side of the en-
trance. The steward told me that these panels
were very old and were brought from some other
building and set in here.”
“Wormhole, is it?” retorted Crane. “I’ve seen
antique oak before, but I never saw a wormhole
like freshly bored wood, nor one that dropped a
grain or two of new sawdust. Look down at your
feet.”
The operative did so and uttered an exclamation
of amazed vexation, as the yellowish specks
glinted back at him from the floor which had been


190 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
highly waxed for the dance of the previous night.
“That’s what comes of taking things for
granted. It explains, also, why I am still in the
old rut, though years longer with the old man than
you, Crane!” he declared. “I did notice that hole
up there, but I had examined the others pretty
thoroughly first, and I didn’t think it would be
worth while to probe this one.”
His tone was so crestfallen that Crane withheld
a rebuke and merely said: “Get a chair with a
wooden seat and lend me your penknife; its blade
is longer than mine. Look sharp, Jewett, before
that group on the veranda are wise to what we are
doing. Never mind about excuses now; we all
make mistakes.”
Jewett obeyed with alacrity, and, mounting the
chair, his superior took from him the knife with
its keen, narrow blade and began twisting it in
the tiny hole which marred the time-mellowed
grain of the ancient wood.
Grain after grain of sawdust fell until, as the
probe ground deeper, it began pouring in a con-
tinuous trickle upon the chair and floor. The
early dusk was already dimming the spacious hall,
and Crane worked quickly to end his task before
Murdock appeared to turn on the lights. At last
he felt the point of the knife grate against some-


“I KILLED HIM.” 191
thing metallic, and, with a muttered exclamation
of satisfaction, he began twisting the blade in a
wider circle.
“Strike something?” asked Jewett, his stolidity
gone.
“I think so,” Crane responded cautiously in an
undertone. “That bunch still out on the porch?”
“Yes. There were only three of them before,
but now there are a couple more,” reported Jewett
after reconnoitering. “They seem to be moving
toward the door now; I guess they’re breaking
up. What's that? Got it?”
Crane stepped down from the chair, turned it
about with its back to the wall and slid it quickly
along the floor to a distance of several feet from
the betraying hole. Then, closing the knife, he
motioned Jewett to follow him and slipped into the
conservatory. It was only when they were se-
curely hidden from view behind a cluster of screen-
ing shrubs that he held out his hand to his com-
panion. Upon the palm a diminutive globule of
steel winked wickedly back at them.
“What’s it mean?” Jewett demanded in a whis-
per and proceeded to answer himself. “There
was two shots fired last night, and they were from
different revolvers. Where’s the one this came
from?”


‘‘I KILLED HIM’” 189
son. As soon as the inquest is over I shall be off
for town.”
Crane sauntered leisurely around the room, idly
examining such lockers as were open, with the air
of an interested visitor, but his keen, darting
glance missed nothing. Then, with a nod to Lan-
don, he strolled back into the rotunda once more
and to the left of the conservatory entrance.
Jewett, who was still pottering about within,
suddenly heard a low, peculiar whistle. He hur-
ried out to find his superior eying, with great ab-
sorption, a small spot in the oak paneling of the
wall, just above his head.
“That’s just a wormhole; I saw it before,”
Jewett remarked. “There are plenty more of
them in the paneling on the other side of the en-
trance. The steward told me that these panels
were very old and were brought from some other
building and set in here.”
“Wormhole, is it?” retorted Crane. “I’ve seen
antique oak before, but I never saw a wormhole
like freshly bored wood, nor one that dropped a
grain or two of new sawdust. Look down at your
feet.”
The operative did so and uttered an exclamation
of amazed vexation, as the yellowish specks
glinted back at him from the floor which had been


190 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
highly waxed for the dance of the previous night.
“That’s what comes of taking things for
granted. It explains, also, why I am still in the
old rut, though years longer with the old man than
you, Crane!” he declared. “I did notice that hole
up there, but I had examined the others pretty
thoroughly first, and I didn’t think it would be
worth while to probe this one.”
His tone was so crestfallen that Crane withheld
a rebuke and merely said: “Get a chair with a
wooden seat and lend me your penknife; its blade
is longer than mine. Look sharp, Jewett, before
that group on the veranda are wise to what we are
doing. Never mind about excuses now; we all
make mistakes.”
Jewett obeyed with alacrity, and, mounting the
chair, his superior took from him the knife with
its keen, narrow blade and began twisting it in
the tiny hole which marred the time-mellowed
grain of the ancient wood.
Grain after grain of sawdust fell until, as the
probe ground deeper, it began pouring in a con-
tinuous trickle upon the chair and floor. The
early dusk was already dimming the spacious hall,
and Crane worked quickly to end his task before
Murdock appeared to turn on the lights. At last
he felt the point of the knife grate against some-


“I KILLED HIM” 193
Left alone, Crane made a careful circuit of the
conservatory, dodging like a shadow from one tall
shrub to another, sweeping aside the fanlike leaves
of the palms where they concealed the floor. He
looked searchingly into every corner, but with no
success. Finally he emerged and was instantly
hailed by a cluster of men who had gathered be-
fore the log fire on the hearth. Beside the Fra-
sers and Rutherford Sowerby the group now in-
cluded Samuel Estridge and a dapper young man
in a Tuxedo, whom the detective recognized as
Mrs. Carter’s companion of that morning in the
glen.
Crane strolled over to them, and Estridge pre-
sented him to Mr. Philip Dorrance, who expressed
his pleasure with an obviously nervous little
cough. “Just dropped in for a minute to see how
the investigation into that sad affair of last night
was getting on, Mr. Crane,” he explained. He
was slightly flushed, and his pale, prominent blue
eyes gleamed with a sort of triumphant excite-
ment. “Have to be trotting along in a few sec-
onds. My wife and I are dining out this evening
with some friends down toward Rosemere, and
we must motor several miles. She sent me—I
mean I came to learn if anything had been accom-
plished toward solving the mystery.”


192 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
“I don’t know yet, but I think that when we
find it—and I am certain that it is still about the
club somewhere—it will prove to be the oddest-
looking weapon of its size that you ever came
across. I am going to look about, and, in the
meantime, I want you to find that steward. Don’t
let him out of your sight until I send for you.”
“No fear if you mean that Murdock!” retorted
Jewett. “He’s been tailing me all day; I couldn’t
lose him for a minute, and the questions he’s been
asking me would fill a book. There—that must
be him, now !”
During his speech the lights had sprung up in
the huge circular hall, which they had just left,
and Crane dropped the bullet into his vest pocket
and handed the knife hastily to his companion.
“Here, Jewett, you go out first and talk to him
about anything under the sun except what we’ve
just found. Get him away to the locker room
or pantries on some pretext, so that I can beat
it out of here without his knowing that we have
been consulting together.”
“All right, Mr. Crane.” Jewett grinned and
added: “Judging by his complexion, I’ve a pre-
text in my hip pocket that will make him go off
with me to any little quiet corner, and it’s not my
gat, either!”


“I KILLED HIM.” 193
Left alone, Crane made a careful circuit of the
conservatory, dodging like a shadow from one tall
shrub to another, sweeping aside the fanlike leaves
of the palms where they concealed the floor. He
looked searchingly into every corner, but with no
success. Finally he emerged and was instantly
hailed by a cluster of men who had gathered be-
fore the log fire on the hearth. Beside the Fra-
sers and Rutherford Sowerby the group now in-
cluded Samuel Estridge and a dapper young man
in a Tuxedo, whom the detective recognized as
Mrs. Carter’s companion of that morning in the
glen.
Crane strolled over to them, and Estridge pre-
sented him to Mr. Philip Dorrance, who expressed
his pleasure with an obviously nervous little
cough. “Just dropped in for a minute to see how
the investigation into that sad affair of last night
was getting on, Mr. Crane,” he explained. He
was slightly flushed, and his pale, prominent blue
eyes gleamed with a sort of triumphant excite-
ment. “Have to be trotting along in a few sec-
onds. My wife and I are dining out this evening
with some friends down toward Rosemere, and
we must motor several miles. She sent me—I
mean I came to learn if anything had been accom-
plished toward solving the mystery.”


194 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
His loquacity and overcordiality made the de-
tective wonder for a moment whether or not he
was exhilarated solely by his nervous sensibility.
“I do not know the method of procedure fol-
lowed by the local authorities, Mr. Dorrance, nor
whether they are in the habit of disclosing the
initial steps of their progress or not, but we do
not discuss the possible clews, which we have ob-
tained in a case, until we have reached definite
results.” Crane spoke in a pleasant tone, but
the meaning of his words sunk in, and Dorrance’s
flush deepened.
“Perhaps it would have been better for this fel-
low Grant, or Doyle, if he had taken some one into
his confidence,” he replied.
“We are going to close the club on Monday for
an indefinite period,” Estridge announced hur-
riedly to Crane. “Of course Murdock will remain
here in charge, and an outside man or two will be
kept, but the waiters and under-stewards will go.
I don’t imagine that any of us will care to gather
here again until the spring comes. Sowerby and
I are going to dine here to-night, and, if you would
care to join us 2 3
“Thank you, Mr. Estridge, you gentlemen are
both very kind, but I have work to do and shall
have time only for a hurried meal. If you will ex-


“I KILLED HIM’? 195
cuse me now—” The detective was retreating
as gracefully as possible when Jack Fraser called
after him: “None of us are going just yet, except
Mr. Dorrance. If you will come into the locker
room a little later perhaps we can show you some-
thing that will merit further investigation on your
part!”
Crane laughed and shook his head as he disap-
peared into the billiard room, but the laughter
died from his lips when the door had closed behind
him, and he relaxed for a moment upon the leather
seat which ran around the wall. For the first
time he felt the inertia of mental and physical
fatigue. He had frequently worked for days and
nights without sleep, but then there had been some
definite lead for him to go upon; now all real
clews seemed to be lost in a maze of small talk
and gossip of a snobbish community where not
even death by violence was taken seriously and
each person appeared to care only for his neigh-
bor’s opinion.
Then the detective’s hand crept up to his vest
pocket, and he roused himself. The bullet, which
reposed there, had not killed his colleague, but if
he could discover whether it had been sped by ac-
cident or design, he would have gone a long way
toward simplifying the apparent multiplicity of


“I KILLED HIM.” 195
cuse me now—” The detective was retreating
as gracefully as possible when Jack Fraser called
after him: “None of us are going just yet, except
Mr. Dorrance, If you will come into the locker
room a little later perhaps we can show you some-
thing that will merit further investigation on your
part!”
Crane laughed and shook his head as he disap-
peared into the billiard room, but the laughter
died from his lips when the door had closed behind
him, and he relaxed for a moment upon the leather
seat which ran around the wall. For the first
time he felt the inertia of mental and physical
fatigue. He had frequently worked for days and
nights without sleep, but then there had been some
definite lead for him to go upon; now all real
clews seemed to be lost in a maze of small talk
and gossip of a snobbish community where not
even death by violence was taken seriously and
each person appeared to care only for his neigh-
bor’s opinion.
Then the detective’s hand crept up to his vest
pocket, and he roused himself. The bullet, which
reposed there, had not killed his colleague, but if
he could discover whether it had been sped by ac-
cident or design, he would have gone a long way
toward simplifying the apparent multiplicity of


“I KILLED HIM’’ 197
at last. From beneath one of the tables, resting
upon the bracket provided for it, protruded the
handle of the bridge used in making difficult shots.
From the corresponding bracket, under the edge
of the other table, there appeared a handle of
quite another kind.
It was a grip of leather and slanted at a sharp
angle which denoted its unusual brevity when
compared to the ordinary bridge. Crane stooped
and glanced beneath the table, then closed his
fingers gingerly about the leather grip and drew
forth a new golf club of highly polished, but sing-
ularly heavy wood.
Meanwhile the group about the fireplace in the
great hall remained intact. Young Dorrance
seemed to have forgotten his announced intention
of immediate departure and was holding forth
sarcastically about the ability of all detectives,
official and private. Only the Frasers disputed
with him, for Sowerby and Estridge were con-
versing aside in lowered tones, but all five were so
deeply engrossed that they failed to observe the
cat-footed Murdock when he took his accustomed
place behind his desk. A tall, ungainly stranger,
with whom he appeared to be upon the best of
terms, lounged confidentially across the counter.
Neither did any of them become aware of the


“I KILLED HIM.” 199
“I haven’t the least idea, sir. The bag and
all were gone when I tried to show it to you, if
you recall, sir!” Murdock's ruddy face had
blanched, and he was trembling visibly.
“Perhaps you could tell if this were the same
club or not by taking it up and flourishing it as
you did last night, Murdock.” A note of com-
mand had entered the detective’s tones. “Grasp
it by the head.”
“But I didn’t, sir!” The steward’s pallid face
took on a waxen hue. “I must have lifted it
from the bag by the head, of course, but I swung
it out by the grip. I—now that I look at it, sir,
I am positive that this is not the same.”
“Try it and see.” Crane's inexorable voice
directed. “Take up that driver and show me
just what you did last night!”
Murdock glanced about him wildly for a means
of escape, and for the first time he became aware
of the five men who had ranged themselves behind
the detective. One of them uttered a startled ex-
clamation and advanced a step or two, but at that
moment the steward broke down.
“I can’t, sir!” he said. “It’s no use for me
to bluff any longer! May God forgive me—I
killed him l?”


CHAPTER XIII
THE DRIVER OF DEATH
IS dramatic confession of the murder ended
in a cry that echoed back from the high-
arched ceiling of the hall, and Murdock collapsed
and would have fallen to the floor had not Jewett
grasped him beneath the arms from behind and
supported him to the chair beside the small safe.
Of the five men, standing back of Crane on the
other side of the steward’s desk, only Samuel
Estridge strode forward. “You, Murdock?” he
exclaimed. “That’s stuff and nonsense! You
never killed Doyle—you haven’t the nerve to harm
a flea l?”
Jack Fraser cast a swift, troubled glance at his
brother, whose face was a study. Ralph Fraser
stood immovable, without meeting his eyes.
Philip Dorrance had fallen back, his weak mouth
beneath the small, sleek mustache, working like
that of a rabbit in his startled amazement, and
200


THE DRIVER OF DEATH 201
old Rutherford Sowerby sputtered and snorted,
but no words would come.
The steward had buried his face in his hands
and was swaying back and forth. Deep sobs
racked him. It was doubtful if he even heard the
famous criminal lawyer's expostulation, but, when
Crane spoke, the questions penetrated to his all
but distraught brain.
“If you shot Doyle how did you do it, Murdock?
What motive had you?”
“None, sir, I swear it!” Murdock raised a
face suddenly grown old and haggard. “I don’t
know how I shot him. I never meant to do it!
It was that devil’s machine which you just laid
On my desk there, sir—that thing that looks like
a driver. It’s some kind of a gun, and it went off
in my hands !”
“Not a devil’s machine, but merely, I think, a
cleverly concealed weapon of unique design.”
Crane turned suddenly and faced Ralph Fraser.
“It is the driver missing from your set of clubs,
is it not, Mr. Fraser? A driver which projects
not golf balls, but these!”
He held out upon his open hand the tiny steel
bullet which he had pried from the oak paneling,
and Ralph Fraser squared his shoulders and came
forward.


202 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
“Yes, it is mine,” he said. “I brought it as a
surprise for my brother and his friends to see,
and I never thought that an accident like this
could occur ! I had a mighty bad time of it after
that shot sounded in my ears, I can tell you, but
it didn't—”
“How was I to know he was a detective?” asked
Murdock. He was too perturbed to grasp the
significance of the interrupted sentence. “I never
did know for sure until last night, but I suspected
him from the very first day he came, and we began
going over the books together. When they bring
them into court, and it’s proved how I’ve been
changing the accounts right along, thieving every-
where I could, nobody ever will believe that I
didn’t know what that thing was—that I didn’t
pick it up and shoot purposely at him when the
lights were out!”
“What's that!” Sowerby found his voice and
emitted it in a sudden roar, as he stepped forward.
“What’s that about your falsifying the accounts,
Murdock, and embezzling from the club?”
“It’s true, sir, all of it!” Murdock replied.
“All but that I meant to kill the man you put on
my track! I’d have run away, maybe, but I never
would have harmed him.”
“Oh, I can’t stand this!” Ralph Fraser broke


THE DRIVER OF DEATH 205
bullet, which flew from this concealed revolver
when you accidentally released the firing pin in
the head of the club is this bullet which I hold in
my hand. See!” He held out the little steel
globule. “It harmed no one, but imbedded itself
in the oak paneling over there.”
Amid amazed exclamations from all, except
Ralph Fraser and Jewett, Murdock started from
his chair with protruding eyes.
“You—you mean that, sir?” he asked hoarsely.
“It’s the truth you are telling me? I didn’t kill
him, after all? Oh! Thank God! Thank God!”
He sank back in his chair and buried his face
in his hands, sobbing aloud in the reaction of re-
lief, while the others crowded around Crane with
excited questions.
“What does this mean?” Sowerby’s voice rose
above the rest.
“It means, gentlemen, that two shots were fired
simultaneously, this one, by the miracle of acci-
dent, going off at the same instant as the other.
But I will explain later. Murdock, the story you
told me was partly the truth, then?”
“Yes, sir, partly.” Murdock wiped his eyes
and straightened in his chair. “I told you the
truth, but not all of it. The lights were lowered,
and the singing was going on. I saw that waiter


THE DRIVER OF DEATH 205
bullet, which flew from this concealed revolver
when you accidentally released the firing pin in
the head of the club is this bullet which I hold in
my hand. Seel” He held out the little steel
globule. “It harmed no one, but imbedded itself
in the oak paneling over there.”
Amid amazed exclamations from all, except
Ralph Fraser and Jewett, Murdock started from
his chair with protruding eyes.
“You—you mean that, sir?” he asked hoarsely.
“It’s the truth you are telling me? I didn’t kill
him, after all? Oh! Thank God! Thank God!”
He sank back in his chair and buried his face
in his hands, sobbing aloud in the reaction of re-
lief, while the others crowded around Crane with
excited questions.
“What does this mean?” Sowerby's voice rose
above the rest.
“It means, gentlemen, that two shots were fired
simultaneously, this one, by the miracle of acci-
dent, going off at the same instant as the other.
But I will explain later. Murdock, the story you
told me was partly the truth, then?”
“Yes, sir, partly.” Murdock wiped his eyes
and straightened in his chair. “I told you the
truth, but not all of it. The lights were lowered,
and the singing was going on. I saw that waiter


206 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
from the caterer's starting to pass my desk on
his way to the supper room. Thinking to stop him
from disturbing a minute that was as sacred as
church, I reached down into the golf bag. Some-
body had left it under the counter for safe-keep-
ing, instead of taking it to the locker room where
it properly belonged. This instrument of Satan
was the first stick which came to my hand, and I
took hold of it, without looking, and drew it out. I
only meant to tap the fellow on the arm with it
and motion him back, and it all happened in a
minute, though it takes long to tell it. As I
grabbed it I must have flourished it in the air,
for I felt something jump under the head, there
was a wee flash of light in front of me, and then
there came a crash fit to wake the dead. You
gentlemen all know what happened after that; the
sound of something falling outside and the excite-
ment and the lights going up once more and every-
body crowding out on the veranda. I rushed out
with the rest, but, when I saw what I’d done—
or thought, until a minute ago, that I’d done—
something seemed to die inside of me, too, and
then I remembered that I still had in my hand the
thing that had fired the shot. I was fairly crazed,
to get rid of it, and there wasn’t time to put it
back in the bag. Before anybody took hold of the


THE DRIVER OF DEATH 207
affair and began to give orders I ran back into
the billiard room and pushed the club under one
of the tables, with the grip leaning on an empty
bridge rest. No one missed me or knew that I
had touched any of the clubs under my desk, until
Mr. Crane suspected.”
“You changed the books and stole from our
accounts,” Estridge observed, as though he had
not been following the explanation of the previous
night’s event. “Did you pilfer anything from the
lockers, or the ladies’ dressing rooms, or pick up
any articles of value that the members may have
dropped?”
“No, sir. I’ve found things from time to time,
like Mr. Sowerby's scarfpin and Mrs. Dorrance's
gold bag, but they’ve always been promptly posted
on the bulletin board,” responded Murdock.
“Somehow it didn’t seem like stealing, just to
alter the books, especially as none of you missed
the few dollars that meant so much to me.”
“Then you have never retained unlawful posses-
sion of anything belonging to a club member,
whether its disappearance was mentioned or not?”
the lawyer asked.
“Never, sir. I–I’ve told you everything. I
can’t restore the money now, but I’m ready to
make whatever amends you gentlemen and the


210 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
“It seems incredible!” Jack Fraser ejaculated.
“I could swear that I only heard one shot. The
chances are a million to one against such a coin-
cidence.”
“The odds are not as great as that,” observed
Estridge thoughtfully. “I have seen things
proved in court, in more cases than one, which
apparently only a miracle could have brought to
pass. We will have to decide later what is to be
done about Murdock's falsification of the accounts,
but I am inclined to believe his story of the acci-
dental shooting. Mr. Fraser can tell us if he did
leave his golf bag containing that freak weapon
behind the desk.”
Ralph Fraser nodded. “I did,” he affirmed.
“We arrived late, and, as I had that dance with
my sister-in-law, I did not wait to go to the locker-
room, but leaned over and rested my bag under
the counter. I didn’t dream that any one would
molest it, for Jack had mentioned that he often
did this when he was in a hurry. I handed my
coat and hat to the nearest steward. It was
criminally careless of me to have left the gun
loaded, of course, but that was sheer vanity on my
part; I wanted to take it somewhere out on the
green to-morrow, where it would be safe, to
astonish my brother and you gentlemen with a


THE DRIVER OF DEATH 211
little impromptu target practice. I can tell you
that, until the coroner stated this morning that
the bullet which killed your man was a .32 I’ve
been through Hades!”
“Where did you get the thing, anyway?” Jack
asked. “How does it work?”
“One of the head officials of a big firearms com-
pany—I gave him my word not to mention his
name, and, as no actual harm has been done
except to an oak panel and the nervous system of
the steward, to say nothing of my own, I think I
may be permitted to keep my promise—is a bug on
golf, and he doped this out merely as a curiosity.
I happened to be in a position to do a favor for
him, and, knowing my hobby, he presented it to
me.” Ralph Fraser took up the club from where
Crane had placed it on a billiard table. “Don’t be
alarmed, gentlemen, I know how to handle it
safely. It really is shaped precisely like a driver,
you see, but there is a hollow metal tube or barrel,
concealed in the shaft, and, when the head is
pressed in a certain way, it releases a firing pin
which discharges a .22 caliber bullet through the
grip. My friend tried to work it out with a trig-
ger, but it wasn’t practicable. I thought it a
mighty neat little contrivance and an interesting
addition to my collection, but, after last night, I


212 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
never want to see the wretched thing again!”
He laid it down once more upon the table and
Estridge remarked dryly: “It is ingenious, at
all events. I thought I had come in contact with
most styles of man-killing instruments in my pro-
fessional career, but this is unique.”
“It is a devilish sort of contrivance, and I think
we can dispense with any, further demonstration
of it, if you don’t mind my saying so, Fraser,”
said Sowerby. “I hope you’ll keep it under your
eye until you get it away from the club.”
“Still, you gentlemen owe Mr. Fraser a vote
of thanks in a way,” Crane observed. “It was
this device of his which unwittingly scared the
steward into his admission of theft.”
“Do you think his confession was complete?”
Jack Fraser asked significantly. “Granted that
he was unnerved he is a canny sort of rascal. Was
that embezzlement the only robbery which he com-
mitted, or attempted to commit?”
Estridge glanced in quick warning from the
speaker to his brother. At the same moment an
under-steward knocked upon the door.
“Excuse me, please, sir.” His eyes wavered
and then rested upon the detective. “Mr. Dor-
rance is on the wire for Mr. Crane. I told him


THE DRIVER OF DEATH 213
that you were engaged, but he wouldn't take no
for an answer. He says it is most important.”
“What does that little ” Sowerby was be-
ginning, but Crane had already started for the
door.
“Just pardon me,” he remarked, “the question
of Murdock is a matter for the officers of your
club to decide, but I Cannot afford to leave a
Possible stone unturned in the affair which brought
Ine out here. The other matter, of which three
of you four know, is also extraneous. I am here
fºr the sole purpose of finding the murderer of
Jim Doyle!”


CHAPTER XIV
TELLTALE NUMERALS
HE lawyer turned to the under-steward.
“Henry, upon what telephone did Mr. Dor-
rance call up?” -
“The main one, sir, on Murdock’s desk,” Henry
replied.
“Perhaps Mr. Crane would prefer to have it
switched to one of the extensions in the locker
room?” the lawyer suggested.
“Isn’t there an extension, also, in the office
which was occupied by Martin and the late—er—
Grant?” Crane had paused in the doorway.
“Yes. . Would you care to use that?” asked
Estridge. “The office has been locked since last
night, but I have the key here.”
“Then will you have Henry switch the call to
that extension, please, and cut off all other
connections in the club for a few minutes?” As
the under-steward disappeared at a nod from
the lawyer, Crane added: “Also, if you have the
214


TELLTALE NUMERALS 215
combination to the safe in the secretary’s office
and keys to the desk, or any other receptacles
which may be locked in there, I should like to
have them.”
“I can give you the combination to the safe, of
course, unless Doyle changed it, and, although the
coroner must have the keys which were taken from
the body, I have a duplicate set here,” Estridge
remarked, as the two proceeded to the little office.
“Do you want to compare the accounts with the
memoranda in Murdock's notebook?”
“Only one or two items to assure myself that
he wasn’t lying in general; the rest of his con-
fession doesn’t interest me,” responded the de-
tective. “I hope to find some private notes of
Doyle's—notes intended for our agency and
jotted down too late to be transmitted to us.”
Murdock was still seated behind his desk with
his head bowed in his hands, and Jewett loitered
near, but the steward did not look up nor appear
to be conscious of their presence in the rotunda,
as Estridge unlocked the door of the other little
office, and they entered, the lawyer switching on
the light. -
“Your man was methodical and businesslike,”
the latter observed. “When I went to O'Hare I
told him to send me down some one who could, at


* ** * *
216 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
least, act the part and keep books after a fashion.
But that fellow would have deceived even me, had
I not known who he was He might have been
a private secretary or bookkeeper all his life!”
Crane smiled. “Doyle has acted in both capac-
ities, at one time or another, before he came to
us,” he said. “That was the reason why the old
man picked him for this case.”
“But why the disguise? I am sure none of us
would have recognized him as he appeared when
it was removed.”
“How sure are you?” Crane ignored the im-
patient insistence of the telephone extension on
the desk to inquire quizzically, “Have the clients
you have defended in court all come from the un-
derworld, Mr. Estridge? One would not think so,
judging from your financial rating.”
The attorney looked startled. “Just what do
you mean?”
“Doyle has run to earth more than one crook
in the so-called smart set, and he once helped to
convict of murder the leading banker of a small
suburban community,” replied the detective.
“Naturally, before selecting a man for your job,
O'Hare had you all looked up as to general stand-
ing, and he discovered that you were all practical
newcomers here, Mr. Estridge. Doyle was the


TELLTALE NUMERALS 217
best man for the case, but was it improbable to
conjecture that, among all the members of your
club and their transient guests, there might not be
one who had come into contact with him in some
other investigation he has conducted among people
of your class? The world is not so wide, as a
certain member of your club remarked this
morning.”
“There’s something in that,” Estridge con-
ceded, as he turned to the door. “You’ll find me
in the billiard room, or dining with Sowerby, if
you need me, Crane.”
The detective reversed the key and locked him-
self into the cubby-hole of an office before he took
the receiver of the telephone from the hook.
“Hello! Crane speaking.”
“What detained you all this time?” The peev-
ish voice of Philip Dorrance, raised to a high
pitch of mental strain, came to him over the wire,
and it seemed to the detective’s keen ear that
deeper, but unmistakably feminine, tones mingled,
as in a running undercurrent, with those of the
speaker. “We have something of the most vital
importance to tell you, and my wife would like you
to come at once l’’
“But your dinner engagement?” Crane could
not resist the suggestion.


218 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
“Hang the dinner! We’re not going! When
I reached home I found that my wife had made
a discovery which requires the immediate services
of a detective, and you are the nearest. We don’t
care what it costs.” There was an odd hesitation,
a seeming reluctance in Dorrance’s tones, in spite
of his insistence, and now he paused while the
contralto feminine voice sounded again. The
words were indistinguishable, but it was obvious
that he was being coached.
“If Mrs. Dorrance's discovery has no direct
bearing on the matter I am investigating I really
must decline,” Crane said firmly. “O’Hare’s pri-
vate agency in New York, from which I came, will
send a man out to you on the first train if you
will telephone there and state the nature of your
prospective case. The one I am working on is of
more importance to me than any fee.”
“But this is something that cannot be discussed
over the phone, and my wife thinks that it may
have a direct bearing on the other affair!” Dor-
rance’s voice rose sharply, and, after a moment,
he added: “She says to tell you she is positive
that it will change the whole course of your inves-
tigation, and she is sending the motor for you.”
“Thanks, but I have two cars here of my own,”
responded the detective dryly. “Please give my


TELLTALE NUMERALS 219
compliments to Mrs. Dorrance and tell her that I
have one or two points to look into before I leave
the club. I shall be grateful for any assistance
she may be able to render me in this case, of
course, and I will be with you later.”
“You must come now, man, I tell you!” The
wire squeaked with Dorrance’s agitation. “My
wife demands it! You are wasting your time until
you hear what she has to tell you!”
“You will pardon me, but I must be the best
judge of that since the investigation is in my
hands,” Crane retorted. “I can be with you in
an hour, not before.”
He rang off abruptly, heedless of the sputtered
protestations which were choked into silence, and
looked about him. The desk was not unlike that
of a hotel office and identical with Murdock's
except that it ran the length of the small room,
with a space in front of it for the convenience of
members, and was in a separate apartment instead
of opening directly into the great hall. The
wicket was barred, too, but Crane quickly unlocked
it with a key from among those which, together
with a slip of paper, the attorney had placed upon
the counter before he passed within.
The safe was larger and of a different model
than that in the steward’s office. As Crane had


TELLTALE NUMERALS 223
comparison of a few of the items listed by the
steward with the figures in the club accounts
proved that the latter had told the truth, in part
at least, and Crane laid them aside, but not before
ascertaining one significant fact; since the date of
Doyle’s arrival, a month previous, not a single
peculation had been committed by Murdock.
Turning once more to the safe, Crane searched
for the private notes of which he had spoken to
Estridge. He was certain that Doyle must have
taken notes, had anything, bearing upon his in-
vestigation, occurred during the last hours prior
to his death. Before starting from the agency in
town, Crane had run hastily through the brief re-
ports sent in by Doyle from time to time, and
it was evident from them that the operative
had obtained no definite lead regarding the
identity of the thief he had come to track
down, unless he had done so after mailing the last
report which had been received on the Tuesday
before.
In none of them had he mentioned the possi-
bility of an attack upon himself, but that would
not have been Doyle’s way; he had undertaken
to recover the necklace and capture the thief. Any
physical danger incurred in the commission of a
case he had always persisted in regarding as his


224 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
own private business and no affair of the agency,
in spite of O'Hare’s repeated warnings.
Crane ruffled the leaves of every ledger and
examined all the packets and envelopes in the
compartments which lined the upper part of the
safe, but without success. Surely Doyle must have
had some reason of his own for changing the com-
bination of the safe, and if he made any note in
the case, which he had not had time to post, he
would have secreted them in this safe. Had any
papers been found on the body Crane was con-
fident that the coroner would have mentioned them
to him that morning. Where could they be?
Even as he racked his brains for a solution to
the problem the detective noticed that the ledger
for the past month, which he had previously ex-
amined and laid beside him on the floor, did not
close as evenly as the rest. Taking it up again,
he eagerly examined the binding. The inner lining
of the board back had been slit at the top, and,
as he handled it, something rustled in the space
between.
Taking out his stout pocketknife, Crane ripped
the lining down each side, disclosing a single sheet
of paper which had been inserted in the aperture
next to the back. It was covered with disjointed


226 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
Oct. 31: 12-G giving me the eye again, this time through win-
dow from porch, where M. has hung Jap. lantern. Dance com-
ing off soon.
What is 19-N doing under lant
Here the cryptic scrawl broke off abruptly, as
though the writer had been interrupted at his task,
and for some moments Crane sat staring in bewil-
derment at it. Clearly Doyle had meant it as a
correlation of facts and observations for his own
study alone, yet there must be some key to the
enigma which this fresh set of numbers presented.
“10–L” was evidently a woman, since the oper-
ative had not been able to place her, and “12-G”
was as obviously a man, as Doyle had made a note
to look up his record. “M” was designated with
no number, and, if “L” could be assumed as a
starter to indicate lady and “G” gentlemen, what
could ‘‘19-N ?? mean?
The detective rose and began pacing the small
inclosure reflectively. For the time being the
urgent summons from the Dorrances was forgot-
ten, as was the lesser importance of his own lack
of food and brain fag from loss of sleep. If Doyle
had intended those notes for himself alone why on
earth hadn’t he written the names, or at least
initials? He had hidden the single page with
extreme care, yet he had left an ingenious clew


TELLTALE NUMERALS 227
to the changed combination, and the safe itself
contained nothing else which the house committee
might not freely have examined.
Where had he got those infernal numbers, any-
way? Surely he would not have resorted to those
on the pigeonholes of the mail rack again. Crane
turned and studied it for a moment, but the
numbers, when applied to the document in his
hands, made no sense, and impatiently he resorted
once more to a perusal of the latter.
The only person with whom Doyle had “fooled
around the golf green” was young Landon; he,
therefore, must be “16-G,” and “19-N,” with
whom the latter was in love, could be none other
than little Alice Dare, the ‘‘sort of Cinderella.”
“M” was undoubtedly Murdock, but what were
those numbers and how had Doyle come to apply
them?
All at once a light broke over him. Gathering
up the ledgers, he thrust them back in the safe and
closed it. He had barely straightened when a
knock sounded upon the door.
Vaulting the counter, Crane unlocked it to find
the under-steward, Henry, standing upon the
threshold, a laden tray in his hands, from which
savory odors arose. “Mr. Estridge’s compli-
ments, sir, but the dining room is closed, and we’ve


228 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
kept this hot for you as long as we could. Mr.
Dorrance has telephoned again, but Mr. Estridge
gave orders that you were not to be disturbed.”
Realizing all at once that he was voraciously
hungry, Crane expressed his thanks and added:
“Henry, the lockers, in which the members keep
their golf clubs and extra things, are numbered,
are they not?”
The man looked his surprise, but replied
promptly enough. “Yes, sir, both in the ladies’
and gentlemen’s locker rooms.”
“Do you know to whom each belongs?”
Henry permitted himself to smile discreetly. “I
ought to, sir. They have been under my special
charge, as you might say, for the past two years.
I’ve a list of the members with the numbers of
their lockers, if you would care to see it.”
“I should, very much. Will you bring it to
me now, please, and then give orders to have my
larger car—the one in which I came out from town
last night—at the veranda steps in fifteen min-
utes? Where is Mr. Estridge?”
“In the billiard room, sir. I will get the list
at once and see that your car is ready on
time.”
Crane attacked the contents of the tray with


TELLTALE NUMERALS 229
such vigor that he was halfway through his meal
when the steward returned, and, as the latter
closed the door behind him again, the detective
drew Doyle's notes from his pocket and compared
them with the list of lockers.
The meaning leaped out at him now in all
clarity, and he whistled softly as he read. Of the
ladies Mrs. Sowerby had locker No. 17, Mrs. Dor-
rance No. 5, Mrs. de Forest No. 19, and Mrs. Car-
ter No. 10. In the men's room Bowles’ locker was
number 12, Landon’s 16, Dorrance’s 32, and Sow-
erby's 28.
“Ah!” said Crane to himself. “It didn’t take
Doyle long to discover that Mrs. Sowerby and Dor-
rance were having a flirtation, to say nothing of
Mrs. Carter and Bowles, and that love affair be-
tween the two young kids. But why was Bowles
shy of him?”
Pausing only to copy on the back of Doyle's
notes the names of those whose locker numbers
the late operative had mentioned, Crane replaced
the sheet of paper in his pocket and then finished
his dinner hastily. He rang for the steward to
remove the tray, returned the list to him, and,
locking the door of the little office, he sought the
billiard room. “Mr. Estridge, I want to thank


230 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
you most heartily for your thoughtfulness. But
for you I should have had no dinner, for I had
quite forgotten all about food.”
The attorney, who had been knocking the balls
aimlessly about on one of the tables in solitude,
glanced up and laid down his cue.
“You found something to interest you?” he
asked.
“Very much so!” replied Crane. “I’d like a
little chat with you some time to-morrow, if I may
have it, but now I want to return to you the keys
you lent me and give Murdock's notebook into
your possession. You’ll find, I think, that his
itemized list of peculations is correct in the main,
but you won’t be able to open the safe with the
combination you handed me. I’ll give you the real
one to-morrow.”
“I thought so?” Estridge said. “I have some
notes to prepare on a case of my own which comes
up next week, and you will find me at my lodge all
day.”
Crane took leave of him and proceeded to his
waiting car, but, as he tore through the night
toward the Dorrances’, that unfinished final sen-
tence scrawled by Doyle rang in the detective's
ears, as though the lips now cold in death were


TELLTALE NUMERALS 231
Whispering them! “What is 19-N doing under
lant—” iece
What, indeed, had Alice Dare, the pauper niece
of Mrs. de Forest, been doing beneath the dragon
lantern, wherein had been coiled her aunt's stolen
necklace?


CHAPTER XV
MRS. DORRANCE ADVANCES A THEORY
VEN had he not mentally noted its general
location that afternoon Crane could not have
failed to find the Dorrance’s pretentious house. It
was illuminated so brilliantly that it stood out in
all the ugliness of its hybrid architecture against
the night sky, and, as Crane whirled up the drive-
way, the entrance door was flung open, and Philip
Dorrance’s figure, prancing excitedly, was silhou-
etted against the glare from within.
“Great Scott, why didn’t you come sooner,
Crane?” He seized the detective’s arm, before
the latter had fairly reached the top step of the
veranda, and dragged him in. “My wife has been
like a mad woman! You said an hour, and here it
is nearly midnight, and some officious fool at the
club refused to put you on the wire again!”
“I told you, Mr. Dorrance, that I had one or
two points to clear up there before I left, although
I did not anticipate being detained so long,” Crane
232


MRS. DOBRANCE ADVANCES THEORY 233
responded, adding: “Perhaps I have come too
late, and Mrs. Dorrance has retired?”
“‘Retired l’ repeated the other with a gurgle.
“You don’t know my wife when she gets going,
but you will! Come along; she’s in the drawing-
room.”
As he followed his host the detective amusedly
noted the change in his appearance from a few
hours before. His tie was twisted, his collar and
shirt front wilted, and instead of his usual jaunty
strut, he sidled cringingly down the hall. The
latter, although spacious enough, was cluttered
with spurious armor, chairs, and settles copied
from every known period, and hung with portraits,
the suspiciously shiny varnish of which belied the
antiquity of the costumed characters they rep-
resented.
The apartment which they entered was large,
and had manifestly been “done” by some interior
decorator with an eye to his client’s purse solely,
but here the details of his immediate surroundings
escaped Crane’s observation for the moment.
Wide as the drawing-room was it seemed to be
filled with the ponderous bulk of the beetle-browed
woman who in disheveled evening dress was pac-
ing heavily back and forth. Mentally the detective
flattened himself against the wall. The lady


MRS. DORRANCE ADVANCES THEORY 235
I was standing beside the chair of an elderly
friend who has-or had—a diamond necklace of
which she was inordinately vain. She has exhib-
ited it on every possible occasion, until last eve-
ning. Two days ago she told me that she con-
sidered it too gorgeous to wear to so small an
affair as the dance, but I was convinced then that
she was not telling the truth, particularly as she
made some catty remark about my emeralds!”
The lady paused and then broke out in a throaty
wail: “My emeralds! My emeralds which have
been in the Farr family for generations ! Oh, this
Will kill me!”
“Then you might just as well die sitting down
as standing up, Josephine,” Philip Dorrance ex-
claimed in a sudden burst of spirit, born of nerves
strained to the breaking point. “It doesn’t matter
about me, of course, but Mr. Crane had no sleep
last night, and he has been on the go all day. In
common humanity you might offer him a chair.”
“Upstart!” Mrs. Dorrance remarked in what
was intended to be an aside, but she turned once
more to the detective with a visible effort at self-
control. “I beg your pardon. Please be seated;
my own agitation, which my husband seemingly
does not share, will not permit me to remain quiet.
I was standing beside this elderly friend when


236 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
the sheriff approached her, and, to my astonish-
ment, I heard her say that she felt herself partly
responsible for the death of the young man whom
we had known as Mr. Grant. Her contrition van-
ished in elated astonishment, however, when the
sheriff told her that Grant had succeeded in what
he had undertaken. Then he and Mr. Estridge
carried her off to talk privately with her, and, on
learning that the supposed secretary was in reality
a detective, I commenced to put two and two to-
gether.
“This friend of mine had worn her necklace
to the dance in September, but she left early in
great agitation. There was some sort of a scene
which was kept as quiet as possible. I had noticed
the necklace particularly on her arrival—no one
could help it—it made a display that was almost
vulgar on a person of her age! I remembered dis-
tinctly that I had not seen it when she departed,
for I assisted in putting her cloak about her shoul-
ders. Nothing but theft could bring a detective
to our eminently select country club, and no theft
could be of much concern nor so closely connected
with my friend, as to make her feel partly re-
sponsible for that detective's death but the loss
of her greatest treasure. Am I not right, Mr.
Crane?”


MRS. DORRANCE ADVANCES THEORY 237
“My dear Mrs. Dorrance, I am not here in
Broadlawns on the same mission as my colleague
was, but solely to investigate his murder,” Crane
responded firmly. “I must decline to discuss any-
thing else.”
“That girl Alice Dare would neither affirm nor
deny my supposition when I called on her aunt
to-day, and she received me in Mrs. de Forest’s
place, but I am confident that she knew l Perhaps
it will repay her when you learn what I have to
tell you!” There was morbid triumph in Mrs.
Dorrance's husky tones. “If Mrs. de Forest's
necklace was actually stolen, and your associate
killed because he had discovered the identity of
the thief, then you would do well to guard my
house, for I, too, have been robbed, and we are
all likely to be murdered in our beds ! My pre-
cious emeralds are gone!”
“Your emeralds!” the detective exclaimed.
“That is most unfortunate, and you have my deep-
est sympathy, but I scarcely see how that has any
bearing on the identity of my colleague’s mur-
derer.”
“The emeralds are not gone, exactly, but Har-
lier, the jeweler, claims that some time during the
past month they have been taken from their
original settings and fakes substituted in their


238 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
place,” Dorrance explained in a hurried tone.
“They were cleaned in his establishment, just
before the dance in September, and nothing was
found to be wrong with them then, but my wife
got a notion a day or so ago that some of the
settings might be loose, so I took them into Har-
lier’s again. A man from there telephoned out
and told Mrs. Dorrance of the substitution, while
I was returning from the club late this afternoon,
and she is convinced that it has something to do
with the theft of Mrs. de Forest’s necklace and
the killing of your man last night. Nothing would
do but I must send for you at once. You see?”
His voice was almost apologetic, but Crane
shook his head. “I am afraid that I don’t,” he
disclaimed. “Mrs. Dorrance has given me no
valid reason for her suspicion that the necklace
you speak of was stolen, or that my colleague was
sent here to find it. I cannot discuss his case, as
I said before, but, with my own knºwledge of it,
I can see no connection between the identity of
his slayer and that of the person who effected the
substitution of fakes for your emeralds.”
“You cannot?” Mrs. Dorrance, who for the mo-
ment had subsided, spent with her emotions,
started up indignantly. “What if I should tell
you I happen to know the necklace was stolen,


MRS. DOBRANCE ADVANCES THEORY 239
know that man was sent here to find it, and that
he was shot after he did find it? His murderer
is still at large, and another robbery of greater
magnitude has been discovered, and you see no
connection 1 To say the least I am disappointed,
Mr. Crane, for I had heard some really intelligent
things of you!”
“If your knowledge were authentic, Mrs. Dor-
rance—which I do not admit—I should have to
know how you came by it before changing my
plans and theories.” Crane’s tone was a study
in skepticism as he warily led her on. “Woman’s
intuition may be all very well in its way, but you
have given me only one fact: that fakes have
been substituted for your emeralds. In the in-
vestigation of a murder we must have cold facts
to go upon.”
“‘Woman's intuition’ indeed!” Something
very like a snort was emitted by his affronted
hostess. “I have heard that you detectives de-
pend more than a little for valuable clews on back-
stairs gossip—the testimony of servants. I pay
mine better than any one in the neighborhood,
though Heaven knows I have nothing to conceal,
and I am rewarded by the only loyalty which
seems to exist nowadays. I could tell you things!”
“Josephine!” exclaimed her husband. “Re-


238 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
place,” Dorrance explained in a hurried tone.
“They were cleaned in his establishment, just
before the dance in September, and nothing was
found to be wrong with them then, but my wife
got a notion a day or so ago that some of the
settings might be loose, so I took them into Har-
lier’s again. A man from there telephoned out
and told Mrs. Dorrance of the substitution, while
I was returning from the club late this afternoon,
and she is convinced that it has something to do
with the theft of Mrs. de Forest’s necklace and
the killing of your man last night. Nothing would
do but I must send for you at once. You see?”
His voice was almost apologetic, but Crane
shook his head. “I am afraid that I don’t,” he
disclaimed. “Mrs. Dorrance has given me no
valid reason for her suspicion that the necklace
you speak of was stolen, or that my colleague was
sent here to find it. I cannot discuss his case, as
I said before, but, with my own knºwledge of it,
I can see no connection between the identity of
his slayer and that of the person who effected the
substitution of fakes for your emeralds.”
“You cannot?” Mrs. Dorrance, who for the mo-
ment had subsided, spent with her emotions,
started up indignantly. “What if I should tell
you I happen to know the necklace was stolen,


MRS. DOBRANCE ADVANCES THEORY 239
know that man was sent here to find it, and that
he was shot after he did find it? His murderer
is still at large, and another robbery of greater
magnitude has been discovered, and you see no
connection I To say the least I am disappointed,
Mr. Crane, for I had heard some really intelligent
things of you!”
“If your knowledge were authentic, Mrs. Dor-
rance—which I do not admit—I should have to
know how you came by it before changing my
plans and theories.” Crane's tone was a study
in skepticism as he warily led her on. “Woman’s
intuition may be all very well in its way, but you
have given me only one fact: that fakes have
been substituted for your emeralds. In the in-
vestigation of a murder we must have cold facts
to go upon.”
“‘Woman’s intuition’ indeed!” Something
very like a snort was emitted by his affronted
hostess. “I have heard that you detectives de-
pend more than a little for valuable clews on back-
stairs gossip—the testimony of servants. I pay
mine better than any one in the neighborhood,
though Heaven knows I have nothing to conceal,
and I am rewarded by the only loyalty which
seems to exist nowadays. I could tell you things!”
“Josephine!” exclaimed her husband. “Re-


MRS. DORRANCE ADVANCES THEORY 241
the servants’ wing, and my husband doesn’t count,
for he would not dare to repeat anything. Mrs.
de Forest’s necklace is safe in the hands of the
sheriff, and, knowing that, she would not be in-
clined to tell you whom she suspected of stealing
it, nor help you in your search for Doyle's mur-
derer, lest it bring upon her own household the
scandal and disgrace she has done everything to
avoid.”
“Oh, Heavens !” exclaimed the wretched Philip,
but his ejaculation was unheeded.
“Love,” Mrs. Dorrance continued—her austere
tone conveyed no impression of that tender pas-
sion—“will sometimes cause impulsive young
people to do desperate, even criminal, things. Mrs.
de Forest treats that orphan niece of hers like an
upper servant and has provided her with smart
clothes and the outward advantage of wealth, only
that the girl might the more quickly make a rich
marriage and be off her hands. I have this from
her own lips, Mr. Crane. The girl has rewarded
her by falling in love with a penniless bank clerk;
all Broadlawns can substantiate that. Mrs. de
Forest forbade the match, and the young couple
were desperate. On reaching home from the
Harvest dance Mrs. de Forest accused her niece


242 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
—in the hearing of another person, although she
did not know it—of stealing her necklace. Alice
denied it, of course, and threatened to go away
and earn her own living and be free.
“I did not learn this until a week later, and, in
the meantime, I foolishly decked the girl out in my
emeralds for a masquerade at a week-end house
party. I make no direct accusation, but I have
heard that clever work can be done by expert
jewel fakers in three days, and this house party
in the Berkshires lasted from Friday until Mon-
day. When the emeralds were returned to me I
put them away without a close inspection, and it
was only a few days ago that I discovered that
the settings of the brooch and pendant were loose.
Lately Alice Dare and her lover have given every
evidence of a nervousness that amounted to sheer
fright; a dozen people have remarked upon it at
the club. Last night, after that murder, when
Mrs. de Forest and her niece returned to their
home there was another scene between them. Mrs.
de Forest this time accused her niece of putting
the necklace back where—where Doyle must have
found it. I saw the girl in the early part of the
evening dawdling about the very window through
which he was afterward shot. I hope that I am
unprejudiced and just, but these are facts which


MRS. DOBRANCE ADVANCES THEORY 243
I have given you. Do they interest you sufficiently
to listen to my theory of the murder?”
Crane had attended to every word, and again
Doyle’s interrupted question leaped to his mind,
although instinctively he shrank from the possi-
bility which this dominant woman had laid bare.
Neither face nor voice betrayed him as he replied
calmly: “Your facts might interest me, Mrs.
Dorrance, if it were not for a seeming inconsis-
tency. Why is the necklace, which you say is now
in the hands of the sheriff, not a fake, as well as
your emeralds?”
“If you have had any experience with gem
thefts you should know that diamonds are the
most difficult jewels in the world to imitate with
any hope of deceiving even the most casual glance,
while it would take an expert to detect the differ-
ence between real emeralds and some of the mar-
velous manufactured ones which are on the market
now,” Mrs. Dorrance remarked coldly. “More-
over—but that is a part of my theory which you
evidently do not consider worth hearing.”
“Most assuredly I do, Mrs. Dorrance, but first
let me warn you that you have not a shred of even
circumstantial evidence to support your idea as
to when and by whom your emeralds were substi-
tuted. With that theory fixed in your mind you


244 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
may have overlooked other possibilities, and, as
you say, you desire above all things to be just,
especially in so serious a matter.”
Mrs. Dorrance's jaw set, and for an instant her
dark eyes flashed. Then she controlled herself and
responded: “Quite so! May I ask what other
possibilities you suggest, Mr. Crane?”
“Where do you keep your emeralds when you
are not wearing them? At a bank here or in
town?”
“Neither. I have a fireproof safe, built into
my dressing-room wall, and no one on this earth
knows the combination except myself.”
“Josephine!” that gentleman exclaimed in
shocked reproach. “I trust you don’t suggest
22
“I suggest nothing!” she said. “Whenever I
go to that safe I lock my door and hang a dark
cloth over the knob so that my maid cannot spy
upon me through the keyhole, and that woman
knows more than you ever will, Philip ! If I told
you one half of what she has repeated to me con-
cerning the actions of certain empty-headed dolls
and dyed-haired vixens in this neighborhood you
would realize that nothing can be kept from her—
nothing but the combination of my safe!”
“On returning from the Harvest dance you


MRS. DORRANCE ADVANCES THEORY 247
sation must have thrown her into a panic, and
she did confess to him what she had done.” Mrs.
Dorrance paused and added: “I do not pretend
to say whether it was fear or honesty which im-
pelled him, but it is my opinion that he persuaded
her to return them at the earliest opportunity, and
they decided on the dance last night as the most
favorable time for placing the necklace where it
would be found.
“That girl was crazy to marry him, though,
and they had to have money, so, when I foolishly
offered to let her have my jewels for the week-
end, she saw her chance for a second coup. This
time she would not fail, for the substitution might
not be discovered for months, and much could
happen in the meantime. So much for my emer-
alds, but to get back to the necklace. Neither of
those two young conspirators had counted on the
possibility of a private detective being installed at
the club, but, as Hallowe'en drew near, I think
they suspected the real identity and purpose of
the new secretary—that would account for their
increasing nervousness and fright—yet they had
no other course but their original plan to follow.
“It is my belief that the girl concealed that
necklace in the lantern. Doyle saw her do it and
stationed himself there. Both she and her lover


248 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
knew that her guilt would be exposed. But, Mr.
Crane, it is also my firm conviction that Gerald
Landon came to the dance prepared for that very
contingency and determined to go to any length
to protect the girl who had stolen through love of
him. I am not romantically inclined, but this is
sheer logic. You will remember that he stood
alone in the door of the conservatory. That win-
dow, where the lantern hung and Doyle stood, was
within his unobstructed view and range. When he
saw that Doyle knew and meant to remain on
guard until he could recover the necklace and
denounce Alice—well, it is my theory that Gerald
Landon chose that moment of darkness to seal
the detective’s lips forever, even if he went to
the chair for it! Have you a better theory, Mr.
Crane?”
There was a horrified gasp from Philip, but
Crane's face remained impassive as he replied:
“None that I am prepared to offer, Mrs. Dor-
rance, but I must earnestly request that you will
not repeat this theory of yours to any one else
until after the inquest. You will have cause to
amend it, I think, before then.”


250 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
rival, were significant. He had Doyle's notes to
confirm the report of the attachment which existed
between the young girl and the penniless bank
employee, but Doyle had also observed the increas-
ing nervousness of the couple and their self-
conscious avoidance of each other. He had stated
his opinion that they were “up to some mischief.”
If they were guiltless of any wrong what had Alice
Dare and Gerald Landon to fear? They were
both young enough to wait, and, if the girl had
any stamina, the mere disapproval of her aunt
need not have caused her such agitation.
Mrs. de Forest had taken locker No. 19 in the
ladies’ dressing room for Alice’s use, and the girl
had been designated “N”—evidently niece—in
Doyle’s notes. For some reason he had kept a
wary eye upon her from the first and had even
included her in his list of possible “subjects” or
suspects. At the same time he pronounced Landon
straight and declared that there was “N. D.” or
nothing doing, in an attempt to connect him with
the theft of the necklace. Had the dead operative
considered only the girl’s motive and opportunity,
or had he other cause to suspect her?
Another phase of the enigma recurred to
Crane's mind. Why had young Mrs. Sowerby
stated that she was in the conservatory when the


250 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
rival, were significant. He had Doyle's notes to
confirm the report of the attachment which existed
between the young girl and the penniless bank
employee, but Doyle had also observed the increas-
ing nervousness of the couple and their self-
conscious avoidance of each other. He had stated
his opinion that they were “up to some mischief.”
If they were guiltless of any wrong what had Alice
Dare and Gerald Landon to fear? They were
both young enough to wait, and, if the girl had
any stamina, the mere disapproval of her aunt
need not have caused her such agitation.
Mrs. de Forest had taken locker No. 19 in the
ladies’ dressing room for Alice’s use, and the girl
had been designated “N”—evidently niece—in
Doyle's notes. For some reason he had kept a
wary eye upon her from the first and had even
included her in his list of possible “subjects” or
suspects. At the same time he pronounced Landon
straight and declared that there was “N. D.” or
nothing doing, in an attempt to connect him with
the theft of the necklace. Had the dead operative
considered only the girl’s motive and opportunity,
or had he other cause to suspect her?
Another phase of the enigma recurred to
Crane's mind. Why had young Mrs. Sowerby
stated that she was in the conservatory when the


A PIECE OF RIBBON 251
shot was fired if, in reality, she had been upstairs
in one of the resting rooms, which must have been
passed by the person who threw the pistol out of
the window?
Impatiently thrusting his futile cogitations from
his mind, Crane sprang out of bed and rang the
bell. Henry appeared, and a cold shower and
hearty breakfast made the detective ready for his
day’s work. After ascertaining that Murdock
was still at liberty about the club, but under the
watchful eye of Jewett, he ordered the little flivver
and started again along the road bordered by the
glen, keeping his engine as silent as possible and
sitting back under the screening top of the car.
It was just past eleven o’clock, and Crane an-
ticipated that most of the country club colony
would be at church. Even those members who
did not usually put themselves to such unwonted
exertion would want to catch any morsel of sen-
sational gossip which might be let fall later. He
deduced that others would count upon this fact,
also, and would choose the glen, at this hour, as
a safe meeting place. If he had hoped to come
upon the same couple as before he was doomed
to disappointment.
Leaving the car, he climbed the fence and
strolled down the path beside the little stream, but


252 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
no sound of voices or footsteps rewarded him. He
was about to turn back when he heard his name
called in ringing, masculine tones and glanced
across the brook to behold Gerald Landon and
Alice Dare seated on a fallen log, a suspiciously
decorous space between them.
“Won't you come over, Mr. Crane? There
isn't any bridge, but you’ll find a row of stepping-
stones a few paces to your right.”
“Thanks.” Crane laughed. “Good morning,
Miss Dare. May I join you? Most of the people
I wanted to interview are at church, but I think
you have found the best place of worship after
all.”
She nodded smilingly, but her flush deepened,
as he sprang lightly across the tilting stones and
seated himself upon a convenient stump.
“I—I have a headache, Mr. Crane. At least
that is what I told my aunt, or I should have had
to go to church, too!” she said with shy audacity.
“You see I am putting myself in your hands so
that you will not give me away, but it was such
a beautiful morning I could not resist a walk, and
then—then I met Mr. Landon.”
“I won't give you away, Miss Dare, if you will
allow me to ask you a question or two,” he re-
sponded gravely. Then, as her eyes widened, and


A PIECE OF RIBBON 255
the detective. “Those emeralds are worth a for-
tune, and it would not have been safe for Alice to
travel alone with them, even if she had intended
to wear them. She consulted me, and I suggested
that we ask Mr. Estridge to take charge of them;
he thought it was a good joke and did so. That’s
ll there is to it.”
A vagrant puff of wind snatched at Miss Dare's
tam-o’-shanter, and, as she raised both hands to
her head to save it, her rough tweed sports coat
fell open at the throat, exposing her slender neck
and the silk blouse which she wore. Shivering a
little, she drew the coat together before she took
up her part of the explanation.
“You see, Mr. Crane, Mrs. Dorrance brought
the emeralds to me in a traveling jewel case, just
before I started for the Jordan Nicolls,” and I
had to pretend to take them along, for my aunt
never left me until I got into the motor to drive
to the station. I made an excuse to stop at Mr.
Estridge’s lodge for a minute. He was waiting
there for me by appointment, and Gerald, too, and
we all looked at the jewels to make sure that
they were all right. Then Mr. Estridge put them
away in his own safe. When I returned from
the Jordan Nicolls’ on Monday I purposely took
an earlier train than I was supposed to, and Mr.


258 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
made her uncomfortable from the very day he ar-
rived.”
“Not quite that!” the girl denied nervously.
“Well, you said, only Thursday, that he asked
you funny, unexpected questions and stared after
you, and that you wished you could see his eyes
without that shade or—”
“Gerald !” The cry broke involuntarily from
the girl’s lips. “I told you, too, that I did not dis-
like him—that his questions were never personal.
Several other people thought there was something
queer about him, also. You know I was only
afraid that he might tell Mr. Sowerby how much
we were together about the club, and Mr. Sow-
erby might ask you if we were secretly engaged.
You would be just foolish enough to admit it, and
then you would lose your position! He doesn’t
approve of his employees marrying under fifty,
Mr. Crane!”
She had turned with a forced laugh to the de-
tective, but he did not echo it. Instead he asked
gravely: “But did you not know what his real
object was in coming here? Were you not told?”
The girl’s delicate face turned white to the lips,
but she met his eyes fearlessly this time. “I was
not, Mr. Crane. Why should I have been?”
“Because you knew what had occurred at the


A PIECE OF RIBBON 259
Harvest dance,” he replied slowly. “Do you re-
call a certain conversation between your aunt and
yourself on reaching home that night? You were
accused 7 y
“What?” Gerald was ready to explode, but
neither of them heeded him.
“How could you know that?” Alice asked.
“How do I know that you were accused the
other night, after Doyle was shot, of having put
what had been stolen back where it was found?
Servants gossip with their friends in other houses,
and your aunt would do well to be sure that her
maid is not within hearing.”
“Stop right there !” Gerald had risen, and his
face had whitened, too, beneath its coating of tan.
“I’m going to get at the truth of this What was
Alice accused of stealing and putting back? She
knew that fellow was a detective all the time and
never told me! In Heaven's name, why not?”
“On my word of honor I never knew Doyle was
a detective; I only suspected it the last few days,
and then I thought that my aunt had hired him
to spy upon us—to keep us from eloping !” Alice
declared. “Don’t look at me like that, Gerald!
It was my aunt’s diamond necklace that was stolen
on the night of the Harvest dance, and, when we
got home, she accused me of taking it! You know


262 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
The little bride smiled through her tears and
shyly placed her hand in his extended one.
“You don’t believe that I ” she began.
“I do not, Mrs. Landon, but, if you two try to
keep your secret and go about the club looking as
guilty as a pair of amateur crooks, I warn you
that people are bound to talk more than they
have already!” Crane declared.
“Let them!” Gerald exclaimed defiantly, as he,
too, shook hands with the detective. “We were
only married Thursday, but this dodging and
sneaking has become unbearable already. We
thought that we wouldn’t announce it until I man-
aged to get a job with a chance for advancement,
but I won’t allow Alice to enter her aunt’s house
again. I guess we can buck the game together,
and, if you will keep our confidence until after the
inquest, I will take my wife with me to town. In
the meantime I’ll tell Elsie Fraser, and she will put
Alice up for the night.”
“You can understand now why I was afraid of
poor Doyle when I suspected he was a detective,
Mr. Crane,” Alice said. “Thinking that my aunt
might have put him on our trail, in spite of her
aversion to gentlemen of your profession, I feared
that, if he discovered we were married, she would
force me to let her have it annulled at once, on


A PIECE OF RIBBON 263
the threat of of accusing Gerald and me openly
of the theft of her necklace. I wanted to keep
our elopement a secret until the real thief was
found.”
“I understand, but are you sure no one else
knows of your marriage?”
“I don’t see how they could,” she replied.
“Gerald borrowed the Frasers’ runabout, and we
drove to a sleepy little village, only a few miles
away, and found a minister. None of the Broad-
lawns crowd ever go there because there is nothing
to see or do. You—you won’t tell, Mr. Crane?”
He promised, congratulated them again, and
took his leave. As he drove slowly back to the club
the grim lines settled once more about his mouth.
The romance which he had unearthed had been
a very pretty one, but it had brought him no
nearer to a solution of his problem, and the slayer
of his colleague still walked the earth, unknown
and unmolested.
In the rotunda of the club he came upon Philip
Dorrance lounging over a sheaf of the Sunday pa-
pers which had just arrived from town. He was as
immaculately turned out as usual, but his round
face looked haggard and curiously wizen, and he
started nervously as the detective was about to
pass him with a mere nod.


CHAPTER XVII
THE SHADOW ON THE DOOR
Foº a moment Philip was stricken speechless
at the discovery of his guilt. Then he at-
tempted to bluster, but Crane quickly cut him
short.
“You did not anticipate that the fake stones
might be imperfectly set. You trusted to luck
that your wife would not discover the substitution
for months to come, didn’t you? What have you
done with the money, Mr. Dorrance?”
“See here, Crane,” the desperate young man
said in a subdued tone, “this is none of your af-
fair! You are not even an official detectivel If
I had done this thing, which you accuse me of,
you would have no right to interfere without my
wife's sanction, and you don’t suppose she would
give it, do you, and make herself the center of the
biggest social scandal that Broadlawns ever had?”
“I do suppose just that—if I were to go and lay
the whole story before her,” retorted Crane.
265 -


266 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
“Were you to throw yourself upon her mercy and
give her some stall about how you lost the money,
and were she absolutely assured that not a whis-
per would ever be heard about it she might decide
to forgive you. However I have not promised
yet, and, if I were to speak an indiscreet word
or two, here at the club, or drop one of the notes
which I found after Doyle's death, proving your
attempts to bribe him 3 *
“That is a lie!” declared Philip hotly, but his
face paled, and he reeled slightly against the table.
“Careful, Mr. Dorrance!” the detective warned.
“We are alone in this hall for the moment, but
it will be a simple matter for me to summon such
of the house committee as may be about the build-
ing or grounds. I can lay the notes before them,
particularly the one in which it is proved that
you offered Doyle a first mortgage on property
which you do not own. It is presumable that you
suggested carrying out the transaction through a
dummy, as you wanted all the club funds upon
which he could lay his hands before he was ex-
pected to disappear. If he had absconded he
would have learned that it was impossible for him
to collect interest, or foreclose on that mortgage
in his own name. Perhaps you reasoned that he
was too stupid to realize that?”


THE SHADOW ON THE DOOR 269
The detective smiled. “With Doyle's notes and
my partial knowledge of what took place between
you and Mrs. Carter in the glen, together with a
pretty well-grounded suspicion as to the object
upon which you had lately lavished more money
than you could afford, it wasn’t difficult to guess,”
he replied. “Then, too, I watched you rather
closely last night when your wife was telling me
of her loss. If ever guilt was written upon a hu-
man countenance it was upon yours; your nerv-
ousness, your over-anxiety to assume charge of
the investigation yourself, your attempts to pre-
vent your wife from openly accusing another—all
told against you, too. I will remain here for the
next hour. If, during that time, Mrs. Dorrance
will telephone to me here and assure me that she
knows the truth, I pledge you my word to say
nothing.”
Leaving Philip grateful, but crushed with the
prospect of the ordeal before him, Crane pro-
ceeded to the dining room, well pleased with the
result of his long shot. He was halfway through
his luncheon when a hand was laid upon the back
of the empty chair opposite him and an urbane
voice asked: “Lunching alone, Mr. Crane? Per-
haps you won’t mind my joining you?”
Crane glanced up to find Ogden Bowles con-


THE SHADOW ON THE DOOR 271
I considered foolish, even for the sake of a lady.
I am past the age, Mr. Crane.”
“We are most vulnerable when we feel that
way,” Crane replied in an impersonal, medita-
tive tone. “Still it isn’t always wise to make an
enemy of one woman to protect another.”
The broker laid down his knife and fork. “Just
what are you driving at?” he demanded. “I
haven’t been protecting any woman at the expense
of another if that is what you are hinting!”
There was an underlying note of apprehension in
his tones. The detective was quick to take advan-
tage of it. “Oh, I was speaking in the abstract,
I assure you,” he replied casually. “I was think-
ing of a very interesting conversation I have just
had with Mr. Dorrance. Some one played a
rather stupid practical joke on his wife yesterday
afternoon, but she has very keen ears and a good
memory for voices, so they didn’t get away with
it as successfully as they had believed. It was
done to get back at her husband for his attitude
toward another woman—but this is in strict con-
fidence, of course.”
With the shrug of the born gambler, impassive
in loss as in gain, Bowles sat back in his chair.
“Now that you have told me so much, Mr. Crane
—in confidence—hadn’t you better finish?”


272 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
“Suppose you do that,” suggested the other
quietly. “It won’t go any farther, you know, but
I am rather curious about it, and, when I am curi-
ous about anything, I usually get to the bottom
of it, privately or otherwise.”
“You win!’” Bowles said after a slight pause.
“I think I do know something about what you
are referring to, but that little cad had been forc-
ing his attentions upon a certain lady beyond the
limit of her endurance, and she had no other de-
fense than to make use of some information she
had gained about his wife. There wasn’t much
of a joke about it, Mr. Crane. Her knowledge
was quite authentic—or so I understand she told
the person to whom she appealed to act for her.
She merely wanted to warn him through Mrs. Dor-
rance that she could create some scandal for them
both if he did not cease to annoy her. I admit
that it was a cattish, feminine sort of way of get-
ting back, but there was nothing criminal about
it, and I think it will prove effectual. Anyway
her intermediary in the little passage at arms fell
for it and will have to bear the result.”
“I do not believe that there will be any, except
that which the instigator of the little revenge had
desired, Mr. Bowles,” Crane reassured him. It
was evident that the infatuated broker knew


276 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
veranda. She was dressed in a delicate pink which
brought out the rose tint of her cheeks, and she
looked like the veriest girl, as she lay back among
the flowered-chintz cushions of her hammock.
Crane could scarcely believe her the same woman
who had received him in the trailing violet drap-
eries, amid the exotic atmosphere of dim lights
and musk. Once more he gave her grudging admi-
ration for the artistry with which she endeavored
to create impressions, but, as before, the result
was faulty. The flush upon her cheeks was a tri-
fle too high to be natural, and the sun revealed
faint lines of maturity which belied the girlishness
of her manner.
“It is like summer, isn’t it, Mr. Crane?” she
asked gushingly, as she patted a chair beside her
invitingly. “Fancy weather like this at such a
time in the year!”
“Indian summer,” he amended smilingly.
Mrs. Sowerby shuddered prettily in mock dis-
gust. “Don’t speak of it! I have lived in an at-
mosphere of Indian summer ever since I married!
But what can I do for you, Mr. Crane? I hope
you have not come even to mention that horrid
affair of the other night. It seems ages ago, and
I am doing my best to forget all about it.”


THE SHADOW ON THE DOOR 277
“I am sorry to be obliged to recall it to you,
then, Mrs. Sowerby.” The detective’s tone was
very grave. “It would not have been necessary to
do so, even momentarily, until the inquest, of
course, if you had been quite frank with me yester-
day.”
“I?” Her blue eyes widened childishly, but
the color ebbed from her cheeks beneath his gaze,
leaving patches of pinkish purple which showed
ghastly in the sunlight. “I told you all I knew,
which wasn’t anything, really.”
“If you knew no more than you told me why
did you say that you were in the conservatory
when the shot was fired? I am sorry to contra-
dict so charming a lady, but you were not there,
Mrs. Sowerby. Where were you?”
She bit her lips, and her eyes narrowed, as she
replied coldly: “You have been misinformed.
I am not in the habit of being untruthful, Mr.
Crane, and no one can prove that I was not there.”
“I am afraid that they can and will if you force
the issue,” he insisted slowly. “What did you see
or hear before or after that shot was fired, while
you lay upstairs in one of the resting rooms? I
am sorry to be so abrupt, but your husband will
return at any moment, and, unless you are abso-


THE SHADOW ON THE DOOR 279
“Because—because I thought I knew who it
was and—my own reputation was at stake.” She
spoke still in that almost toneless whisper. “I
—I thought I recognized the shadow of that
hand!”


THE SHADOW ON THE DOOR 279
“Because—because I thought I knew who it
was and—my own reputation was at stake.” She
spoke still in that almost toneless whisper. “I
—I thought I recognized the shadow of that
hand!”


CHAPTER XVIII
TEIE ROSE-LEAF EAR
£ 6 AND the admission that you saw that shadow
of a hand would hurt your reputation, Mrs.
Sowerby? You mean that, if you were called up-
on to aid in the identification of the person who
had passed down that hall, your reputation would
suffer?”
“If I were dragged into the case in any way,
forced to admit that I thought I knew who it was
—the person would turn on me and ruin me!” she
declared fiercely. “You don’t know what it is to
have an elderly, jealous husband and live sur-
rounded by a lot of gossiping cats! At the mer-
est breath of scandal against me that reached his
ears Mr. Sowerby would cast me aside like an old
glove, and he has money and influence. I have
neither, and I have endured too much, all these
years, to be robbed now of what I have gained.
A woman has got to fight for herself in this
World !”
280


THE SHADOW ON THE DOOR 279
“Because—because I thought I knew who it
was and—my own reputation was at stake.” She
spoke still in that almost toneless whisper. “I
—I thought I recognized the shadow of that
hand!”


CHAPTER XVIII
TEIE ROSE-LEAF EAR
{ % AND the admission that you saw that shadow
of a hand would hurt your reputation, Mrs.
Sowerby? You mean that, if you were called up-
on to aid in the identification of the person who
had passed down that hall, your reputation would
suffer?”
“If I were dragged into the case in any way,
forced to admit that I thought I knew who it was
—the person would turn on me and ruin me!” she
declared fiercely. “You don’t know what it is to
have an elderly, jealous husband and live sur-
rounded by a lot of gossiping cats! At the mer-
est breath of scandal against me that reached his
ears Mr. Sowerby would cast me aside like an old
glove, and he has money and influence. I have
neither, and I have endured too much, all these
years, to be robbed now of what I have gained.
A woman has got to fight for herself in this
world!”
280


284 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
violently, during that quarrel, of trouble coming to
both of us that I did not doubt it was he. For a
minute I couldn’t have moved nor screamed if I
had wanted to 1 Then some one shouted for lights
from below, and I realized that I would be missed.
I jumped up and ran downstairs, passing Mrs.
Carter who was seated at the foot, and joined the
others crowding out to the veranda. But I never
reached there. I heard some one shrieking, and
everything seemed to spin about and disappear
in darkness around me. The next thing I knew I
was lying on a bench which had been brought
from the conservatory, and Mrs. Fraser was tak-
ing care of me. I haven’t seen Dorry since, and
I never will again if I can avoid it. I hate the
very thought of him now when I think how foolish
I have been—how nearly I allowed a silly flirtation
to wreck my life!”
“But, when you discovered that it was the sup-
posed club secretary who had been killed, why did
you still think that Mr. Dorrance was guilty?”
Crane asked. “Why do you think so now, Mrs.
Sowerby?”
“Oh, I don’t know what to think!” She struck
one of the cushions with her clenched fist. “I
knew that Dorry had spent more money in the last
month than he could ever have wheedled out of


286 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
stairs! Do you mean to insinuate that I killed
him? Why, I scarcely knew that the man existed!
Why should I want to—to murder our club secre-
tary? Are there no limits to what people in your
profession are permitted to say or do in your ef-
forts to find a victim and make out a case?”
“But are you sure that you considered him
merely the new clubhouse secretary? You were
embarrassed and confused in his presence from
the very day of his arrival. Did you not sus-
pect him of being other than he appeared? You
were afraid of him, you avoided him as much as
possible. Did you not fear that some gossip might
have reached your husband’s ears, or those of
Mrs. Dorrance? It is your creed that women
must fight for themselves in this world. Some do
it with blandishments, and some with bullets.”
“Great heavens, not Il” She shrank away
from him as he, too, rose. “I did think, somehow,
that the man was watching me; his eyes seemed
to follow me all the time, particularly when Dorry
and I were together, and I admit that I wondered
once or twice if he might not be one of those
shabby sneaks who spy out divorce evidence, but
my conscience was clear. I had done no wrong,
and if Mrs. Dorrance couldn’t keep her husband
to heel that was her own affair! I never thought


288 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
are here you must come in with us, if only for a
few minutes. Maud will insist upon serving that
infernal tea of hers, but there’s still some of my
private stock left, unless the butler has beaten me
to it !” -
Crane tried to escape, but, finding it impossible
to do so, yielded with a good grace. Mrs. Sow-
erby appeared for a moment to greet her hus-
band’s friends, told the detective sweetly how glad
she was that he had reconsidered his decision not
to wait for their arrival, and then, at a growled
hint from Rutherford Sowerby, she retired, while
the four men repaired to the smoking room.
Crane did not drink with the others, but he lighted
a cigar and sat back studying the visitors.
Barnaby he put down as the average type of
hard-headed business man who had made his pile,
but the young engineer interested him. He was
rugged and deeply tanned, with keen, humorous
eyes and a frank, engaging manner. He had
lately come North from the Texas oil fields, it ap-
peared; he knew Ralph Fraser and was curious
to hear all about the tragedy at the club.
When it had been thoroughly discussed the
talk turned on celebrated murder cases in gen-
eral. The financier had once been a star witness
at the trial of a bank robber who had shot the


THE ROSE-LEAF EAR 289
watchman. After the financier's story Crane
turned to the other guest: “Have you ever been
present at a murder trial, Mr. Wharton?”
The engineer shook his head, smiling with a
flash of white teeth in his sunburned face. “No,
Mr. Crane. Nearest I ever came to it was the
Walker affair in Dallas three or four years ago,
but the woman was never brought to trial for
lack of sufficient evidence.”
“‘The Walker affair!’” Crane repeated.
“Don’t you remember?” Wharton asked.
“Guess it didn’t make much of a stir up here, but
it started out to be about the most sensational
case of its kind that Dallas ever had, and then it
ended in a fizzle. Young, pretty wife, rich, un-
attractive husband, good-for-nothing handsome ad-
mirer—the old triangle, with a raven-haired, mod-
ern Lucretia Borgia as its apex, supposed to have
administered slow poison to friend husband.
Anyway he died, and people began to talk. When
it was found out that he had left his wife only
the third of his fortune, which the law demanded,
the admirer vanished, and the young widow could
not wholly conceal her chagrin. Finally she was
arrested, but later she was released, and no one
has heard of her since.”
“I remember reading about that, I think,”


THE ROSE-LEAF EAR 289
watchman. After the financier's story Crane
turned to the other guest: “Have you ever been
present at a murder trial, Mr. Wharton?”
The engineer shook his head, smiling with a
flash of white teeth in his sunburned face. “No,
Mr. Crane. Nearest I ever came to it was the
Walker affair in Dallas three or four years ago,
but the woman was never brought to trial for
lack of sufficient evidence.”
“‘The Walker affair!’” Crane repeated.
“Don’t you remember?” Wharton asked.
“Guess it didn’t make much of a stir up here, but
it started out to be about the most sensational
case of its kind that Dallas ever had, and then it
ended in a fizzle. Young, pretty wife, rich, un-
attractive husband, good-for-nothing handsome ad-
mirer—the old triangle, with a raven-haired, mod-
ern Lucretia Borgia as its apex, supposed to have
administered slow poison to friend husband.
Anyway he died, and people began to talk. When
it was found out that he had left his wife only
the third of his fortune, which the law demanded,
the admirer vanished, and the young widow could
not wholly conceal her chagrin. Finally she was
arrested, but later she was released, and no one
has heard of her since.”
“I remember reading about that, I think,”


THE ROSE-LEAF EAR 297
for a little happiness before they start to “buck
the game' together as Gerald expresses it. He
told me how you discovered their romance.”
“How did you?” Crane laughed.
“I didn’t. Gerald came to me for advice this
afternoon, and I made him return to the Frasers’,
where he had left her temporarily, and bring Alice
straight to the lodge; I was de trop, and that is
the reason why I could wait there no longer for
you. But what about this new point in your case?
Do you feel inclined to discuss it? I heard that
you lunched here with Bowles to-day; he’s not
connected with it, is he?”
Before the detective could reply there came a
second knock upon the door, and this time it was
Lovell himself, armed with a huge brief case.
Estridge rose, but Crane stopped him.
“Don’t go just yet, Mr. Estridge. This is Lov-
ell, one of our operatives from the head office in
town and a pal of poor Jim Doyle. Did you bring
the cſippings?”
“Right here.” The operative opened his brief
case upon the bed, and a mass of newspaper cut-
tings fell out. “Nothing new turned up here
about that Walker business, has there? These
are from the principal Dallas papers.”
“Dallas?” the attorney asked, as Crane bent


CHAPTER XIX
“THE TRIANGLE TURN ??
AMPLIGHT was gleaming softly through
amber-tinted curtains on the lower floor of
Mrs. Carter’s pretty cottage. A high-powered car
drew up at a discreet distance down the road, and
three men alighted.
“Better come up to the house with us, sheriff;
you can wait with Lovell on the porch,” Crane
suggested, as he switched off the lights.
“You didn’t think I was going to sit back here
and snooze with the warrant in my pocket, did
you?” the sheriff asked, easing his stout body
through the door of the tonneau. “Don’t you for-
get to fix it so that the front door is left open
behind you, after her maid lets you in.”
They proceeded up the driveway, and when they
were close to the house Crane halted. A low-
geared, long-hooded runabout, whose lines he re-
called, stood in the side road.
“Bowles must have stayed to dinner. He wasn’t
299


300 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
at the club, and that looks like his car parked
there.”
“It is,” Sheriff Coburn replied grimly. “I’ve
taken him up enough times for speeding, to know
it, all right!”
“That is awkward, but we ought to have antici-
pated it,” the detective remarked, adding: “Which
is the drawing-room, sheriff?”
“The row of windows to the left of the front
door.”
“Then come on. I’ll manage to disarrange the
curtains at one of those windows so that you can
look in. When I give you the high sign you will
know what to do.”
They ascended the steps of the little porch as
lightly as possible, and Crane rang the bell while
the other two crouched in the shadows. Presently
a trim maid appeared and, after a murmured word
or two, admitted him, closing the door tight, but
almost immediately it opened again, and a knife-
like ray of light streamed forth.
“He’s fixed the door, all right!” said the sheriff
with satisfaction. “Now watch the windows and
see if any of the curtains move.”
To the waiting Lovell it seemed hours before
the draperies at one of the windows in the center
of the row were swept aside as though by a care-


“THE TRLANGLE TURN’’ 301
less hand, and, although they fell back into place,
there remained a narrow aperture through which
they could obtain a view of the whole room.
Ogden Bowles was seated a little apart, as
though taking no share in the conversation, but
he was watching every move through narrowed
lids. In the center of the room Mrs. Carter
leaned back among the cushions on a low couch,
and Crane occupied a chair facing her.
“Look!” The sheriff nudged his companion.
“The light of that lamp is shining full on her now,
and you can see her plain. Is it the same wo-
man?”
“I couldn’t swear to it from here,” Lovell re-
sponded after an interval. “Red hair does make
a difference, and remember I only saw her a couple
of times, years ago. Oh, what is Crane doing?”
A tall vase of autumn flowers rested upon a
stand beside the couch upon which Mrs. Carter was
seated. With an awkward gesture the detective
overturned it. Bowles sprang to catch it, but he
collided with Crane, and the latter, in putting out
his hand to save himself, touched Mrs. Carter's
hair. She shrank back, but not before he had
swept aside the smooth coil which was banded
down tightly over her left ear, exposing for an
instant the tiny, crumpled lobe of pink flesh. At


302 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
the same moment he motioned almost impercep-
tibly toward the windows.
“Come on! That’s our signal,” the sheriff ex-
claimed beneath his breath.
“And that’s the woman, too !” added Lovell.
“Easy now! Don’t open the door any wider than
you can help.”
They slipped through the front door and down
the hall to the drawing-room. They stationed
themselves beside the threshold, just outside the
range of vision of those within.
“It doesn’t matter in the least about the vase,”
Mrs. Carter was saying. “But my hair! You
must pardon me for a moment while I go and
rearrange it, and I will send Letty to mop up the
water which was spilled.”
“Don’t bother about your hair, Mrs. Carter.
It is too late now.” Crane spoke with deliberate
significance.
‘‘ ‘Too late?’” she asked.
“Yes. You did not wear it like that down in
Dallas four years ago, did you? But your name
was not ‘Carter” then either.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded sharply.
“Who is this mysterious woman I am accused of
being? Ogden, I don’t understand it! First
Doyle and now Mr. Crane—”


“THE TRIANGLE TURN’’ 305
the detective could hear the diminishing roar of the
car ahead, and he knew that it meant indeed a
TaCe.
“She ain’t aiming to go through the village at
that rate, is she?” Sheriff Coburn asked, as they
rolled down the road with ever-increasing speed.
“No, she's turning off at the Corners and head-
ing, I guess, for the station at Watkins, to catch
the midnight express. A woman in a blue dress,
without any hat nor coat, couldn’t get far ! Great
Scott! I never went so fast I couldn’t breathe,
before 1”
Then he lapsed into silence. When they took
the turning at the Corners with a swirling skid
of the heavy back wheels an unconscious groan of
dismay escaped him.
The road before them was straight and fairly
level, and they were gaining on the car ahead.
The moon, which had emerged from the cloudlike
haze of earlier evening, showed them the flutter of
a blue gown, as the runabout rocked from side to
side of the road and seemed scarcely to touch the
ground.
All at once the sheriff gave a sudden cry of
horror. “Catch her before she gets to the next
turn of the road, or she’ll be killed, sure!” he said,
bending forward to call into Crane’s ear. “It’s


306 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
the Triangle Turn, the sharpest in all the country
round !”
“Doing my best!” called back the detective.
“Hold fast! I'm going to let her out!”
Inch by inch and yard by yard they crept up to
the car ahead, but, just when they seemed about
to overtake it, it would give a sudden spurt and
leap forward, scudding like a cloud before a gale.
Once they caught a glimpse of the white patch
which was her face as she glanced over her shoul-
der to see how close her pursuers were, but her
car gave a hideous lurch and careened almost
across the road, and she did not look back again.
“There's the Triangle just ahead!” shouted the
sheriff. “Good heavens, can’t we stop her! If
you don’t-but you’ll have to slow up, or we’ll be
done for ourselves!”
If Crane heard he gave no answer. He was
watching that flutter of blue whipping the wind
from the pursued car, gauging its speed and its
chances of rounding that turn so menacingly near.
He knew that he could not overtake her now until
that point in the road was reached, and he slowed
down.
The runabout shot forward as though sped
from a cannon’s mouth, and suddenly its lone oc-
cupant seemed to be aware of her own danger.


308 THE TRIGGER OF CONSCIENCE
him. I stood near the foot of the staircase and
fired, then I ran back and threw my pistol . . .
out of the hall window. When the lights went
up I was sitting on the stairs where I had been
standing. No one—knew I had even moved.”
“Don’t you try to talk now, ma'am,” the sher-
iff implored her soothingly. “Are you in any
pain?”
“No. That’s the odd part of it, and my brain
is clear, but I can’t move a muscle. It must be
my spine that is broken. My dear Mr. Coburn,
if you and Mr. Crane want the truth from my lips
you will have to let me talk now and talk quickly.
I think you understand. I did kill my husband in
Dallas . . . in the manner and for the motive . . .
that the coroner tried to establish. I had known
the real Nina Shirley . . . in Charlotte years ago
... we had been at school together, and we always
corresponded until my trouble. I kept track of
her, though, and when she died, just before I came
here, I took her name and became her.”
Her eyes were fixed on Crane, who had been
writing rapidly on a leaf torn from his notebook,
and now, as he looked up expectantly, she smiled.
“My confession? I’ve heard of such things.
But I think that is all. Those lights you are
carrying . . . gone out, haven’t they? . . . And