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THE CLUNY PROBLEM


Other books by
A. Fielding
THE EAMES-ERSKINE CASE
THE CHARTERIS MYSTERY
THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
THE CLIFFORD AFFAIR
THE NET AROUND JOAN INGILBY
A complete list of the mystery stories of J. S. Fletcher will be
found at the end of this book


THE
CLUNY PROBLEM
rchibald C.
BY A. FIELDING
NEW YORK
ALFRED•A•KNOPF
1929


COPYRIGHT 1929 BY
A · FIELDING
MANUFACTURED IN THE
UNITED STATES
OF Ambarca


3-
THE
CLUNY PROBLEM





CHAPTER I
*' A nthony!" Vivian Young made a laughing surprised
X»-cIutch at a tall figure stalking ahead of her down the
station platform.
The man turned sharply. At the sight of his fiancee he
smiled pleasantly, though a sharp observer would have said
that there was something in his eyes that suggested a man
about to make the best of a position not entirely to his liking.
"My dear girl!" he ejaculated warmly, "what brings you to
Macon? Did you get into the wrong train, or out of the right
one, or what?"
"I'm on my way to Cluny. Buried, neglected Cluny. The
town where the lace is made, and, less interesting to me, I
guess, the town where there are some ruin that must be seen
in order to be forgotten. I mean the ruins of that wonderful
abbey about which the Frenchman raved at dinner last night.
You started him off by asking him if he knew the place. But
you didn't speak of coming on here yourself."
"Nor you!" Sir Anthony Cross spoke easily, yet the very
swiftness of his reply suggested a hidden irritation.
"Ah, but I'm only marking time at Enghien with a sister!
You're supposed to be rushing back to London to summon
board meetings, and dismiss the president, I mean the prime
minister, and generally make very important things hum. Is
this the way you usually go back to England?"
"You can reach it via Macon," he said as lightly as she.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
s
to see much of you, or of the remains of the great abbey either."
He looked at her meditatively before he went on:
"I suppose you're going back to Enhgien to-morrow?"
It was at that little resort so near Paris that he and Vivian
had just got engaged. There in the hotel where her brother-in-
law and his wife had been staying, Anthony Cross and Vivian
had renewed an acquaintanceship made earlier on shipboard.
She nodded. "You too, I suppose?"
"No. I may be delayed some days. There's history to be
read in the stones of Cluny, I fancy—since it was made there
once upon a time." He spoke as one turning some other thought
over in his mind. Now he looked quickly down at her, as
though he had decided on his course of action.
"You know the real reason why I'm back in Europe just
now," he said in a low voice.
She nodded. She knew from him that there was a constant
leakage from the parcels of diamonds sent to Amsterdam by
the Diamond Combine in South Africa, of which Anthony
Cross was one of the directors. That great firm's detectives had
been trying to locate the leakage for months. They had de-
cided that the master mind was not in Amsterdam, nor in
Holland, but probably in France. Possibly in Paris. She knew,
too, that Cross had left Capetown to make further, and personal,
inquiries in the matter.
"Then, in confidence, I believe that in Cluny I may pos-
sibly pick up a certain piece of information which I very
much want to get. Or rather, that something that I may learn
from a man whom I expect to meet there may settle definitely
a point that ought to be settled."
His jaw shut very tightly as he said this last. "And that's
the reason, dear, why I may not have been as delighted at the


6
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
thought of your coming to Cluny just now as I should other-
wise be. In reality, but again in strict confidence, mine is en-
tirely and simply a business visit. At which hotel have you
engaged rooms?"
She told him.
"I think, on the whole, it would be better if we do not
meet. I should in any case, of course, go to another hotel, but
I'll let you take this coming train out there alone, and go on
later. Sorry, Vivian, it's a rotten way to spend what might
have been a most delightful time together, but there's no help
for it."
She did not in the least see the reason, or the need, for
so much mystery. But men have their own funny ways of doing
business, she decided.
"If I run across you in the street, I'll ask you the way to
the abbey in French," she promised gaily.
He smiled at that, genuinely this time.
"At any rate, our engagement has nothing to do with
what takes me to Cluny. And I want it kept free of it. It's too
beautiful a thing to drag into anything sordid."
He looked into her eyes with passion. It was a look that
showed him to be possessed of a side not to be guessed even
from a careful scrutiny of his very handsome but rather cold
face. "And that being so, it means, as I said, that we'd better
not meet at all. Cluny's a tiny place. Only some four thousand
souls, and I may have to be there for some time."
The explanation explained nothing to Vivian. But if men
were odd when it came to business, they were still odder when
it came to sentiment. And, therefore, when both were mixed,
they were oddest of all.
"Or perhaps I'll put off going there for a couple of days,"


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
7
he said ruminatingly. "Yes, I rather think I will "He stood
a moment in silence.
"You yourself are in no danger?" she asked suddenly.
After all, detecting diamond stealers was dangerous work.
"Not in the least! Here's your train."
He helped her in. The engine pulled out. He looked very
grave, very little the lover as he stood there, hat in hand, and
yet she felt certain that he was deeply stirred, and trying to
conceal the fact.
By what? He was very hard to stir, very hard even to
know. And on that came the reflection that he would have had
to own a singularly easy character for her to have plumbed it
already.
It was only two months since their first meeting. Only a
fortnight since their second. True, they had seen a great deal
of each other during the passage out from Capetown. Terrific
storms had kept the other passengers in their bunks. Officers
and the doctor were too busy to have a moment to spare. An-
thony had saved her from a rough-and-tumble with a wave
when she first came out on deck, tight-reefed in oilskins bor-
rowed from a stewardess. Neither had the faintest idea of who
the other was. She had taken him at sight for a much younger
man, and had treated him, as Vivian did treat young men,
very cavalierly. He had responded in kind. They had quarrelled.
But they were literally flung together half a dozen times a
day. And, in spite of themselves, they grew first to tolerate,
then to like, each other. When he told her his name, perhaps
half-unconsciously expecting that it would impress her, she
treated him as carelessly as ever. And Sir Anthony was consid-
ered one of the really great catches of the matrimonial market.
It was genuine carelessness too, he saw. Not assumed to lead


8
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
him on. Whether he were led on, or off, mattered very little to
Vivian. When he grasped that fact, he was attracted still more
strongly. Her prettiness, of course, had a great deal to do with
it, but it was not everything. Then came the night of the ail-
but wreck in the hurricane. The ship was carrying a full load
of steerage passengers. There were many gallant souls on board,
but among them all, Anthony Cross stood out by his coolness
and his organizing power. He held the frightened steerage
quiet, not at the point of his automatic—though he had one
in his pocket—but by his own calm personality, and Vivian
worked among the women and babies as cheerful, as undis-
mayed, as he. Save for the suffering it caused, she seemed to
positively enjoy the danger, and Cross suddenly felt that his
life would be incomplete without her. There was something
wild and free in the girl that roused the hunter in him. If they
lived, he told himself, he would capture her.
He followed her to France, to Enghien-les-bains, and
found her in a moment of great depression. An unusual place
for Vivian Young to be. She was a journalist by profession
and by real preference.
She loved to watch the world with those pretty eyes of hers
that were so unexpectedly shrewd, and she loved to shape what
she had seen into words. To create an image of her thoughts,
see it grow, and watch it stand itself, upright and whole. But
she was not making enough to do more than support herself,
and at Enghien she learnt from a sister, who prided herself on
speaking the truth, that in the past, she had been dependent
on her brother-in-law, not, as she had imagined, living on the
money left by their parents. Her brother-in-law was an Ameri-
can doctor practising in Paris, and none too well off. Vivian


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
9
felt that she must pay him back as soon and as fast as she
could.
That evening Anthony Cross proposed. Vivian did not
consciously take him as a means of paying what she felt to be
a debt of honor. She was much more impressed by him than
she let him guess. By him, himself, not by his position, or his
name. There was something great in the man as she knew. And
she divined also, with that sure instinct of hers, that under his
calm, even cold exterior there was flame.
There was flame in her too. That night he all but won
her. She believed that he had. But ever since then, she had felt
more and more certain that he had not, which meant that he
never would. For one thing, he was too old for her. For an-
other—but what was the use. She had promised to marry him.
Still, an engagement is but a trial run of the car, as it were.
It's very purpose is to find out how one likes it.
At the first station beyond Macon, a young woman, also
an American by the look of her, hurried towards the train
where she sat. The new-comer was making for another com-
partment, but Vivian, at sight of her, flung the door open.
"Edith! Edith! Come in here!" she called.
The new-comer swung herself in and the two kissed affec-
tionately.
"My dearest Vi! Why, what brings you to this part of Eu-
rope . .. and just when we're off for Switzerland. ... I do call
that real mean of things. We only started this morning.
Adolphe left some papers behind him at Germain that he
must have. Adolphe's my husband, you know."
She threw in the explanation as though referring to the
cat.
"We have a villa there all among the vineyards. But how


10
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
just too frightfully maddening that you should be so close to
us now. The house is shut up, or I should insist on carrying
you off. Where are you making for?"
"Cluny." It was the first word that Vivian had been able
to slip in. That had always been the way with Edith Metcalf
as she had been in the convent at Paris, where they both had
been sent to learn French. Edith de Montdore as she was now.
Vivian remembered hearing that she had married a French
wine-grower and that the couple lived near Dijon.
"Cluny? Don't tell me, Vivian Young, that you know the
vamp?"
"Calm yourself, my dear girl, I've never heard of her.
I'm on the way to Cluny for the purpose of self-education.
Early Christian churches—wonderful abbey—marvellous ab-
bot's palace and so on. . . . But this sounds much more in
my line. Who is the woman? Does she vamp at Cluny? Or
where you live?"
"At Cluny. I bet I should move if she came to Clermain,"
laughed Edith. "She's staying with her husband at a house
there owned by a man we know. A Frenchman. But an awfully
nice fellow."
"Staying with her husband? Where's the vamping then?"
"Oh, she's a subconscious one, child. She looks as meek
as Moses, and as quiet as Lazarus before he was raised from
the dead. But all the men rave about her. Oh, Adolphe too!
One of the reasons I decided on going away for a bit. I loathe
Switzerland in a motor. So many roads you can't go over.
But anything's better than the vamp. She's lips like a darkey's,
and hair like one too, though it's red, and she's no complexion
whatever. Yet Adolphe says she's a Rossetti, and a wonderful
type. Don't let your Anthony have a look at her. The best of


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
11
wishes to you both on your engagement, by the way. I did
write them, but allow me to embrace you, as they say here."
Edith Montdore did so, without a pause in her chatter.
"Say, you have done well for yourself! And what a splen-
diferous ring!" -
Vivian was carrying her left-hand glove, a fancy of the
moment. On her third finger was a great clouded sapphire, a
Cross heirloom. Though not otherwise particularly supersti-
tious, Vivian had a dislike to that fault in that particular gem.
She said as much.
"Well, I guess I agree with you. Though the setting's per-
fectly lovely. I told Mrs. Brownlow—that's the vamp's name,
by the way—about clouded sapphires meaning a death in one's
circle—or rather, only I told her that it meant a loss, for she
has some wonderful stones, but two are a bit dark. And within
the month after I told her, she lost sapphires and all. I believe
the thief got about five thousand dollars worth of jewels off her
altogether. I still reckon in dollars, you see, the exchange bobs
about too much. My, she was mad! She was taking them to
Paris to have them re-set. That sort of makes it doubly annoy-
ing. They were only insured for about half their value, it seems.
That was her husband's doing."
"What's he like?" Vivian asked. She was quite willing to
be chattered to.
"I always thought him a brainless, boneless, sort of crea-
ture, until I met a woman the other day who knew them years
ago out in China—he's something to do with silk. And this
woman told me a story that makes me wonder if he's such a
weasel as he looks. It seems that out there all the men fell for
Mrs. Brownlow, same as they do here. And one young fellow
in particular went wild over her. So wild that Mr. Brownlow


12
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
turned him out of the house one evening. And next morning
the boy was found drowned in the river!"
"But what has that to do with the husband—I mean, I
don't see "Vivian wrinkled her smooth forehead.
"Oh, but the young man had a brother who wrote to
the British Consul that Mr. Brownlow must have shoved him
in, Mr. Brownlow was all but prosecuted—so this woman said.
Only there wasn't enough evidence. She herself firmly believed
that he had done it. So did most of the people out there. That's
why the Brownlows left finally. Thrilling, isn't it! I tell you
that story made all the difference as to how I look at Mr.
Brownlow now!" Apparently it had greatly increased her re-
spect for the man. And Vivian burst out laughing.
"But surely they're not staying at Cluny year out, year
in?" she asked.
"Pretty nearly," Edith Montdore said gloomily. "That's
why we're off now. We weren't going for another month. But
that woman gets on my nerves. Clermain is only some six miles
from Cluny, and we're always meeting, and she makes me
look, and feel, like a picture on a cigarette box. Frankly I'm in
flight. You see, this Monsieur Pichegru—that's the name of the
man they're staying with—runs his house, Villa Porte Bonheur,
as a sort of paying-guest house. I believe he lost his money for
a time—something went wrong with his vineyards—so he
started this, and keeps it up because he likes it. He belongs to
an awfully good family and knows every one for miles around.
He's a duck, but the only thing is, he won't take maids or valets
with people. He says that he hasn't the rooms to spare for
them, and that they upset his own servants."
"I should be lost without a maid!" Vivian said in mock
distress.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
13
"You'll have to have one as Lady Cross!"
Vivian nodded. The prospect did not allure her in the
least. There was a short pause, then Edith Montdore babbled
on:
"Monsieur Pichegru is unmarried, and at his age that
means he isn't going to marry. By the way, he's giving a cos-
tume dance, masked too, this Saturday. Every one is going. I
was, of course, only my frock turned out to be a ghastly
failure. Lovely in itself but, my! I looked so homely in it
when it came home, that I promptly devolped a heat rash.
Suppressed. It seems you can have a suppressed rash. So I
have it. The doctor has told my husband that it would only
get better with change of air. It has—already." She chuckled
gleefully. "Still, when Adolphe left those papers behind him,
I insisted on being the one to fetch them. Oh, I'm only jok-
ing, but really that woman is the sort you read of." She
meant "that you see on the films." Edith Montdore never opened
a book—not even a novel. "You know, the kind that set all the
men raving with one look."
The ticket collector came in. Mrs. Montdore had no ticket.
She was sure that she had dropped it in the corridor. There
was not room for more than two of them to hunt. Vivian sat
on in the compartment. She was thinking. Vaguely at first,
now with certitude came the idea that she had heard the name
of Brownlow before. And recently. Quite recently. At the din-
ner last night when she had first heard of the existence of
Cluny. Quickly, with that speed of thought which can flash a
whole series of sights and sounds on the screen of memory at
once, she seemed to be hearing Anthony Cross ask the French
professor of archaelogy, who was one of the guests at her sis-
ter's table, "Is Cluny worth a visit, do you think?"


14
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
That had led to an account of the little town, and of what
can still be seen there. A glowing account. Vivian, in swift
retrospect, remembered now wondering a little that Cross,
though quite an antiquarian himself, had not asked one ques-
tion except about the state of the roads, the lie of the houses.
And afterwards she had heard him step up to the other again,
and say, even more quietly than usual, "You know Cluny
well?"
"Very well. My brother is the directeur of its school of
arts and crafts. I have just come away from the town."
"Indeed? Did you by any chance meet an Englishman
there of the name of Brownlow?"
Yes, Vivian was certain that that had been the name mur-
mured so softly by Anthony last night.
The Frenchman had not, and the talk was at once changed.
Funny the way one rarely hears a new name without
hearing it a second time very soon afterwards! Vivian thought.
But the entrance of her friend and the ticket, properly found
and clipped, brought her back to the present.
"Say, Vi, I wish you could have a look at the vamp,"
Edith said, reseating herself and taking up the conversation
where she had left off, as though it were a piece of knitting.
"You're such a wonderful judge of character from one look at
a face. Or you used to be. I sure would like to know where
that woman belongs—with us hens, or out among the hawks.
I know what! Go to Villa Porte Bonheur for a few days. Mon-
sieur Pichegru won't take ordinary passing tourists, but he'll
take any friend of ours."
"His house may be full," Vivian objected.
"It never is. He only has enough people nowadays to
keep him from feeling lonely."


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
15
"But I'm intending to stay in Cluny for merely the one
night," Vivian pointed out.
"But, why?" her friend asked. "Cluny really is charming.
Why not stay for the dance on Saturday? This is Thursday."
"And go in my dressing-grown as 'A lady surprised by
a fire'?" Vivian asked. "I'm a traveler, my child, not a bride
with all her trousseau to choose from."
"Wear my new dress!" Edith pleaded. "I'll send it on to
you. And we're very much the same figure. Besides it's the sort
of frock that would fit any one. And though it doesn't suit me,
it's a dream of cream and gold. Just your colors. 'Lady into
Fox' is what it's supposed to represent. Adolphe designed it
himself from some funny book or other. You would look a
duck in it!"
"You mean a fox, surely!"
"Now, don't keep on joking!" Edith Montdore was really
in earnest. "I want you to promise me to have a good look
at the vamp, and give me your opinion. It'll be unbiased, you
see. And mine can't be. And yet I really do want to hear what
you think of her. Oh, Vi, why not? Monsieur Pichegru charges
no more than the hotels do. You told me that Sir Anthony is
going back to England, and that, until you joined him in
September, you were just going to keep on staying at Enghien.
That's a fortnight off. Why not put in two or three days down
here instead? I'll get the frock when I go for the papers—it's
still in its box—and send it off to you, to wait at the railway
station until you have it fetched. And I'll telephone Monsieur
Pichegru as soon as I get home—we're one station short of
Cluny—you will, won't you?"
Once more Vivian laughed. How like Edith all his rush
was! But she promised to think over the idea. It would depend


16
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
on whether she liked the look of Cluny or not. When she saw,
lying among the green Cevennes hills, a little gray town with
spires and towers rising against the trees in a charming picture,
she fell in love with the quiet nook. There were vineyards, and
meadows, and a splashing stream rushing down the valley.
Clear of the station, she asked her way to the Villa Porte
Bonheur. The name had stuck. Was it not tempting fate to give
a house a name like that?
The villa, painted ivory, was one of the prettiest in the
place. And the garden was a vision of pink roses and blue
delphiniums. It was the garden that did it. At first. But the
real reason that made her press the front door bell was a face,
of which she caught a glimpse as she walked the winding
drive towards the house. It was a woman's face, bending over
an embroidery-stand under a tree. For a second Vivian stared,
then she turned off down a little side path. That face! She knew
quite well where she had seen a photograph of it. It was a very
unusual face. Adolphe Montdore was right. It was the true Ros-
setti type. Inert to everything except the call of the senses,
though for that very reason beauty-loving. And the photo-
graph of it that she had seen, had been in the fingers of An-
thony Cross only some three days ago. She had come on him
suddenly standing staring at it. Lost to the world. At her
touch he would have pocketed it, but she had caught his hand.
"Not on your life, young man! It's a picture of your
mother, isn't it?" He had laughed, yet in the half-unwilling
fashion of one who is annoyed by a sense of humor obtruding
on what is not really funny in the least.
"No. She's a problem—a problem that belongs to the
past." He now spoke very gravely. "Please don't ask me to tell
you about her."


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
17
"Because I won't," his eye had said.
Vivian had changed the subject, biting back a retort that
the problem out of the past had a most modern frock on. And
now here was the original of that portrait—and of that dress.
This must be the vamp of Edith Montdore's outpourings.
There could not be two women with faces like that in Cluny—
in Villa Porte Bonheur. Something stirred in Vivian. It was
anger. Anthony Cross had told her frankly the evening when
he asked her to marry him, or apparently frankly, that there
had been one woman in his life, in his heart, who had owned
it completely for many years. Even though she had been mar-
ried, and had sent him away from her, his passion had gone
so deep that it had been beyond his power to uproot for many
a year. But that now it was a thing of the past. Had been of the
past for some time.
But this woman, sitting looking down at her embroidery
with a slow, faint, oddly waiting look, a look that somehow
stirred the imagination, was not of the past. She was of the
present. And suddenly Vivian made up her mind to stay at
Porte Bonheur if there were room for her. To stay and see
whether Anthony Cross's visit were in any way connected with
that face instead of missing diamonds. True, he had only asked
the Frenchman about the husband—for Vivian was certain that
here, close to her, sat Mrs. Brownlow—and Anthony had
spoken to herself just now, as though only duty were taking
him to the little town. But, Vivian remembered suddenly a
lightly flung quip of his on board ship. "Oh, yes, it is always
necessary to tell the truth. But it isn't always necessary to tell
the truth."
It would indeed be an odd conjunction if it were mere
chance that his inquiries into the stolen diamonds and the


18
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
woman of his past—"the problem"—problem, very likely,
because she had preferred her husband to him. Vivian thought
cynically and irately—both met here in tiny Cluny. Vivian was
not fond of coincidences in a novel and she did not believe in
them in real life. And, then, that insistence that he should be
left entirely to himself, like any other unattached man. ...
It was with a very determined step that Vivian swung
round, walked up to the front door, and rang the bell. She sent
in a card of Edith Montdore's, on which that young woman had
scribbled an introduction.
Monsieur Pichegru came down at once into the cold
gray drawing-room—one of those typically French drawing-
rooms that look chilly even on the hottest day. He was a pleas-
ant-faced, elderly man with the alert, vigorous look of so many
of his race. Edith had duly telephoned, and he pressed Vivian
to stay at the villa for at least one night, and as many more
as she could manage. The terms were very moderate for the
comfort provided. He explained, as he showed her around, that
he had injured his shoulder a little while ago while shooting
rabbits, thanks to a young gun-bearer's brilliant idea of rest-
ing the gun that he was reloading on the wet clay ground, with
the result that the barrel was blocked and the gun exploded.
Monsieur Pichegru rightly thought himself very lucky to have
got off with only a bruised shoulder and neck tendons. He usu-
ally, at this time of the year, had his house full of people
who wanted a day at the birds, but now, with one exception,
the villa only held some quiet people who, like herself, were
interested in the ruins to be found in Cluny.
Vivian finally chose a charming bedroom looking over the
old abbey gardens. At dinner she met the rest of the guests.
They appeared to be very usual.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
19
Mrs. Brownlow showed on closer acquaintance to be a
very soft-spoken graceful Frenchwoman of approximately thir-
ty-five. Unlike Edith Montdore, Vivian thought her very beau-
tiful, and very finished. Though it was a type that repelled as
well as attracted her. But Mrs. Brownlow seemed very gentle
and kind. As for the husband, he appeared to be a silent,
quiet, obliging little man. Remembering the tale passed on
her, she smiled. It would have to be a very Eastern imagination
indeed, she thought, that could picture him drowning his wife's
admirer. Vivian thought that he was distinctly proud of her.
And they seemed devoted to each other. So much for gossip, she
reflected.
There were three young men in the house. Two friends
called respectively, Smith and Lascelles. They seemed to Viv-
ian rather superior beings, at least in their own estimation.
Smith was in a crack cavalry regiment and was rather fussy
over the fact that just now his host could not accompany him
shooting, and that two friends of Monsieur Pichegru's, big
bankers from Lyons, to whom he had been promised introduc-
tions, had not yet come to their country houses near by. Las-
celles, Vivian learned, was a master in a smart preparatory
school. He had the Cambridge manner to excess, and his ac-
count of the geological finds that dot what he called the Bur-
gundian Passage, which once linked the Channel and the
Mediterranean, was quite beyond her.
The two young men seemed only mildly interested in Mrs.
Brownlow. Unlike the third young fellow, the possessor of ears
like jug handles and great red hands and the name of Tibbitts,
who was clearly her abject slave.
After dinner, Vivian sent down to the station for the box
left for her by train. It was there. And with its arrival, she felt


20
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
that she had definitely committed herself to at least a stay of
over the week-end.
As to what Anthony would think of it—she did not great-
ly care. She would, of course, strictly keep to her promise if
they met. But would they meet? That was the interesting point.
If he really were coming because of those thefts. . . .
She felt a growing uncertainty as to what Anthony would
do, and even as to what she herself might do, in the next few
days. It struck her that possibly Edith Montdore might not ob-
tain as unbiased an opinion of Mrs. Brownlow as she expected.
Had Vivian loved the man, the position would have been
intolerable. But as it was, she confessed with some malice that
not for a long time had she looked forward to anything more
than she did to his arrival in Cluny.
Altogether, her stay in Villa Porte Bonheur promised to
be most interesting. But she decided that it would be as well
to start an article or two for her old paper. Very probably the
next week would see her once more with nothing in front of
her but her own earnings. And a very pleasant prospect too,
she thought it. Even the "desolate freedom of the wild ass,"
has its points. At least it is freedom, and if you are a wild ass,
that alone, not the warmed stable, nor the fenced field, calls
to you.


CHAPTER II
IT was the afternoon after Vivian Young's arrival. The garden
of Villa Porte Bonheur lay drowsing in the August heart
which was robbing even the flowers of perfume and color. The
very hills seemed to fling the light back into the valley, as
though it were molten metal too hot to hold. Closed were the
windows, empty the summer-house, deserted the tennis courts.
A man pushed open the iron gate, shut it, and looked
about him. When he was near the house itself, he studied it
attentively. He seemed to be registering the position of all the
doors and windows, even of the chimneys, with his cool, light
eyes. Then he walked up to the door and knocked. Could he see
Mr. Smith?
He spoke in very fair French, but with an accent that be-
wildered the butler, who answered with a sleepy:
"Monsieur desire?"
"To see Mr. Smith," the visitor repeated clearly. He handed
in a card. "Take that to the gentleman, and say that I've come
to make some further inquiries about the money that Mr. Dav-
idson lost in the express up to Paris a fortnight ago."
"Ah!" The butler became all interest. He showed the caller
into a room.
"I'm right, am I not?" asked the young man in a friendly
way. "A couple of Monsieur Pichegru's guests lost their be-
longings two weeks ago in the train de luxe between Macon
and Paris, did they not? A Mrs. Brownlow lost some valuable
jewels. And a Mr. Davidson lost a thousand pounds in money?


22 THE CLHNT PROBLEM
While Mr. Smith and Mr. Tibbitts, who went by the same train,
lost nothing?"
"Correct, monsieur. The losses nowadays in sleepers are
enough to make one thankful that one travels third class! Mon-
sieur is connected with the inquiry?"
There was a certain alertness about the visitor's face and
carriage and a shabbiness about his clothes that made the butler
take him for a newspaper man.
"Yes, I am a reporter. Mr. Davidson is connected with my
paper. He has entrusted me with the task of clearing up how
the money was taken." He seated himself in an arm-chair,
which seemed chosen instantly and at random, but which was
the most comfortable one in the room.
The butler went in search of Mr. Smith. That young man
was taking a siesta, and looked at the pastboard with great
disfavor.
"Mr. Mackay. Aberdeen Mail." The last was written in
one corner, with the words, "Called for an interview about Mr.
Davidson's loss in the Paris train."
"Tell him I know nothing whatever about the affair." Mr.
Smith's French was exceedingly good. "Any inquiries he has
to make should be put to the police. They have all the informa-
tion and are handling the case. In other words, Honore, as
far as I am concerned—throw him out! I don't intend to be
bothered with reporters."
Mr. Smith relapsed sleepily on to his pillows again.
Tea was at five—a true summer tea, with iced drinks and
sugary cakes and salad sandwiches.
Mrs. Brownlow superintended with the grace that seemed
native to her. As the only woman—up till now—in the villa,
she naturally played hostess for Monsieur Pichegru. Every


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
23
one appeared to like the Brownlows, Vivian thought. And,
indeed, they seemed to belong to the pleasant, unassuming
type of people whom one so often meets, never saying any-
thing worth remembering, and yet who are themselves remem-
bered when brilliant wits are forgotten.
After tea came tennis. Some French neighbors drifted in,
but Vivian and Mr. Tibbitts very wisely withdrew and played
by themselves.
"Game!" she called finally, with the snap of victory in her
voice; "and set!"
Tibbitts seemed to take his beating philosophically. He
was a tall, weedy youth who yet conveyed a suggestion of hid-
den strength in the set of his sloping, narrow shoulders and the
hang of his long arms. He had a weak face, and dressed in the
very height of French fashion. Even here in Cluny, Tibbitts
alone seemed to have no old clothes, no hats or shoes that
only long affection saved from being discarded. His very flan-
nels shrieked of their first month's wear. Vivian had met his
type before, she thought; the sons of the newly-rich, with all
the blemishes, but none of the brains and pluck, that had given
father his rise in the world.
"I'm afraid I'm no good at games," Tibbitts said now
in bis Cockney voice.
"Sure," Vivian agreed heartily; "I am bad, but thou art
worse, brother. I guess Mademoiselle Lenglen would wonder
what the game was, if she watched us. But there are still two
balls missing. And new ones too."
"It's about time to change, isn't it?" the young man asked
doubtfully. "I thought I heard the bell, I mean the gong, go
some time ago. Whereabouts do you think the balls are?"
"One, your's, was apparently off on a non-stop flight to


24
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
my home town in Texas. Try over there, while I hunt here in
these bushes."
She stepped back swiftly. As she did so, she felt beneath
her heel, not yielding earth, but the very firm toe of a very
stout shoe. Instead of a scream, she made a swift and amazingly
sure lunge. She caught at a man's tightly-buttoned coat, felt
her hand struck off with a jerk, and then the branches around
her swished and eddied. She had seen nothing. Standing listen-
ing, she heard the swishing pass to the other side, then silence.
No one was visible as she ran out on to the grass and looked
about her.
For fully two minutes Vivian stood staring, then she
walked slowly back to the house. The average woman would
have run, but this one walked almost reluctantly away, as
though guided by prudence, as though impulse would have sent
her after that unexplained figure.
From an open window came a contralto voice singing:
"Let us get all the blue overhead,
Let us soar like birds in their flight,
For it's while we are here that the roses are red,
It's after we're gone they are white."
Vivian had heard the song before, but not the voice. It
was evidently Mrs. Brownlow. There was something caressing
and passionate in it. The voice of a siren. It went well with Mrs.
Brownlow's face, while her manner—quiet but indifferent—her
way of speaking—cool though kind—went with neither. So
thought Vivian as she ran on to her own room. She was in
time for dinner. Most girls would have been late, especially if,
like herself, they had no maid with them. But Vivian could
hustle. One toss, and her tennis frock lay on the floor. Another


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
25
toss, a plunge, a splash or two, a rub down, some more tosses,
and she stood ready to go downstairs, her curly hair still damp
around the nape of her white neck.
They all went in to dinner in a cheery, unconventional
group. The two women first, the men following. Miss Young's
seat faced the window, and she looked out of it a good deal,
and very attentively.
"How have you been getting on with your history of Cluny,
Mr. Murgatroyd?" Mrs. Brownlow asked of the only elderly
member of the party. Mr. Murgatroyd sighed a little. He was
a stout, short man with a ludicrous resemblance to Pickwick.
"I'm afraid I haven't done well to-day," he said apolo-
getically; "the sunshine was too much for me. And the coun-
try-side too inviting."
"You have to be bored to work, don't you find it so?"
Vivian asked.
"You mean you've got to work to be bored," Tibbitts
corrected with a guffaw of startling loudness. Tibbitts was at
his worst seen indoors. He was the kind of young man who gets
hats and coats handed to him in the evening and is asked to call
the car, with subsequent abject apologies for the mistake. His
voice, too, fitted the nameless look about him of being a rank
outsider.
"Ever tried it?" Smith asked with a supercilious yet meas-
uring stare.
For some reason or other Tibbitts seemed startled.
"N-no. I mean to say—I was speaking airily." And very
red in the face, he turned to Mrs. Brownlow.
Meanwhile Mr. Murgatroyd was talking to Vivian. She
had made some remark about architecture, and then continued
to watch the gardens. Was that a shadow, or a man, far away


26
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
facing her? When she had finally decided that it was the
shadow of a thick branch, Mr. Murgatroyd appeared to be
finishing a short lecture.
The professor was evidently nothing if not thorough. He
did his best to ensure that Miss Young should be able to
recognize the Cluny offshoot of Burgundian architecture when-
ever she should meet it in later life. Advanced Romanesque it
was, but he warned her that, in his humble opinion, she
would be making a great mistake to call it pre-Gothic, though
if she chose to refer to it as Early Pointed—with the careful
stipulation that she was referring to Early Pointed on the con-
tinent—she would be quite safe, he thought.
"It was inevitable that the Cluny Benedictines would
evolve their own perculiar architecture," he murmured finally,
"since their thoughts were peculiar. Their own. Original."
"You think thoughts can influence buildings?" their host
asked with a hearty laugh. His English was slow and labored.
"The architect's thoughts—yes—and the brickmason's—oh,
yes! But otherwise?"
"Buildings"—Mr. Murgatroyd looked across at him—"are
made of brick or stone or wood. Are they not? Of thought
manifestations, that is to say. And can, therefore, be influenced
by thought."
"Then, let's have a week of high thinking," Smith said ur-
gently; "and raise this ceiling for Monsieur Pichegru; he finds
it far too low."
Murgatroyd chuckled. But he maintained his position.
"Every thought creates," he repeated, "in us and around
us. And it creates in its own image. It draws to itself other
thoughts of like kind, therefore other manifestations of like
kind."


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
27
"I know what you mean," broke in Tibbitts with the air of
an exhausted swimmer at last touching bottom with his toes.
"I know what you mean, Mr. Murgatroyd. Misfortunes never
come singly. And so on. . . ."
Murgatroyd nodded a little curtly. Tibbitts was not a
favorite with him.
"Whatever causes one misfortune would be bound to cause
another would be a better way of stating it," he murmured.
"Take a criminal—I think that at the back of all our prison
systems is the unacknowledged certainty that an evil mind
should not be allowed at large to attract other evil minds. We
hang a murderer because he must, not he may, cause other
murders. The mind of a murderer will murder, in other words."
"It really comes to this," Monsieur Pichegru cut in, in his
careful English, and in the tone of a man who dislikes the
mysterious, "that talents for good or evil will draw to them-
selves their own opportunities. I think we can all agree on
that?" Monsieur Pichegru had all the Frenchman's love of a
discussion at the dinner table. Not at lunch. The midday meal
was for the passing of light items of news or gossip, but with
the evening, the French spirit seems to expand and rejoice in
exercise.
"What do / draw to myself, professor?" Vivian asked
gaily, catching Murgatroyd's eye as he entirely agreed with
their host's condensed version of his idea.
"Opportunities for using your very remarKable quickness
of observation, I should say," was his reply. It surprised her.
Here was some one else who was quick too. "1 sllould think
you would make a very successful newspaper correspondent,
because by that law of which we're talking, events of interest


28
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
would be bound to come your way, rather than the way of
some duller person."
Vivian smiled a little as at a quaint phantasy, but on that
came the startling reflection that here was the problem from
Anthony Cross's past sitting beside Smith. Here, to the town,
if not to the villa where she was staying, Anthony Cross was
coming, perhaps on some errand of his own, perhaps really
brought here by the hunt for the diamond stealers of which
he had spoken.
Here, where just before dinner she had herself had the
incident of the boot in the bushes on which she had stepped.
And, why—yes, she herself—why was she here? Not as an or-
dinary tourist. . . .
"Law?" Tibbitts bit off a chunk of peach and talked
through it. "You called it that before. I never heard of any
such law. Where is it?"
"It's the law by which, unless we ourselves deliberately
bury them, our gifts will surely get the chance to be used to
their best advantage. It's a law we do not yet understand. But
then, what do we understand?" The professor sighed.
"Nothing of what's been talked about just now," Tibbitts
said bluntly.
Every one laughed. He flushed a little and thrust out his
weak chin.
"I say, Miss Young, I've mended your bracelet for you."
He spoke loudly, in the tone of one who intended to show the
rest that there were some things he could do better perhaps
than they.
"Oh, thank you!" Vivian's bracelet, one of the heavy kind
fashionable just now, had come undone during tennis, and had
refused to stay fastened. Tibbitts had volunteered to put it right.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
29
He now took it out of his pocket and held it out to her on the
palm of his large, red hand—the hand of a laboring man in
spite of its obvious acquaintance with soap and water.
It fastened perfectly. Thanking him, she snapped it shut.
"Talents, and opportunities to use them," Smith mur-
mured lazily, with that undertone of careless contempt in which
he always spoke to Tibbitts. "I didn't know you were a handy
man, Tibbitts. There should be plenty of work for you if your
tastes lie in that direction."
"I used to do metal work when I was a boy." Tibbitts
looked uncomfortable. "Arts-and-crafts classes, you know. No
end fond of it I was. That's where I got these weals on my
palms."
"Just the lad for the garden roller," Smith said firmly.
"Monsieur Pichegru, get him to have a heart-to-heart talk
with it this evening."
Smith disliked Tibbitts, that much Vivian knew already.
Mrs. Brownlow protested that Tibbitts and she were going
to feed some carp in the Abbotts' Pond. She said it gently
enough, yet Vivian was certain that she was not pleased with
something. Was it possible that she did not care for her fag
to slave for other people? If so, here was the first glimpse of
one of the vamp's characteristics that Vivian had seen.
"No, no," Monsieur Pichegru said promptly; "I use Mr.
Tibbitts for something better. Adrien, the chauffeur, thinls him
a marvel. He thinks"
"Who was that chap, a red-haired chap, who called here
this afternoon," Brownlow asked the table in general, appar-
ently not noticing that his host was speaking. "We met just
outside the gate?"
"A reporter. He wanted to see me about Davidson's loit


30
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
money," Smith answered in his drawl that struck Vivian as so
affected.
"About my lost jewels, I hope, too," Mrs. Brownlow said
urgently.
"He only wrote on his card that he came about Davidson's
loss," Smith explained. "I didn't see him—why should I? I
told him to go to the police. They have all the facts. I loathe
reporters."
"But why shouldn't he tell about my jewels too in his
paper?" Mrs. Brownlow asked pathetically. She spoke perfect
English, but with a very pretty French regularity of accent.
"The same thief took both."
"The insurance company in London is investigating, you
may be sure," her husband reminded her. "They won't thank
us to insert articles in newspapers."
"But the things were only insured for half their value,"
she said accusingly. "All your fault too. And, of course, no
company could be as keen on getting them back as I am. Do
see if he won't write up a description of my jewels too. Who
did you say the man was, Mr. Smith?"
"Name of Mackay. Scot evidently. Works on some Aber-
deen paper."
"Then you may be quite sure he won't work for nothing,"
Browiiow pointed out to his wife.
Vivian was listening intently. This talk of theft. . . .
And it was on account of thefts that Anthony had said he was
coming to Cluny. . . . Was it, after all, really business that
was bringing him? She had forgotten Edith Montdore's words
about "the vamp's" lost sapphires.
Monsieur Pichegru explained, in answer to her inquiry,
that a couple of weeks ago Mrs. Brownlow, another guest called
/


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
31
Davidson who had now left, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Tibbitts, had
all four gone up to Paris, taking the night Pullman at Macon.
Mrs. Brownlow to join her husband in the capital, and at the
same time have some jewelery re-set. Davidson to put some
money into a tourist agency. Smith to have a couple of merry
days with some friend, and Tibbitts to escort Mrs. Brownlow
apparently; at least, so Monsieur Pichegru said with a twinkle
in his bright, dark eyes.
In the morning, on their arrival at Paris, Mrs. Brownlow
was minus her jewelery and Davidson had lost his wallet con-
taining a thousand pounds in bonds—international bearer
bonds unfortunately. Neither Smith nor Tibbitts had lost any-
thing. Except Mr. Smith, all the travelers had been chloro-
formed—by sprays inserted in holes pierced in the doors, the
police thought. They had been the only occupants of the car-
riage, which had been put on at Macon. The porter seemed to
have been drugged. There was nothing about the affair to dis-
tinguish it from other similar railway thefts, so Smith claimed
when Monsieur Pichegru had finished.
"They tried to bore a hole through the panel of my door,
but it was a new one. And teak!" he explained.
"These thefts on the French lines are getting as numer-
ous as their accidents," Lascelles murmured under his breath
to Mrs. Brownlow. He had only arrived yesterday morning,
and was leaving at the end of the week.
After dinner some French neighbors dropped in again,
this time for bridge. Smith, a remarkably good player, and his
friend Lascelles excused themselves after a rubber, and sat out
in the gardens close to a bed of rhododendrons.
In the thick undergrowth behind them there was from
time to time a slight, noiseless ripple—a ripple that seemed to


32
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
be steadily nearing the two figures. It had begun on the outer
edge of the little thicket—then it showed towards the middle—
then past the middle—now it was close to the edge nearest the
backs of the two talkers.
It was on that movement in the bushes that Miss Young's
gaze was fixed as she sat by her bedroom window watching
the grounds through a very good glass, waiting for the first
sign of the return of the man on whose boot she had stepped
in the bushes. He was sure to come again she thought. She had
looked for him all through dinner and ever since. Now she
was certain that her glass was on him, though she saw nothing
of any figure.
"I guess a Red Indian couldn't move better," she mur-
mured, putting on a dark cloak, and slipping into her crepe
tennis shoes. She made for a clump of bushes behind the two
chatting men by a little detour, lingering until at last they got
up and passed into the house again. Then she sprang forward
into the thicket. The figure should be about here. . . .
It was her own shoulder that a hand grasped.
"Don't be frightened! Don't holler! It's quite all right!"
The figure in the darkness was that of a man, the voice just
now was low and very urgent.
Most young women would have needed some further re-
assurance, but Vivian Young did not try to pull herself away.
She put her free hand instead into her pocket. Instantly a
hand, that felt like steel, gripped it too, not hard, but very
firmly.
"It's a torch, not a gun," she said quietly.
"Worse yet," came the swift whisper.
"You're an American, aren't you?" she asked. "I'm from
God's country too."


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
33
"Has He only one?" came the tart question. "I'm frae
Aberdeen, and—but whaur can we talk wi'oot being over-
heard?"
"Come with me." Vivian had made up her mind as to
her course. "There's a summer-house not far off. . . ."
"Mind these laurel bushes!" he cautioned her. "They
rustle unco' loudly."
She took his hand and led him swiftly, considering all
things, to a dark outline not far off. There she paused, felt for
a moment, opened the door, pulled her companion in, shut the
door, and only then switched on the light.
They were in a pleasant, pine-walled, pine-ceilinged room,
with a rug or two on the floor. Osier chairs in Mandarin blue
with cretonne cushions on them, an osier settee and a small
table by the fireplace gave the summer-house a homely look.
Seen in the bright electric light, her companion showed
as a short, stocky figure with thick hair of a handsome auburn;
a shrewd, freckled face lit by a pair of alert, cool gray eyes.
"Who are you?" she asked, though she guessed.
"Suppose I were to tell ye that I'm just the new under-
gairdener wi' a taste for listenin' in?" he asked in his marked
Scottish accent.
"I should know you for a liar," she replied promptly.
"I'm from Texas. We use our wits out there. You're no gar-
dener."
"And wherefore no?"
"Your hands—your fingers—and you called those rhodo-
dendrons 'laurels' just now."
He scratched his jutting chin and showed a very fine set
of teeth. "Nane sae bad," he conceded fairly. His eyes swept
her and studied her. "You yourself are?"


34
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
"A visitor to Porte Bonheur." She sat down. So did he.
There was a pause.
"I'll e'en tak' a chance," the man said finally, after he had
watched her intently for another moment; "I'll e'en trust ye.
I'm a repairter on a paper in Aberdeen."
"Where's that?" she asked.
His reply was a look of boundless pity.
"It's the maist important toon in Grreat Britain," he ex-
plained modestly. "Well, I'm a repairter there, and yon af-
fair of the robbery in the train of an Aberdonian, a Mr. Da-
vidson, interested me. I've an idea aboot that theft. At least I
had," he said, with rather a sheepish grin. "I've been sent by
ma editor to speir oot hoo it a' happened. It's ma ain idea," he
went on. "If I fail ma paper winna back me. You tak' ma
meaning? If I'm caught oot, I'm just—well, whatever I maun
hae to be. A trespasser or maybe even a burglar. But the pay
promised if I succeed is grrand. And the credit too. I'd be a
made man in ma profession. I'd like fine to succeed," he added
in a tone whose sincerity there was no mistaking.
"I've got an idea that might be of use to you," she said
brightly, and scribbled something on a magazine lying on the
table. Tearing off the page, she handed the scrap to the man.
"That may help you in your search," she repeated pleas-
antly.
He looked at what she had given him, and a dull red
surged up in his lean face till his cheeks glowed like his hair.
Then he turned and gave her rather a helpless look.
"You can read shorthand of course," she went on, "since
you're a reporter."
For a second he stood biting his thin lips, looking at the


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
35
little white tag. Then he raised his head and laughed a trifle
grimly.
"You're a wonder! But you're richt. I'm nae repairter.
But I thocht it wad be easier to gain access to the hoose, and
your help too, maybe, if ye thocht I was a man belonging to
a recognized newspaper. I wanted ye to have confidence in me,"
he wound up.
"I have confidence in myself," Vivian said placidly;
"quite enough to risk associating with you, Mr. Mackay, or
even helping you."
"She kens ma name! She kens everything!" he said in
half-assumed, half-real admiration. "Well, I am a private de-
tective, Miss Young. Here are my credentials."
He passed a thick note-case over to her. She studied its
contents quickly—but quite carefully.
"You're one of the heads of the firm?" she asked, hand-
ing it back.
"I am the firm. A' there is to it." He spoke the last sen-
tence soberly enough. His glance swept his thread-bare clothes,
his shabby shoes, his ancient felt hat, with a meaning look.
"It's make or break with me, Miss Young, this job."
Had he tried for a month he could have found no surer
way to interest Vivian Young. "Make or break"—that was
real life, she thought, with the feeling of a man who comes
back after a long absence to familiar landmarks.
"As good as that?" she breathed eagerly. "My, there's
nothing like just air behind one for helping to put pep into
things. And putting pep into things is all there is to life," she
finished with a laugh.
"As guid as that," Mackay repeated her words too, as
though he liked them. "'Make or break' is guid, eh?" He


36
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
seemed to consider the thought. "Well, I ca'd maseP a repairter
as less alarming than a private detective," he explained after a
pause. "I thocht I would hae a better chance for a crack wi'
Mr. Smith."
"He seems to disapprove of reporters," she told him. "I
must keep it dark that I'm one if I want to fascinate him."
"You're a reporter?"
"On the Texas Whirlwind," she said proudly.
"I did land a kelt when I talked of being a newspaper
man to you!" he said with fervor.
Miss Young did not know what fish he meant, but she
grasped the meaning.
"Sure did!" she assented blithely. She did not add that it
was because of her descriptions of the scene, her work of rescue
during a terrific fire, that her paper had sent her on a year's
tour around the world. Nine months of the year were already
gone. It was her great chance, she knew. And to think that so
far it had only brought her the post of Anthony Cross's future
wife. The thought flashed across her now with quite ludicrous
dissappointment.
"Mrs. Brownlow, the woman who lost her jewels at the
same time as Mr. Davidson did his money, wants you to work
for her too, Mr. Mackay. Her husband rather turned the no-
tion down, but I guess she gets her own way with him."
Mackay shook his head.
"By the terms o' ma contract wi' Davidson, I'm pledged
not to undertake ony ither worrk till his job is dune. Or
given up. And mind you, it's going to be a deefncult job,"
Mackay confided suddenly; "for every reason. Lack o' money.
And on ma parrt lack o' training too. I'm but a beginner, ye
ken. I bought the business wi' ma last poond-note and I've no


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
37
succeeded as I hoped. So I come cheap. Which was why Mr.
Davidson took me on. The prices o' a French detective made
his hair fall oot. Forrby that he canna speak the language, and
hasna any confidence in men that kiss each ither."
"It's a great chance for you!" she said warmly.
"It's one that I'll niver get again if I slip up on't." His
face looked suddenly very young and troubled. She saw the
over-sharp modeling of jaw and high cheekbone. Mackay
could do with more food than he had been having lately, she
thought.
"As far as determination is concerned I'll no slip. But it's
ma brains, I doot, ma reasoning powers. And what you want in
detecting, Miss Young, is logic."
"I'm only here over the week-end, but I'll help you find
out anything I can," she said impulsively.
"What? Join forces wi' an unmasked gairdener and re-
porter?" he asked with a swift smile.
"I guess I can call most people's bluff," she said, smiling
too. The pleasant smile facing her came off promptly.
"But if it isna bluff in yon hoose? And it may not be,
Miss Young. Detecting isna a game for a leddy. Though I
winna say but that there micht be bits of information and—
well, juist bits like, where an insider could help a lot."
She rose.
"Well, I must go now. But I'll keep my ears and eyes
open, and if I can think of anything brilliant I'll let you know.
And if anything humble enough to entrust me with comes
along you'll be so kind and condescending as to mention
it, I hope."
He thanked her warmly.
"Ye're a plucky lassie," he murmured gratefully. "I kennt


38
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
that weel the moment I felt your hand on ma coat. Not a
tremble. Not a fumble, and not a soond. But is this summer-
hoose safe for a crack?"
"It's stoutly built," she assured him. "I noticed this morn-
ing that you can't hear voices outside. Unless, of course, you
were to put your ear against the cracks. But why not come to
the villa? Call on me, if you like."
"I canna come ben," he said firmly. "Mr. Smith doesxa
like repairters, ye said yoursel'. And I've sent in ma name as
a repairter. But there's an old gentleman staying in yon villa;
I saw him fishing this evening. He and I passed a word to-
gether. Maist interresting talk on the ruins we had."
"Professor Murgatroyd, yes?"
"I'll watch for him, and mok' friends wi' him. He may
know summat that'll help. I feel a bit like a wee laddie oot
in his big brither's breeks," he confided whimsically.
"Your great chance will be the fancy-dress ball. Oh, say,
Mr. Mackay, it's masked! Until supper at one. Why don't you
come and go over to the bedrooms carefully, if you suspect
any one in the house. Do you suspect any one in the house?"
she asked. She meant, did he suspect Smith or Tibbitts.
He could not, or would not, tell her.
"I'm not a guid detective," he said at once, "and never
shall be, but at least I dinna blab a' my thochts. But the ball—
that's a fine idea—I'll think that over"
"Sakes alive, Mr. Mackay, you don't want to think things
over! You want to grab at them! Jump and land them!"
"Na, na!" he expostulated in a deeply shocked tone, "one
should aye act according to the light o' reason, Miss Young.
After long and careful deliberation."
She gave him a derisive glance.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
39
"You're young enough to learn better, fortunately. My
father was a Texas Ranger. One of the best. And his motto was
'Leap before you look.'"
"Tut, tut!" Mackay clucked, shaking his head in open
horror.
"It's a good one," she said promptly. "None better."
"In Texas, verra likely," he said politely; "but in oor
parrt o' the globe, Miss Young, the licht o' reason is what we
maun go by."
"Shucks!" was Miss Young's reception of that bit of wis-
dom, after which she arranged the hour of their next meeting
and said good-night.
r


CHAPTER in
EXT morning, Vivian, Mrs. Brownlow, and Mrs. Brownlow's
1 > faithful slave, Tibbitts, went out with Mr. Murgatroyd to
an old fortress close beside the villa, from whose ancient bat-
tlements they had a good view.
It was a glorious day. Vivian shook off all fancies and
riddles, and enjoyed it to the full. The meadows were one
blaze of buttercups, the hawthorns white with blossom.
Behind them lay the wooded slopes of Fouettin and Saint
Mayeul. A lane of lime trees, centuries old, still in full flower,
led to the little town on their right. The smell of its blossoms,
surely one of the sweetest smells in the world, rose all about
them. Girls with big baskets on their arms were cutting off the
thick clusters for the famous tilleul tisane. To one side the
Grosne, crystal clear, glittered past meadows where maize was
tossing its great golden plumes. There was a hint of ripening
grapes in the air from the vineyards all around.
There is magic in Cluny by night or by day. A spell woven
by man, and the mind of man. A spell from out the great days
when:
The days when this little town was an asylum for kings, when
its abbey led the world of Christian thought, and led it well;
when Cardinals of Guise, and Richelieu, and Mazarin, and
princes of the blood royal were content to be its "abbot of

"En tout pays ou le vent vente
L'Abbe de Cluny a rente."


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
41
abbots"; when four Popes came from its grand old walls;
when its library, and its learning, and its high standards; were
only equalled by its power and its wealth.
Vivian leaned over the coping and studied the scene. For
a while the historian let them idle, then he set to work. He
had promised them a glimpse of the Cluny that he knew. A
very different place from the sleepy ville that they saw.
Of the great Basilica, that monumental work of the
eleventh century, the noblest church in Christendom of its
time, he could only speak of as of a lost treasure, save for two
towers of the narthex still left standing.
But he built it up again for them. In its green setting, with
its triple roofs, its soaring steeples, its innumerable buttresses.
Then he showed them where the abbey ran, a world in
itself, with its gardens, and its immense cloisters, its buildings,
towers and ramparts.
Vivian was not greatly interested in architecture, but she
liked hearing any man talk on what he knew well. Also, she
had sent home a delicious little vignette of "The Professor at
the Dinner-table," and she wanted another. Even if he had
read them, Mr. Murgatroyd would only have been flattered,
for she drew him with a very friendly pen.
Mrs. Brownlow seemed interested. But there was so little
else doing at Cluny that Vivian suspected her of gracefully
making the best of a dull day. Tibbitts shifted heavily from one
big foot to the other and breathed hard. When he could, he
leaned over the battlements and betted with Vivian on the
various depths. He had a quite unexpectedly accurate eye, she
found.
"And now"—Mr. Murgatroyd beamed at them like a
father promising his youngsters a treat—"now we will go and


42
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
have another look at the beautiful double-arched entrance gate
of the old abbey. We won't go on to the museum. I don't doubt
you, too, know that by heart."
"Bet your life!" Tibbitts agreed, adding in an aside, "I
don't think!"
They walked to the school of arts and crafts, now housed
in the old abbey, or part of it. Mrs. Brownlow said that she
knew the gate well with its charming view. Why, Vivian asked
herself, was she always so interested in Mrs. Brownlow? It
was not only because of that odd incident of her picture in
Anthony Cross's hands. It was something in the woman herself.
Some charm that emanated from her, as perfume from a
damask rose. Whether she were a vamp or no, Vivian could well
imagine her to be a spell-binder.
Murgatroyd leading, they passed into the building. It was
then that Vivian missed Tibbitts.
She believed that they would find him at some cafe out-
side, in front of an aperitif, but, to her surprise, looking over
her shoulder, she saw him standing still on the handsome
broad staircase, the original staircase, and bending down to
examine the wrought iron banister.
"Gosh! I never saw finer work!" he muttered. "Old iron
this," he went on touching it as Vivian had never thought
that his thick fingers could touch anything. "Very old. Yuss,"
he bent down and studied it intently. Then he straightened up
and grinned sheepishly at her before shooting a swift, rather
nervous glance at Mrs. Brownlow's slender back.
"Don't often find things in museums and old places that
interest me," he murmured apologetically; "first time I ever
remember to've cared a damn for any of the rot they show
you."


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
43
They walked on, Tibbitts sinking again into the dull
young man with the efforts at heavy pleasantry that they knew
at the villa.
It was when they were in the cloisters that he seemed to
come to life again. He suddenly left them, turned at right
angles and was lost to view. His action had something so
definite, so purposeful in it, that the others followed.
"I told you the boy was only joking when he said that he
had never been here before," Mrs. Brownlow murmured.
They found Tibbitts on his knees by a funny little ex-
crescence in the wall.
"Here is the spot!" he called exultantly. "They've built
this doorway half over it, but here was the 'earth where that
iron was puddled, bet your life, and drawn and hammered,
and worked up, that we saw just now on that staircase."
Margatroyd gave an exclamation.
"You think you've located the blasting furnace of Brother
Placidus?" His voice shook with excitement. "We've been
hunting for that for years. I was certain that it was under some
part of this later addition."
"Where else could it be?" Tibbitts asked contemptuously;
"seeing the way the valley faces, it would 'ave to be 'ere,
wouldn't it?"
His voice was the voice of a laboring man.
"Then you think this blackened wall "Murgatroyd's
tone was quite humble.
"I don't think! I know! You can see for yourself that
part of the old sandstone 'earth is still 'ere. It would be lined
with charcoal dust, you know. The pile of ore would go there.
The 'earth would be filled up this-a-way with charcoal, and
blanketed down with a muck of wet dust and small ore. Then


44
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
you'd start the blast going, and keep adding more blanketing
until you got a good heat, then you'd let the blast rip, and bit
by bit the whole'ld turn to bloom."
"What's 'bloom'?" Mr. Murgatroyd was always interested
in anything even distantly connected with his work. "What's
'bloom,' Mr. Tibbitts?"
Mrs. Brownlow watched the scene with a faint line be-
tween her rather thick, very long and low brows.
"Why, your puddled iron o' course. The stuff wot ye
draws out and hammers and rolls. The stuff wot some bloke
worked into those banisters we saw in the house back there,
and that r'iling to the balcony just over our heads." He pointed
up with one of his big red hands. "And I'll tell you one thing,
the bloke wot designed them knew iron, knew wot it will do,
and wot it won't. Beaten it with his bare fists in his time he
must 'ave."
"Well done!" Murgatroyd was enchanted. "Well done!
They are indeed both by the same master hand. Both by
Brother Placidus. But that you should have detected as much
at a mere glance—you are indeed a master craftsman, not
merely the dilettante which in your modesty you claimed!
Metal work was a genuine hobby with you evidently."
"Metal work, yuss." Tibbitts seemed to give a little start,
and again he shot a rather timid glance at Mrs. Brownlow,
who only turned and began to admire the flowers.
On the way out, Murgatroyd motioned them to follow
him to a little room. He pointed to a painting in a corner rep-
resenting a monk with a rugged, but intellectual head.
"That's Brother Placidus. Looks like a pilgrim with that
staff in his hand, doesn't he? Well, he was one. We all are."


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
45
“Staff? That's a rabble, that is!” Tibbitts was staring in-
tently into the dull, dim picture.
“And what, pray, is a rabble?” asked Mrs. Brownlow.
Her voice was bored and indifferent.
“Why, what you rabbles with, silly!" was the unexpected
reply. There followed a second of appalled silence. Then Mrs.
Brownlow gave a forced laugh. There was nothing forced about
Vivian's. She had to laugh or burst. The absolute stupefaction
on Mrs. Brownlow's features was too marked and too sudden
for her self-control. Even Mr. Murgatroyd was betrayed into
one reluctant cackle.
“Really, Mr. Tibbitts,” Mrs. Brownlow spoke with an
effort at gaiety, "you are rather overwhelming as a tutor!”.
Tibbitts turned scarlet.
"Sorry, Mrs. Brownlow, I spoke too quick,” he mumbled;
"I was thinking of that bloke there."
“You haven't told us yet what you rabble, and why you
rabble,” Vivian reminded him, with another burst of hilarity.
“A rabble is the long bar wot you rouses the boiling
with,” he said suddenly, and walked off whistling between
his teeth. And with that, as far as Tibbitts was concerned,
the interest of the morning seemed to be over. But on their
saunter back to the villa, a saunter in which Mrs. Brownlow
very quietly, but very firmly chose Mr. Murgatroyd as her
companion, Tibbitts said suddenly to Vivian:-
"Brother Placidus, eh? That's the same as Placid I sup-
pose?” Vivian said she supposed so too.
"Placidus”—Tibbitts swung his ornate cane to and fro
—“'e worked like 'is name. Placid. Nothing hurried about
his work. No need to.” Again there was a silence, and then he
said half to himself:-


46
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
"Must be wonderful to do work like that back there. Work
you 'ave a right to be proud of. Work you'd never need to
brag about. It speaks for itself, it does. I used to think when
I was a nipper that I'd do something like that bloke's wrought
iron work some day. You couldn't do nothink finer if you was
to try all your life! Yuss, I used to think in those days that
once you was grown-up—why, you could do as you liked.
Work to please yourself"
He stopped again. Something in his brown eyes reminded
Vivian of a homeless mongrel staring in through a window.
"I believe," she said encouragingly, "that wealth is just
as much of a handicap as is poverty."
Tibbitts nodded, but he said nothing more. Mr. Murga-
troyd stopped them a second later to point out a Merovingian
wooden house. Suddenly Mrs. Brownlow gave a startled little
exclamation.
"Ah!" beamed Murgatroyd; "you've noticed that added
arch? It is indeed a dissonance. That must have been done
when"
But Mrs. Brownlow had turned and was hurrying down
into the rue de la Poste without one glance at the anachronism
which Murgatroyd fondly thought had surprised and shocked
an informed eye.
Miss Young, as they walked on up the road that climbed
to the villa, saw her hasten on towards a tall figure that was
sauntering along with a leisurely
"All that I see,
Belongs to me!"
air as she called it. It was Anthony Cross. Vivian saw him stop
at a word from Mrs. Brownlow and take off his hat. Mrs.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
47
Brownlow drew him to one side, and together he and she, after
a few minutes animated conversation, walked back towards the
center of the town.
Mr. Murgatroyd, since this was a matter unconnected with
sticks and stones or past ages, had noticed nothing. He burbled
on. Tibbitts melted away into a cafe. Vivian Young threw the
historian a word now and then, but she was thinking hard.
Anthony and the problem from his past! Apparently he
had just arrived. He was carrying a small bag. She had noticed
that at Macon there was no word or sign of his valet. She
would do nothing to deliberately put herself in his path, she
had decided. That should be left to Fate. Besides, always at the
back of her mind was the knowledge that Anthony really was
engaged in a most important search, one which, though he had
denied its presence here at Cluny, was not unconnected with
danger.
She wondered whether he would learn that she was stay-
ing at the Villa Porte Bonheur. She wondered, whether, and if
so, when and how they two would meet.
At dinner that night, Mrs. Brownlow spoke of Cross.
"I met an old friend of ours unexpectedly this morning,
Tom," she murmured. "It's Anthony Cross. Fancy meeting him
again and of all places here! I asked him to drop in for a chat
after dinner."
"Anthony Cross?" Tom Brownlow repeated rather va-
cantly. "Oh, yes, of course! Coming in this evening, is he?
Good!"
Surely this was overdoing it, Vivian thought. Surely a
couple who had spent the whole afternoon together would
have talked over a friend's arrival. Why then this public an-


48
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
nouncement and this apparent difficulty on the husband's part
to "place" the friend?
"What brings Cross to Cluny?" Brownlow went on.
"The abbey remains. I suggested his asking you for a
room, Monsieur Pichegru. Perhaps he will. If he stays on at
all for any length of time. Apparently he has only made up
his mind definitely to one night, and took a room at the hotel
near the station. If you hadn't happened to be taking us on
that historical tour of the town, Mr. Murgatroyd, he might have
come and gone without either of us knowing of it. He was so
surprised to see me walking towards him." This last to her hus-
band, who nodded carelessly.
"Are you talking of the Sir Anthony Cross?" Smith asked
with interest "One of the directors of the South African Dia-
mond Combine?"
The Brownlows said that that was the man.
"He's on his way back to London on some matter con-
nected with the syndicate, so he told me," the wife added.
Vivian saw Smith flash a quick, inquiring glance at his
friend, Mr. Lascelles, who returned it blandly. Catching Viv-
ian's gaze on them, both men dropped their eyes with a haste
that looked positvely guilty, and began to crumble their bread.
"Perhaps we can persuade him to let me put him up,
though but for one night," suggested Monsieur Pichegru, and
again a message of the eyes passed between Smith and his
friend. "Any friend of yours, Brownlow, can always count on
a room here. And a rest in this quiet spot might do such a
busy man as Sir Anthony good."
"I am sorry to seem discourteous," Mr. Murgatroyd said
in his clear voice; "but if Sir Anthony Cross were to become
an inmate of Villa Porte Bonheur, I should be constrained to


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
49
go to one of the hotels. Under ordinary circumstances that
would be no matter, but half-way through my book it would
entail, I confess, a certain amount of adjusting of impediments.
"You know Anthony Cross?" Brownlow asked curiously.
"I have never met him," explained the professor; "but
some years ago my brother was very anxious to establish a
leper colony not far from one of the mines owned by his com-
pany. He had just been appointed a director, I remember, and
it was owing to his active and passive resistance that all efforts
fell through. I feel that the abandoning of a project of bring-
ing help to a class of human beings who certainly needed it
sorely was due entirely and solely to him. And feeling that, I
very strongly object to meeting him. His standpoint was"
Mr. Murgatroyd pulled himself up, but his eyes flashed. He
looked very different from the placid scholar of the morning.
He shook his head at himself. "The French are right; to
be angry and to make bad blood is one and the same thing.
Sir Anthony must have brought down on himself enough ill
will without my adding to it."
"It does not seem to have harmed him, so far," Mrs.
Brownlow put in, with, for once, a touch of sarcasm in her
voice.
"So far," Murgatroyd repeated. "Remember the words
of the wise Solon: 'Account a prosperous man happy only
when he ends his life as he began it.' Sir Anthony is still a
comparatively young man, as age goes nowadays."
It seemed to Vivian that the rest of the dinner was unusu-
ally quiet.
Smith, his friend and Mr. Murgatroyd all seemed lost in


50
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
thought. Only the Brownlows, Monsieur Pichegru and she kept
up a desultory chat, with clumsy contributions from Tibbitts.
After dinner, Vivian took a walk by herself through the
gardens. For the present she had decided to act exactly as
though Anthony Cross were not in the town. She finally strolled
back to the summer-house to which she had taken Mackay. It
was the hour at which they had agreed to meet.
As she shut the door, some one rose" in the dusk inside. It
was the detective.
"Sure, it's verra kind of ye, Miss Young,'* he said, with
evident pleasure. "Naething to report, I tak' it? I hope to find
some clue when I tak' a luik at the hoose to-morrow nicht. The
nicht o' the dance. For I shall come to it. I've met a mon who's
a director of a great diamond combine for which I did a bit o'
warrk a couple of years back. He's doon to tak' a luik at the
ruins, and is putting up at the same hotel as I am.
"I've had a crack wi' him. I tellt him what brings me here
—in strict confidence, o' course, and I spoke aboot the ball to-
morrow. Balls are a bit oot o' ma line. But he thinks, like you,
that I must na miss seeing the inside o' a' the rooms when the
parties are engaged below. It seems he kens the leddy who lost
her jewels—yon Mrs. Brownlow—and through her he'll meet
Monsieur Pichegru, and will ask him for twa invitations for
Saturday nicht. Ane for himself, though he doesna expect to
be here to use it, and ane for a friend. That's me! Certes, I
shall use mine."
"You mean Sir Anthony Cross? Mrs. Brownlow spoke at
dinner of having met him in the town. If you've worked for
Sir Anthony, perhaps he can put you in the way of some really
good job." Vivian was thinking of the diamond thefts.
"A doot that," Mackay said with his self-deprecatory


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
51
smile. "I'm no the class o' detective that Sir Anthony Cross
wad employ. What I did for his combine was nobbut looking
up some clerk's Edinburgh guarantor. And that class o' warrk
is a' I'm guid for, I fear me. Ye see, detecting differs. I've
always worked on business questions. Tracing checks, asking
aboot characters, and the like. But private warrk—like Mr.
Davidson's—it pays the best, o' coorse, but it's the sort I'm
no cut oot for, and that's a fact. However, I shall just use ma
een to-morrow nicht, and if I find naething after all, I'll awa' to
Paris, and try to work at the bogle frae that end. For when a's
said and dune, 'tis by the light o' reason alane problems are
solved."
"Father solved his with his gun—alone," Vivian said dry-
ly, and Mackay laughed. A laugh that suddenly spoke of youth
and a sense of humor, however repressed.
"What are you coming to the dance as?" she asked next.
"We ought to be able to recognize each other."
"I thocht o' a ghaist," he said tentatively. "I canna spend
ony money on it. And for a ghaist a' I'd need wad be but a
sheet and a pillow case—over and abune ma ither claes," he
added hastily. It was Vivian's turn to laugh. Suddenly an im-
pish idea struck her. She would have dearly like to suggest
that Mackay should go as "The Ghost of a Young Man Drowned
in Shanghai," but she bit back the speech. After all, though
the tale linking his death with Mr. Brownlow might be false
enough, the young man had probably really died. And besides
that, Vivian was no spreader of idle gossip.
"White's rather a poor color for snooping," she said in-
stead.
"True." He thought a moment. "Forbye giving some serv-
ant lass the fright of her life. Hoo aboot a collector then? That


52
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
micht do. Juist ma Sunday blacks—ma frock-coats gey shiny
at the seams, and I'll rip it a bit here and a bit there—and
ma top-hat has seen better days—and wi' ma sma black bag in
ma hand, I'd do fine, and widna be seen a mile off. Aye. It'll
be as a collector I'll come. A debt-collector, ye ken. And you,
Miss Young?"
"I'm 'Lady-into-Fox.' Chiefly a woman, but turning back
into the fox that I once was. With a fox's head on my hair.
But about what brings you to Cluny—I came here simply burst-
ing with something that happened this afternoon, and yet which
seems too monstrous."
She stopped as though she really meant the adjective.
He looked hard at her. His bright, alert, gray eyes were
trying to read what she had to tell him before she spoke. His
resolute, freckled, rather plain face was alight with interest.
Was he to hear something that would help him?
"If only you were hunting for Mrs. Brownlow's jewels in-
stead of, or as well as, Mr. Davidson's money, it might help
you tremendously," she said slowly; "though, as I say, I can't
believe—no, I can't!" She stopped again.
"I cann't warrk but for Davidson the noo, but I'm as keen
on knowing what happened to Mrs. Brownlow's jewels as she
can be," he said eagerly. "The twa thefts were the warrk o'
the ane thief. There's na doot aboot that. It's not entirely the
money I'm working for, Miss Young," he added, as she still
did not speak, "though I canna deny that a bit o' siller wad
be useful. But it's the thocht o' mebbe beating a criminal at his
ain game. I'd like fine to do that!"
She nodded. "Well, this afternoon, while I was practicing
'some serves, I happened to look towards the house just as a
gust of wind blew back the curtains in one of the first floor


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
53
rooms. You'd call it ground floor. And there stood Mr. Tib-
bitts by the window with a string of black pearls in his hands.
He nearly dropped them, and looked ready to drop himself
when the curtain billowed around him and he saw me on the
grass.
"He sounded me when he came out as to whether I had
noticed some beads he'd bought in the village as a present
for his sister at home. Now, of course, that's quite possibly all
the scene meant. But—it's funny! It sure is! He looked ap-
palled when that curtain blew out like a sail and left the win-
dow free. Yet I can't think that Mr. Tibbitts is a thief! He is
supposed to be a rich young man! But it was a string of black
pearls that Mrs. Brownlow lost along with some sapphires, and
those in Tibbitts's hand were just the length of hers—long
enough to go around the neck—a choker string. And I never
saw a lovelier sheen. They looked like black grapes. And Tib-
bitts was on the car the night they were stolen from Mrs.
Brownlow—altogether "she shook her head with its bright
waves of light-brown hair—hair that matched her eyes in
color.
"Which window was it?" Mackay asked at once.
"A long window in .a room they call the cedar room. It's
a sort of extra room. Hardly ever used."
"Not the room where the safe is?" Mackay asked. She
shook her head.
"That's in Monsieur Pichegru's study. I know, because he
wanted to lock away any jewelery or money of mine I might
have with me. But about Mr. Tibbitts "she looked in-
quiringly at Mackay, who only stood thoughtful and silent.
"Sakes alive, why don't you say something?" she said
laughing.


54
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
"I'm thinking," he replied gravely.
"But I want to know what you think about what I've just
told you—about Tibbitts"
"It takes time to think," Mackay said judicially; "to think
wi' any degree of usefulness, that is. But I'll admit that it's
queer," he conceded with one of those boyish smiles that lit
up his lean face.
"So are many little things about the house," she said in
answer to that. "To-night at dinner, for instance, when Sir An-
thony's name came up. Mr. Smith and a friend of his, a Mr.
Lascelles—the two you were watching when we met"—Vivian's
eyes twinkled like brown diamonds at the recollection—"he's
leaving to-morrow morning, by the way—looked so oddly at
each other. A long, meaning look, especially when Monsieur
Pichegru said he would put Sir Anthony up."
"Is he going to?" Mackay wanted to know.
"Mrs. Brownlow thought Sir Anthony wouldn't be stay-
ing long enough to make it worth his while changing over from
the hotel. Besides dear old Mr. Murgatroyd got quite mad at
the mere notion. I thought Mr. Smith, and Mr. Lascelles, too,
both looked very disappointed. Certainly they were very silent
for the rest of the meal. Say, Mr. Mackay, it all sounds so
silly, gossiping like this. But I like talking to you. Partly be-
cause I sure am glad to have some one to speak to who reminds
me of home. You look like the kind of men I'm used to.
Though, heaven knows, they'd beat you when it comes to grab-
bing on to things! But also you never know what bit of idle
chatter might not help a detective."
"Not this detective! Not me!" Mackay said gloomily.
"I'm plum oot o' ma depth. But I'll dae ma best!" he finished
sturdily.


56
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
ery?" asked Mackay grimly, and they both rocked in unseemly
mirth.
"Howmean we are to talk like this! Say, she fascinates me,
Mr. Mackay. She's a wonderful woman."
"She's a face that doesna attract me," he said rather
shortly.
"But she's so graceful!"
"Aye. She has a nice walk," he agreed. "I've heerd that
Isadora Duncan walked that gait."
"I should like to know her better," Vivian went on, half
to herself. "I'm sure she'd be interesting to know. Yet I can't
think why I'm not sure."
She rose to go. But she had one question to put.
"Mr. Mackay why did you ask me where Monsieur Pi-
chegru's safe is?"
"I've known of a missing paper once being a' the time
in the man's own safe," he said darkly. "That's why, Miss
Young."
Vivian thought this over on the way back to the house.
And the more she thought it over, the less she understood
exactly what the private detective meant. Did he know him-
self? But her thoughts now were really on Anthony Cross.
Had he arrived? Would he and she meet? To-night?
She heard her name called, and found Mr. Smith behind
her on the path.
"I thought I heard voices in the summer-house. Have you
left poor Tibbitts locked in?" he asked languidly.
"Oh, no," she spoke as casually as he. "I was talking to
an acquaintance of mine who didn't know where Monsieur
Pichegrus boundary runs. A man who's putting up at the Hotel


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
57
de Bourgogne. By the way, he's an acquaintance of this Sir
Anthony Cross's too."
"Why don't you bring him up to the house," Smith sug-
gested in what sounded a sociable tone; "do you know if he's
any good at squash racquets?"
"Let's ask him," she suggested.
They found the house, as she knew they would, empty.
It had a window that looked on to the opposite side of the path,
and she had talked to Smith as they walked towards it. Unless
he wished to be found then, Mackay would be out over the
sill and through the bushes, like a young salmon over a rapid;
of that she was quite sure.
Smith murmured some vague word of regret about the
squash racquets and strolled back, while Vivian took a turn
through the orchard, enjoying the beauty around her.
Coming back to the villa once more, she saw ahead of
her, in a corner of the thickly-wooded drive that made a little
bay here, two people standing talking. One was Anthony Cross.
He was speaking very earnestly to an over-dressed, over-painted
woman. Or rather the woman was talking earnestly to Anthony
Cross. She was a remarkably handsome woman too. Vivian
thought that she must have been a singularly lovely girl. Stand-
ing still in the shadow of some trees she looked at them. By
Anthony's expression she saw that he was trying to escape. But
the woman would not let him go. There was something ab-
solutely desperate in the very bend of her neck as she seemed
to be pouring out a string of entreaties. Twice he tried to leave
her, but she only stepped after him and continued to talk.
Finally Anthony's face flushed at something said, and with a
little twitch of his shoulders very familiar to Vivian—it had
reminded her the first time she saw it of a Roman senator


58
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
adjusting his toga—he almost pulled his arm from her hand
and turned away. An exclamation from the woman stopped
him. Even to Vivian's far-off ears it had had a tragic sound.
He looked ashamed of himself, she thought, and turning, he
stood patiently for another moment or two. But by the set of
his jaw, when he replied, Vivian could guess that he was not
giving way. Indeed it looked to her as though he were deliver-
ing some sort of an ultimatum, or even warning the woman
not to continue her argument, her pleading, her—whatever it
was. And when he had done speaking, he turned away in a
manner that brooked no further stopping. Resolutely he walked
towards the house, out of sight.
The woman stood where he had left her, in the middle
now of the path. She stared after him. Her face was towards
Vivian. It was pale, and there was a sort of desperate hatred
in it, a sort of unable to believe that all was lost expression on
it that kept Vivian rooted to the spot. She shivered. What could
make a woman look like that at a man? Tragic and almost
frightening in their wild fixity, there was a passion of hatred
in her magnificent eyes that had to be seen to be believed.
"I wouldn't like any one to look after me like that!" thought
Vivian. She wondered what it meant. She was far too expe-
rienced, knew too much of the world, to think the worst, as a
nicely brought up young woman of the mid-Victorian period
would have done. But still—it was an odd look. ... It did
not admit of many interpretations. . . . Vivian went on. The
woman, hearing the steps on the gravel, turned, gave her one
glance and then walked away swiftly towards the gate. Vivian
was half-minded to catch her up and chance some excuse.
After all, she was Anthony Cross's fiancee. Or was she? No, to
be honest, she didn't care a rap how many old flames, or new


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
59
ones either, Anthony had. She was quite sure that she never
had cared, and never would care. And on that thought, she
slowed up, turned and walked away. At the first possible mo-
ment she intended to take her freedom back.
That wild night on the ship, something big about the man
had imposed itself on her and blinded her to many smaller
facts—their different upbringing—their different walks in life.
A girl, of course, can marry a man of quite another world, but
she must want to become a member of that world. Vivian didn't.
She was a born fighter. She loved a struggle. And there would
be no fighting, no struggling, as Lady Cross. Anthony was
not a self-made man. He had shown her some photographs of
his family place that had much impressed her. It must be a
dream of a house, of a park. But even at that moment of semi-
awe, Vivian had known in her heart of hearts that it was no home
for her. You couldn't add anything to Quarry Court. You could
only keep it up. And keeping up what others had had the fun
of making did not appeal to Miss Young.
Arrived at the villa, she went to her room. By the reflec-
tion on some ilex bushes below her window, she could see
that the lights were on in the cedar room—the room where
she had seen Tibbitts standing with the beads—or could it
possibly be the pearls—in his hand.
Leaning out, she could even catch a voice, Anthony's
voice, speaking quietly as ever. In fact, speaking a good deal
more quietly than usual, she thought. Then came a laugh.
Mrs. Brownlow's throaty gurgle. And another! Her husband's
this time. Anthony did not seem to join in, and he had a very
hearty guffaw when he was amused. Next she heard his low
tones making what seemed quite a long speech. Evidently the
Brownlows had carried their friend off from the drawing-


60
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
room to this quieter spot. There was only one other room
in the wing. A sudden wonder struck her as to whether the
Brownlows already knew of Anthony Cross's engagement to
her. It would hardly be possible for him to be talking so long
without telling old friends of the most important step that
can befall man or woman. If so, would he learn of her ar-
rival here? Here in the villa? Would he think it a coincidence
if he did? He might. But she knew the quickness of his percep-
tion, of his reasoning. He was not a man whom you could easily
hoodwink. He had an uncanny—at least she thought it un-
canny—way of putting just the one question that you did not
want him to put, the one and only query whose answer would
inevitably give him the kernel of the matter. She decided that
if Anthony heard of her arrival, it would be no use pretending
that it was not linked with the sight of that photograph, with
her overhearing his question about a man called Brownlow.
And on that came the thought to go downstairs now, it
was only a little past nine, and leave it to him to meet her as
a stranger, or present her as his fiancee. Which would he do?
What a delightful, awkward position for him. Vivian was a
bit of a minx. The idea appealed to her immensely. She was
down the stairs within the minute. She was almost at the door
of the cedar room when came the reflection—was it fair to An-
thony, supposing the very unlikely case that he did not know
of her presence in the house at all; would it be fair to him to
spring a meeting on him in circumstances of which he had had
no idea when he had asked her to meet him as a stranger? That
halted her. Then came the thought that, apart from fairness
or not to Anthony, she was sure that he could be very stub-
born. In which case the jest might be a rather awkward one
in the end. Suppose he let himself be introduced to her as to


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
61
a stranger, and suppose her vague feeling of thin ice, of un-
dertows, was all wrong, and these people at the villa were
all that they seemed, how could she ever explain away the
facts when they learned them? And since the Brownlows were
"all right" and friends of Anthony's, they were sure to learn
of them, unless
Could she save his pride if not his heart? Could she per-
haps prevent him telling others of that engagement which she
firmly intended to break. She decided to step into a room near
the one from where the voices came—it was fitted up rather in
an hotel fashion with several little writing-tables—and wait
there for his departure, which could not now be long delayed.
She would slip out through one of the long windows when he
should pass the door and meet him outside the villa gate. She
would be frank with him, she would tell him that she had acted
on impulse when she had accepted him. That his personal mag-
netism had swept her judgment off its usually firm set. As to
more sordid motives, Vivian refused to acknowledge them, even
to herself. They were not really part of her. In that she was
right. She was no parasite.
Vivian settled herself in an arm-chair. She did not switch
up the light which was back by the door.
It was some minutes before a sound roused her from her
thoughts. It was the faint fall of footsteps outside, or rather
beside, the room. They died away. Then they came again.
Again they died away. Some one was lightly, all but noise-
lessely, walking up and down a carpeted side-passage which ran
between the room where she sat waiting and the room where
Sir Anthony sat talking, presumably alone with the Brownlows.
Vivian waited until the steps passed once more, then she
noiselessly opened her door and looked out. To her surprise


62
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
the passage, too, showed no light. Whoever was there was in
the darkness. And must have switched off the row of lights
that had been shining like pink pearls a minute ago.
She hesitated. For after all, she, too, was waiting in the
dark. That other person out there might be equally justified in
hoping for a word with Anthony Cross. And for an equally
good reason perfer, too, not to be seen waiting.
On that, however, came a sudden realization that Anthony
Cross claimed to be in Cluny on a mission both secret and
important. A mission connected with a theft that ran into many
figures. He had laughed at the idea of danger, but the danger
might be here just the same.
She knew now that she was not in the least in love with
him, but she would always be his friend. Was that figure, do-
ing so soft a sentry-go outside the cedar room, a friend?
She was just on the point of slipping out and switching
up the lights, when the door of the cedar room itself opened
and shut swiftly, as some one—a man—stepped out. She heard
a "Sorry! I had no idea there was any one here!" in Brown-
low's voice. He had evidently collided with some unseen person.
She heard an answering, "I can't find the switches. I want
the room where Monsieur Pichegru told me that I should find
plenty of writing paper."
It was Mr. Lascelles! Quiet Mr. Lascelles, then, who had
been taking that promenade up and down the dark passage.
Vivian was surprised. The next instant she jumped to her feet.
For Brownlow, still speaking very pleasantly, said:
"Oh, that's the other side of us. This way"
They were coming in here, and she, Vivian, would be
found sitting in the dark and apparently waiting—for whom?
For what? It was an impossibly ridiculous situation since she


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
63
could give no explanation. There was no time to switch up the
light, as the men had already turned the corner and would see
the streak under the door and hear the click.
Intensely vexed at the whole affair, she stepped behind
the long curtains over the windows. The glass doors them-
selves had patent fasteners, which were too noisy to dare to
open—for the moment—or she would have slipped out now,
at once, into the garden. She was delighted when she heard
Lascelles say rather nervously:
"Oh, thanks! Thanks so much. I only—eh—wanted some
paper to take to my room with me. This will do nicely. Thanks."
"Sure there's nothing else?" Brownlow asked. And was
it Vivian's fancy or was there something mocking in the ques-
tion so solicitously put. "Nothing, thanks," was the reply, and
a minute later she heard the two men pass on together down
the passage to the main hall.
She waited where she was. One of them might come back,
and the villa's carpets were frightfully thick. A moment later
she heard some one actually in the room. Some one who now
closed the door. Vivian had noticed that her curtains by no
means covered the whole of the window recess. She had not
dared to touch them for fear of a fold continuing to quiver.
Now peeping out, she saw that it was Mr. Brownlow who was
back again in the room. But a Brownlow quite incredibly
changed. Hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, his
heard thrust forward, he stood staring at a table beside him
with unseeing eyes. And as he stared, his face grew more and
more malignant.
The forehead, never lofty, seemed to flatten as she watched.
The little eyes to move closer together. His jaw thrust forward
till the yellow lower teeth jutted out a good eighth of an


64
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
inch beyond the upper ones. It gave him a horrible resem-
blance to a wolf. Vivian had seen many seamy sides of life
in her newspaper work, but she had never looked into a more
criminal face than this man's was—now—seen like this, off
his guard.
The story her friend Edith Montdore had told her in
the train came back to her. For the first time she thought that
the gossip linking the husband with the lover's disappearance
might well be true. She could easily imagine this man in front
of her, this hitherto unseen, unguessed-at man, jumping on an-
other in, the dark, holding his head down under water until
the heaving and the struggles should cease. . . . She kept very,
very still. Vivian was frightened.
For a full minute she had the benefit of Brownlow's horrid
and ferocious look, then, with a sudden gesture as though he
had made up his mind, he opened the door again, stood a sec-
ond, apparently listening, switched off the light, and passed
noiselessly out of sight.
She was after him in a flash. That was no face to let roam
a house where a man on a dangerous mission might be sitting
all unsuspecting.
She flattened herself against the wall, even though he
switched out each light as he came to it, so that the corridor
leading to the cedar room was quite dark, as dark as the one
which Mr. Lascelles had been patrolling. Had he gone back
to his post? she wondered. Apparently this idea struck Brown-
low, too, for at the corner he turned and gave the side-passage
a long scrutiny. From the sound of his steps, she thought that
he even tried a door at the farther end which led into the gar-
den. Then he came back, and again he switched off each light.
All was in darkness now, except that some leaded panes at the


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
65
other end shed a sort of blurred luminosity all along the
corridor.
By it Vivian saw Brownlow tiptoe to the door of the cedar
room, and bending down, press his ear to the keyhole.
In the stillness she heard Anthony's voice talking, appar-
ently pleasantly, and a moment later came another peal of
laugher from Mrs. Brownlow. Vivian had never heard her
laugh much before. Then came a sentence or two in her voice,
but said with great animation.
Evidently it was not sober business that was going on
behind that door. The man outside it stayed as he was for
several minutes, then he straightened up, and, as Vivian backed
into the room where she had been, he passed her walking swift-
ly on into the main part of the house. She followed cautiously
until she saw him enter the billiard-room with some word that
she did not catch, in a pleasant, ordinary voice.
She moved away, took up a book, and sat down in a cor-
ner of the lounge close to the room where she now heard the
click of balls.
She had plenty to think of. First of all, she considered Mr.
Lascelles's silent pacing of that dark passage. Mr. Lascelles—
was he here by some arrangement with Anthony? Was he the
man whom Anthony expected to meet? That might be possible.
And that long, quiet interchange of glances between himself
and Smith at dinner, when Anthony's name had first come up,
could her idea explain that too? It must, if it were the right
one. She saw the look again. Not stealthy exactly, yet not open.
But then came the thought that Anthony's mission, or quest,
was he here by some arrangement with Anthony? Was he the
of it, of course. That might include Mr. Lascelles. But it ob-
viously did not include Smith. For Mr. Smith had not been


66
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
acting, she felt sure, when he had inquired whether Mrs.
Brownlow's chance-met friend were the Anthony Cross. But
Mr. Lascelles might have had something he wanted to ask of
Anthony—some favor. That might explain his acts to-night,
and that look between the two friends. . . .
Her thoughts passed on to Brownlow. The man was madly
jealous. Of that she felt certain. Most dangerously jealous, too.
That sent her mind racing back to the photograph of Mrs.
Brownlow, to the "problem" in Anthony Cross's past, to the
vamp of Mrs. Montdore. The last term she thought, but the
fears of a wife with a slightly uncertain husband. But the pho-
tograph, Anthony, and that awful look on the husband's face.
She made up her mind to see Anthony as early as possible
to-morrow morning and warn him of what she had seen. It
was too late to-night for the talk that she had hoped to have
with him outside. And in the villa, he would be accompanied to
the door for certain by some member of the household.
She told herself that she ought to leave Porte Bonheur if
there was any idea of resurrecting Anthony's past. But she
found herself very reluctant to cut herself off from any chance
of knowing what happened after she left. The clicking of balls
beside her stopped.
"By Jove," came in Brownlow's voice; "my wife and
Anthony Cross seem to have a lot to say to each other." How
jocosely he said it, and now, as he stepped out of the room, how
pleasantly he smiled at her as he passed her chair.
After a moment Smith came out too, and, also after a mo-
ment, went on down the same way.
Vivian closed her book and decided that it was her turn
to get some note-paper from the writing-room.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
67
Neither man was to be seen. But she heard Brownlow's
voice. Evidently he had joined his wife. She looked at her
watch. The talk in the cedar room was certainly a long one.
Yet, as a rule, Anthony was a man of few words. She went to
her room. It was not till nearly one o'clock that the light ceased
to shine on the bushes in front of the cedar room, and only
then did Vivian, fearing she did not know what, leave her win-
dow, and go to bed.


CHAPTER IV
'ext morning, Vivian was out early. She intended to stay
IN out until she met Anthony, even though it was the day of
the dance, and the frock made for Edith Montdore needed a
few adjustments. Pins would have to do, if necessary. The point
was to see Anthony and warn him not to trust to any specious
appearance of friendliness on Mr. Brownlow's part, but to
realize that the man was a menace, or could be. Vivian had
seen that evil face of his in her dreams. She had been glad when
it was time to get up.
She was used to a hotter, fiercer land, but this temperate
country-side seemed to her very lovely this morning. The
Grosne is a true angler's stream; to-day it was clear as the air
above it, the speckled trout casting dark shadows on the pebbly
bottom as they lazily fanned themselves with a moving fin, or
opened and shut their mouths in that foolish, contented way
that causes a fisherman to see red. The swallows and martins
glanced like blue arrow-heads above them. The water plants
were alive with the shimmer of dragon-flies' wings. She watched
a little water vole sitting up and munching a spray of marsh-
wort in two tiny hands. Near her a cuckoo was calling the
one "true" interval of bird song—that mysterious, alluring
call. A dipper caught her eye, and paused on a shallow stone
to curtsey politely before he started off to take one of his strolls
along the bottom.
From a turn in the road, she saw two men fishing. One
was Anthony. One was Mackay. Just now, they were apparently


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
69
comparing their tins of bait. Anthony went off to another
swim of the river. She came on him again by the Pont de la
Levee. Mackay was out of sight around a bend.
"Anthony!"
He turned, glanced all around them, and shook his head,
not very indignantly, at her. They were quite alone.
"Woman, indiscretion is thy name!"
"Oh, don't joke! I've something to say to you. First of all,
I'm staying at the Villa Porte Bonheur."
He looked at her impassively. She felt that he was angry,
very angry, but he made no remark.
"I met a friend in the train who knows Monsieur Piche-
gru," she hurried on. "She recommended me to try his villa.
And besides—but never mind about that. The point is this.
Last night, while you were talking so long to Mrs. Brownlow,
I came downstairs in order to meet you in the garden on your
way out. Well, I heard some one walking up and down in a
dark passage quite close beside the room where you were."
She described what happened. She described also the fiend-
ish expression on the face of Brownlow when standing in the
room which he thought was empty.
"Now, don't misunderstand me," she finished. "My only
concern is that you should know that the man is dangerous.
Wildly jealous. He looked capable of anything last night. And
I heard a very dreadful story, if true, about him in the train
from my friend. A story she had heard from one who knew
them out in Shanghai."
She told it. Anthony Cross listened to it, too, without a
change of his face. Certainly he did not look at all grateful.
"Do you really think, my dear girl," he asked coldly
when she was silent again, "that I am so little capable of man-


70
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
aging my own affairs"—there was the faintest emphasis on the
possessive pronoun—"as to need to be guarded and shepherded,
however charmingly?"
She knew by his tone that he was, if possible, even angrier
than at first.
"I expressly asked you to keep clear of me during my
stay down here," Anthony went on. "Did you by any chance
overhear me ask Monsieur Bonvy if he knew a man called
Brownlow in Cluny?" He spoke in a very level voice.
"I did," she replied promptly. "And also, when I saw Mrs.
Brownlow, I recognized the woman whose portrait I had seen
you looking at, and remembered what you had told me about
the one woman you had loved. Any other questions?" Vivian
too was angry. To think that she had given up a much-needed
nap this morning in order to be up and out and warn this
ungrateful brute.
"And so you deliberately went to Porte Bonheur? In order
to keep watch on me?" he asked with deadly politeness of
tone.
She nodded.
"Did you speak to the Brownlows of me at all?" she asked
as quietly as he. "Did you mention, I mean, that you were
engaged?"
"Certainly not," he said almost sharply.
She drew off his ring, and held it out.
"Then I can give you this back now. Thank you for the
loan of it, Anthony." Her face was gentle again. "But it was
only a loan. I guess we both knew that in our hearts. It really
belongs to—some one whom you haven't met yet."
"Just as you like." He spoke as carelessly as though she
were returning an umbrella that he had lent her.


72
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
ache in his temper." Evidently he had got over it to-day. For
he was in high spirits.
In the afternoon she wrote a little on her article. But
there was too much noise for her thoughts to come easily.
And, though she had a good style, it was not yet good enough
to do without the support of some thinking.
The house was invaded by a chattering mob of gardeners,
and cooks, and furniture movers, and florists' assistants. She
found herself at a loose end. Mrs. Brownlow was invisible.
Her husband seemed to be spending his time trying to see if
his sitting-room chimney smoked. At least, so he explained
to Vivian, when, alarmed at a thick puff of smoke rolling down
their mutual corridor, she had run along to find its cause.
He was .beating a flaming paper to pieces on the hearth.
"It's all right, Miss Young, I'm trying the chimney with
a newspaper. We haven't had a fire in it since we've been here.
But my wife wants one for to-night. One feels chilly after a
dance, don't you think?" Vivian agreed. Ever helpful, she
would have flown to his assistance, but something in the small
eyes fixed on her—something about the whole mild, smiling
face made her alter her mind. She left him to get the better of
the smoke by himself.
"My!" she said to herself, "his tooth must be aching again.
He looked as though he would have bitten me if I had come one
step nearer. And that wasn't a newspaper he was burning
either."
It was at lunch that she heard that Anthony was coming
to the dance.
"He has telephoned to Lyons to send him a pierrot dress,
if there's still one to be had," Mrs. Brownlow said, "though I
don't suppose he'll do more than look in at us frivolous folk."


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
73
Vivian felt like saying that on shipboard there had been
few better dancers than Anthony. But she kept silence, though
there was, for the first time, a rather aggravating air of pro-
prietorship about Mrs. Brownlow's way of speaking of An-
thony. It irritated her, and suggested an incipient toothache
of her own.
"Will you let him have a room for the night, monsieur?"
The soft voice went on, "You offered it so kindly last night,
and as he's leaving early in the morning, I think it would be
more convenient if he could change here, than if he had to
walk back to the inn?"
Monsieur Pichegru at once made for the telephone to ask
Anthony Cross to send his things over to the villa, and stay
there for whatever time he intended to remain in Cluny. In a
few minutes he came back.
"He'll send his things over later on. I'll tell Honore to
put them in the red room. And as he spoke of letters which
must get off to-morrow, and which he may have to finish to-
night, I've put the cedar room at his disposal, since none of
the empty bedrooms has a sitting-room attached to it. We
must be sure and leave a couple of chairs for him. And a
writing-table can be moved in from the next room. He won't
mind the fact that everything else is cleared out for the
dancers."
"What with writing and dancing all night, and traveling
all day, the strenuous lives rich men lead make me thankful,
Tom, that you aren't a millionarie," Mrs. Brownlow said
lightly.
"He has asked for two cards for a couple of hotel acquain-
tances," Monsieur Pichegru went on, going to a side table and
rummaging in a drawer.


74
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
"Men?" Mrs. Brownlow asked; "and good dancers?"
"One's a lady. A Mrs. Eastby. I will call on her this after-
noon. The other card I'll hand to Sir Anthony when he gets
here." And the conversation drifted away from Anthony
Cross.
Mrs. Eastby—could that be the name of the woman in
the garden, Vivian wondered. But if so, had Anthony asked for
an invitation for her? But then, why the whole scene?
That afternoon, Monsieur Pichegru was wanted urgently
on the telephone. Monsieur was trying on his fancy dress—the
good man was going as Saint Urban, patron saint of vine-
yards—and rustled in his robes and miter to the instrument.
After which he flung his sacerdotal garments wildly off, called
for his car to be sent around at once, got into his ordinary
clothes, and tore his hair all in a few brief seconds.
His bonded warehouse in Dijon had caught fire. His
Chablis, his Mussigny, his Pommard, his Chambertin, his
Beaune and his Mercury, not to speak of—as he did promptly
and wildly—his Saint Georges and his Montrachet, were in
danger. And French laws as to salvage are very trying to pro-
prietors. He was insured, naturally, he called over his shoulder,
in answer to sympathetic inquiries from his guests. It was not
a money loss but a loss to the world of wines and good cheer
that was threatened.
He begged his house party to continue just as though he
were present to-night. He might indeed be able to return and
join in the dancing, but that was very problematical. In the
meantime he delegated the Brownlows as his representatives.
But Brownlow refused the honor. "I'm no good as the con-
vivial host," he maintained, laughing.
"The British shyness!" scoffed Monsieur Pichegru; "then


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
75
you, Monsieur Smith, must represent me. I will take no ex-
cuses from you! Oh, that reminds me: the card for the lady
friend of Sir Anthony Cross, and the recipe for my iced claret-
cup which has no equal from the Channel to the Mediter-
ranean—like the little stories dear to your friend who has just
left us."
Smith and he walked off, the one receiving, the other giv-
ing directions. When at last night fell, the weather was perfect.
Mrs. Brownlow was greatly relieved, for she had suggested that
the many windows of the music-room, which was being turned
into a ball-room, should be taken out and plants and sham
plaster pillars be arranged so as to hide the wall-spaces be-
tween. The effect was good. Room and garden seemed to merge
into one blossoming whole. The lawn had been brought up to
the edge of the parquet flooring and level with it.
All the invitable part of the neighborhood was at the dance.
Some of the dresses were gorgeous affairs from Paris or Lyons
ateliers. Many were simple, and others were humorous.
Mrs. Brownlow wore an ordinary, but very lovely, eve-
ning dress of soft silver brocade and lace, over which, from
shoulder to hem, front and back, ran a bright blue half moon.
On her head was a diadem of wired crystal beads that spelled
the word "once."
"Once in a blue moon" was her obvious meaning, and her
mask was another blue half moon. It was but decorative. She
made no attempt to disguise her identity.
Her husband was "a bottle of Macon"—a shiny roll of
black cardboard, duly labeled, and wearing a cork hat.
Vivian looked quite charming in her creamy frock with
its gold lace cap and fox's mask a-top of that. Across her face


76
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
stretched tawny velvet with a deep gold fringe. Edith Mont-
dore had not intended to be easily recognized.
The guests were only announced by character. Mackay
came early. With Dundreary whiskers made from horse hair,
clad all in shabby black, with his shabby little bag, he was a
good figure. Taken for "the gas-meter man," he was much
applauded.
"Have you seen Sir Anthony?" she asked as he stepped
to her side. He replied Scots fashion by another question.
"Why should I have?"
"Oh, no reason. Only he's late."
"Perhaps he isna coming at a'. He's too sensible a mon to
care for this sort o' thing."
"You talk like your own grandfather half the time!" Viv-
ian scoffed.
"Wouldn't you give the whole of it for juist quiet under
the stars?" he asked suddenly. "I wud. There's an awfu' lot of
wishy-washy talked aboot dances. A nicht spent in the open,
the sicht o' the sun coming up in the morning, or sinking in
the west; yon's worth while. But this—it's juist mak'-believe!"
He spoke contemptuously. "I canna thole mak'-believe," he
added, quite unnecessarily.
"But it's not make-believe." She spoke with certainty; she
had only half-heard what he had said. "I've a feeling, 'a prick-
ing in my thumbs,' that something's stirring to-night in the
Villa Porte Bonheur, Mr. Mackay. It may not concern either
of us, neither you nor I may ever learn what it is, but I tell
you I feel it. Mr. Murgatroyd said people like me attracted
things to their neighborhood. That if they were going to hap-
pen, they'd happen near them. I wonder if he was right. And
I wonder, too, if so, what's going to happen here."


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
77
"Well, it's no great happening, but for ane thing I'm awa'
to search the upper rooms. I've been over yon Tibbitts's. I
found naething. If he still has a string of black pearls, then a'
I can say is that he wears them."
There were several pierrots, most of whom wore a round,
pale, cardboard pierrot-face as a mask. Anthony Cross was
one of these, but he was easily recognizable by his great height.
He made no attempt to find Vivian. On the contrary, he avoided
her, choosing Mrs. Brownlow's vicinity with marked preference.
Brownlow did not seem to mind; at least he immediately
stopped for a genial word with him.
Vivian had not yet seen the woman to whom Anthony
had spoken last night in the garden. But after a little while "an
Egyptian lady" was ushered in, with a white yashmak up to
her khol-darkened eyes. Her dress, to Vivian's scrutiny, was
made up chiefly of shawls and yards of black tulle from the
local shop—a traveling dress evidently. A question of Smith,
who was "Le Grand Chef" in white cap and apron, told her
that her guess was right.
"But don't say that I gave her away. She happened to
speak of rigging up something Eastern. I called on her this
afternoon, you know; her husband's a colonel in a camel corps.
Did you ever see such eyes?. . ." He broke off to watch the
latest arrival. Evidently Smith was struck with Mrs. Eastby's
looks. And no wonder, Vivian thought.
"She's here having a look at the ruins," Smith went on.
"Met Sir Anthony, who's an old friend of her husband's, it seems,
coming down in the train. Funny world! He's over from South
Africa, she from God knows what oasis back of beyond, and
they meet in a branch line running from Macon to dead-alive
little Cluny." He tucked his cardboard pate more firmly under


78
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
his arm, and waving a farewell with his soup ladle hurried
away to claim his partner. Smith was positively human to-
night, Vivian thought.
She watched the veiled figure move towards the tallest
pierrot, who was not dancing at the moment. Vivian drifted
in that direction too.
"How is my dress, pierrot? Not so bad, considering that
it consists of a couple of shawls and window curtains?" The
"Egyptian" spoke coquettishly.
"It seems all right to me," Anthony's voice answered in-
differently. "Well, I hope you'll enjoy yourself, but frankly,
I—well, I was surprised that you cared to come." There was
something like suspicion in his tone. And in his eyes, too, as
they looked out of his cardboard face.
"Oh, I like being with people who are having a happy
time," she said, with a little catch of her breath.
Anthony nodded agreement as he moved away to talk
again to Mrs. Brownlow, who had now left her post by the door.
Sugar slide was the dance of the moment. Mrs. Brownlow said
that she would show him the steps and took him to a quiet cor-
ner of the lounge, so shut off by palms that it made a little
room to itself. Vivian could not follow there. Nor did she
want to. There was only too little mystery about their mutual
infatuation, she thought. They were not even pretending an in-
terest in steps. Heads close together, they were sitting and talk-
ing. A moment later and they got up and passed into the
larger room. Anthony looked as though he were immensely
pleased with something, Vivian thought. He had a triumphant
air. And at that look a pang stabbed her. Not for bis lost
affection—not entirely. But for himself. That he should be
• content to solve the problem in this way. It was not a problem


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
79
any more, Vivian thought; the solution was only too simple,
too easy to guess.
She was dancing with Mr. Brownlow. They were doing a
sort of in-and-out around some rose bushes when, turning to
look at him, she caught a glimpse, just a flash of the face that
she had seen—herself hidden—in the writing-room last night.
The expression passed in a second. He had been staring over
her shoulder. When next she faced that way, she saw that
Anthony and Mrs. Brownlow were again together—again talk-
ing. Mrs. Brownlow seemed to be yielding to some suggestion
of his, but yielding unwillingly.
Finally they turned and went indoors, at an almost per-
emptory gesture of his.
Brownlow laughed. A very forced laugh, Vivian thought
it.
"Dear me! I shall have to call out Sir Anthony before
breakfast to-morrow morning, if this goes on. 'Pistols for two,
and coffee for one.'"
"He's leaving very early," Vivian said lightly. Though
she did not feel like taking the situation lightly.
"He'd better!" Brownlow said under his breath in a tone
of such fury that she drew away. She of all people did not
intend to be dragged into any quarrel between Mr. Brownlow
and Anthony and Alys Brownlow. Let the husband look after
his wife better. Certainly to-night for the first time she had
met the vamp. Mrs. Brownlow was consciously trying to at-
tract, and, of course, succeeding. The very turn of her head
over her shoulder as she passed into the house in front of
Anthony was alluring, mysterious, provocative.
Brownlow made some excuse and practically left Vivian
plante la, as she called it. But some one else came towards her


80
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
with the unmistakable step of one who at last sees that for
which he has been hunting.
It was a man's figure, wearing a long robe, the hood drawn
over the head, with slits in it for eyes.
"Just in time!" he murmured; "not yet a fox, lady, are
you? Do let me have one dance before you change completely."
Vivian studied him. It was Mr. Lascelles, she felt sure.
But Mr. Lascelles had left that morning, so she had been told.
"What is a member of the Ku-Klux-Klan doing here?"
she asked.
He gave a protesting shudder. "I am a Florentine!" he
expostulated. "A Brother of the Misericordia," he gave his
hood a tug. "If you are struck down with plague this night, I
would bear you to a hospital. On the other hand, should you
intend to murder any person or persons with whom you are
annoyed, here I stand, ready to help give them Christian
sepulchre."
"I had no idea you were useful," she murmured.
He bowed.
"I felt sure that you did not guess my worth," he mur-
mured. "But where is it, Jane?"
"Where is what?" she parried. Jane! Then he did not
know her. Jane. . . . Vivian looked about her as she danced
off with him. The only woman of her height and build was the
Egyptian lady. She was old enough to be Vivian's mother,
the girl thought, a little piqued, but, of course, under such
a mask as hers, and with lappets of gold lace fastened under
her chin as well. She had thought when first she saw him that
Mr. Lascelles looked as though he could dance well. Now she
found that he could indeed. He had a jockey's sense of balance.
She enjoyed herself in silence for some minutes. When they


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
81
were resting, he asked her again urgently: "Well, Jane, how
about it? I've come for it."
"For what?" she piped in the treble squeak that she had
adopted to-night.
"The protrait you promised me," he replied on the in-
stant. But she noticed that her next partner was already at her
elbow. Would his reply have been different had they been
alone? <
Mr. Lascelles had looked a most cautious man to her.
How he watched her to-night! He, who had barely glanced at
her yesterday. Always, wherever she went, she saw that figure
in the long robe. He seemed to dance with no one else. To have
eyes for no one else.
She had no dances to spare. But twice he passed her with
a murmur of, "I've come on purpose, Jane." She only laughed.
Shortly after his second inquiry, Vivian noticed that An-
thony was in the ball-room, looking keenly towards the main
door, as though he were expecting some one. She saw him
standing there again a few minutes later, as she swung past,
and again looking as though he were waiting for some one, or
for something. He had avoided her with great care all the eve-
ning. As she had him. But now she felt a sudden impulse to go
up to him. He was leaving next morning. She did not want
them to part like this. But just then Smith claimed her for the
dance.
"Does one good to get back to this sort of thing," he said,
as he improvised some new steps with the skill of an expert.
"Mr. Lascelles, too, evidently couldn't stay away," she
said after a moment.
"Lascelles?" he started. "Have you seen Lascelles here?
To-night?" His tone sounded genuinely amazed.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
83
and cucumber slices, and various flavoring herbs, were tipped
into the drink. Smith gave four stirs with his huge spoon that
set the ice clinking, then the claret-cup was ladled out.
No one needed a second command, the drink was ex-
ceedingly good, very mild, and ice-cold.
Vivian saw Brownlow pledge Anthony with mock for-
mality. Both men seemed on the best of terms with each other.
She thought that Mrs. Brownlow, standing a little behind them,
eyed them very closely. The j'rater was nowhere to be seen. Nor
the Egyptian lady. Bar these two, all the dancers that interested
Vivian were present.
When she had finished her own glass, Anthony had dis-
appeared. After the next dance she decided to look him up.
She remembered their host's words about the letters that Sir
Anthony might have to write. Hurrying down the passage to-
wards the cedar room, she saw, to her surprise, that the Egyp-
tian lady was ahead of her, walking very softly and yet with
purpose in her swift glide. She stopped in front of a mirror
to powder afresh. The yashmak dropped. She was the woman of
the garden, and the expression that stared into the mirror was
not unlike the one which her face had worn yesterday. It was
the look of an utterly desperate woman. She did not see Viv-
ian, the latter was sure of that. Her lips were moving swiftly,
hurriedly, as though she were saying something over and over
to herself. It occurred to Vivian that as she herself was going
to see Anthony Cross for what might well be the very last
time, it could do no harm if she were to freshen herself up
too. After all, though she did not own magnficent eyes, nor was
a Rossetti type, there was no real need for her to look her
worst.
She spent some little time in her room. Finally, she slipped


84
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
down again and into the same passage. The villa was built,
roughly speaking, like a Z, the main body running north and
south, the two projections east and west. At the end of one was
the ball-room, at the end of the other this cedar room. Before
she reached its door, she passed the room where she had
waited in the darkness last night. It opened now, and out
bounded Mr. Murgatroyd, looking like a man beside himself
with indignation or burning wrath. Now the professor had
spoken of possibly watching the revelry for a while from the
first floor landing. But this was not the first floor landing. And
the way in which he had burst from the room suggested a very
different man from the gentle lecturer who was deep in the life
of the Benedictines. He had shown some of this violence last
night, however, at the mere mention,of Anthony's name, as
she now recollected.
At sight of her now, he jumped back into the room as sud-
denly as he had leaped forth, and closed the door. She felt
sure that, had she tried it, she would find that he was holding
it shut. It almost seemed to her that she could hear his quick,
excited breathing from the other side. She was quite sure that
she caught a "Not now! Some one's passing!" in a tone of ex-
treme warning.
Vivian stood quite still. What was astir all around her?
She walked on into the cedar room. Anthony was alone in it.
His pierrot overalls, his pierrot cardboard face were off. He
was in gray tweeds, standing with bent head staring at the floor.
He swung around as she entered with the expression of a man
who says "Here you are at last!" Yet the underlying look on
his face, the look that Vivian felt sure had been there before
she touched the door handle, was of a cold fury. Both looks,
the underlying one and the sudden flash that crossed the other


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
85
as two beams of light might cross each other, left his features
when he saw that it was Vivian. Yet she felt that the anger
was still there, if anger it should be called, for she had a feel-
ing that it was deeper, larger than mere anger.
He took a step towards her.
"Not now, Vivian," he said quietly. "I haven't a moment
to spare now—not even for you."
And taking her gently, but firmly, by the shoulders, he.
turned her round with a very masterful touch. As always with
him, or nearly always, he impressed his will on hers. He domi-
nated. She murmured some word of apology, and like a timid
schoolgirl left him.
What in the world made him look at once so fierce and
so icy? And what had made Mr. Murgatroyd look as he did?
She decided that as there was bitter trouble brewing between
Anthony and Mr. Brownlow, Mr. Murgatroyd had been called
in to arbitrate or to smooth matters over. Vivian thought that
the look on his face must have been caused by indignation
at the whole affair. That probably Mrs. Brownlow was in that
room of which he had held the door shut, and that he had been
trying in vain to reason with her. At any rate, Vivian was sure
that husband and old friend were quarreling over the wife.
For once she accepted defeat. It was not a case in which
she could interfere. She would leave in the morning. Or no,
she must know how events shaped themselves. When Anthony
left early next morning, would he leave alone? One thing she
had decided on. She would not watch him, nor Mrs. Brown-
low. She had tried to-night to say some parting word to the
man with whom, for a couple of short weeks, she had been on
terms of such intimacy. But he had no time for her. Yet Vivian
had a feeling that he had not parted in anger. Rather there


86
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
had been a quick tenderness, not very profound, of course, but
still there, in his voice and his touch. Poor Anthony, she
thought, caught loitering too near to danger, overtaken by the
lava stream of what he thought was an extinct volcano and
about to be swept away by it. As she stepped out of the door
again into the passage, she caught sight of a now familiar
figure at its end.
"Dash it all!" she thought fretfully; "there's that Las-
celles again!"
She dived into the side passage. A couple of curtains were
looped at its entrance. She unfastened them swiftly. The cor-
ridor was very poorly lit to-night. All available lamps had
been carried off for the dancing wing. Lascelles, she imagined,
thought that she had stepped back into the room out of which
he saw her come, for he hurried forward.
"Jane," he said in a cautious voice, "are you there?"
And on that appeared from nowhere the woman whom
Vivian felt sure answered to that name, "the Egyptian lady."
Vivian had not seen her come, but then her range of vision
was limited to the end of the passage beside her. She saw the
hooded figure put his hand on the knob of the cedar room
door, she saw the woman snatch the hand away with a low,
but almost frantic:
"No, no, Reggie! Remember your promise!" The voice
of the woman whom Vivian now called Jane was very deter-
mined. She stood on tiptoe and whispered something swiftly
into her companion's ear. Then both turned away, and, obe-
dient to the woman's urging, passed together down the cor-
ridor.
Vivian waited some minutes, then she cautiously slipped
across and around to the ball-room by a different way.


THE CLUNV PROBLEM 87
"My, but masked dances can be queer, especially in this
house!" she ruminated.
On the floor, she saw Mrs. Brownlow and her husband
dancing together, and apparently in a most friendly fashion.
That seemed to her to be queerer still.
At supper-time a telegram was read from Monsieur Piche-
gru. He sent excuses and good wishes to all his guests. He
could not hope to be back in Cluny for another day at least,
but all was going well. The fire had been got under, and every-
thing had been salvaged.
Masks were now taken off. Mrs. Eastby dropped her yash-
mak as well. Vivian stared at her. She looked ten, nearly twenty,
years younger than the distraught figure out on the gravel path
pleading with Anthony last night, or than she had done just
now, desperately powdering her face and mouthing some words
over and over to herself.
No woman in the room could touch her, either for looks,
or for a certain magnetic warmth that she seemed to spread
about her. Mrs. Brownlow, more painted than Vivian had ever
seen her, was but a shadow beside her. Though she tried to
take the ascendancy that she usually had in any company at
Cluny, the other woman out-shone her beyond all comparison.
Vivian looked around at the people, most of whom were
strangers to her. At no table did she see the Brother of the
Misericordia. She leaned across to Mrs. Eastby, who was having
supper with an utterly fascinated Smith.
"Where's your friend, the Ku-Klux-Klan man as I called
him?" Mrs. Eastby looked at her. For a second her eyes wav-
ered, then:
"I don't know whom you mean," she said lightly enough.
"What clan did you say?"


90
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
on the doors?" he asked with a pained frown. "The noise she's
making is positively shattering."
"Where's Sir Anthony?" she asked suddenly.
"He left long ago. Oh, well, if you insist "He stepped
aside with a look of thinly-veiled disgust at her insistence.
Vivian hurried after the other woman. Something, some wave of
emotion sent out by Mrs. Brownlow was reaching Vivian and
acting on her oddly.
They were now close to the cedar room.
"It's locked!" Mrs. Brownlow said, wheeling.
Smith nodded as he peered into it.
"From the inside. Key's sticking in the lock. That's why" he finished a trifle curtly.
Her only comment was to beat with a small clenched hand
on the panel.
"Tom! Tom!" Her voice was hysterical.
"Now, Mrs. Brownlow," remonstrated Smith, "the last
thing you want to do is to make a fuss—collect the servants—
and so on"
"Don't be silly, Mr. Smith! Tom could drink the ocean
dry and not feel it."
"Probably," was the laconic comment with a more than
usually bored look at her distraught face. "Monsieur Pichegru
doesn't bottle the ocean."
"Something's happened to him!" Her hand went to her
throat. Her eyes grew terrible. She seemed to Vivian to be
struggling not to scream aloud.
"Something's happened to him!" she said again in a sort
of terrified whimper. "He isn't anywhere else! And the door's
locked!" Her voice now came as though half strangled. "He
must be in there!"


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
91
"Now, look here"—Smith spoke firmly, with a fair amount
of kindness and a great deal of impatience in his tone—"this
won't do. Positively. You and Miss Young go on up to bed,
and let me grapple with the situation."
Mrs. Brownlow turned on him. Vivian had a wild notion
that she was going to strike his rather supercilious face.
"Tom's ill. Or else—something has happened to him!"
She was shaking violently. Vivian laid a hand on her arm. A
comforting hand. But Mrs. Brownlow flung it off almost
savagely.


CHAPTER V
VIVIAN moved away from her and joined Smith, who, pre-
ceded by the butler, went around to the windows of the
cedar room by the outside garden path. Fortunately the steel
shutters had not been let down, though the thick draw-curtains
prevented any view into the room.
"Got a knife, Honore?" Smith asked. The butler produced
an instrument which seemed fitted for every emergency, from
putting up a tent to shoeing horses. With a great deal of diffi-
culty, he finally raised the catch on one window and got it
open. Smith stuck his head in through the overlapping hang-
ings.
"Let me see! No, Mr. Smith, let me see!" Mrs. Brown-
low had come up behind them. Her voice brooked no denial.
In a second, reaching over Smith's shoulder, she pulled wide
the curtain. Then she went down as though poleaxed. Vivian
caught her and helped Smith to lay her down on the grass,
then she stepped after him into the room and stooped over a
figure close to the window.
Mr. Brownlow was dead. Shot through the heart. From a
marksman's point of view, it was a very good shot. He was in
evening clothes—his cardboard bottle-dress stood in another
part of the room. Facing where the men were staring, Vivian
saw, in the opposite corner, a second figure. Also lying mo-
tionless. Here, with an exclamation of horror and pain, she
touched an outflung hand from which the revolver lying
beside it; had apparently dropped. The hand was icy. Anthony


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
93
Cross, too, was dead, and must have been dead some hours.
Well, Vivian thought grimly, he had sent his antagonist to
his account. For she came from a part of the world that has
until recently had to police itself, around which still lie wild
districts where lead settles quarrels, if they are only bitter
enough. She did not lose her head now. Neither did the butler
nor Smith. It was the former who took command in his mas-
ter's absence.
"A duel!" he muttered. "We must send for the police all
the same. Though under the circumstances, they will only do
the most necessary."
Mrs. Brownlow staggered in through the window.
"He isn't dead! He can't be dead!" she cried in French,
and in a tone of anguished incredulity. Then she flung herself
on her knees by her husband's side. "He's only fainted. I'll
get my smelling-salts. They're in my handbag "She babbled
on and hurried out and up the stairs, to rush down them a
moment later, a little bag in her hand.
Vivian, for her part, went to the telephone as soon as the
butler had finished calling up the police. She got the Hotel de
Bourgogne and asked that Monsieur Mackay be summoned. It
was urgent. She heard him answer almost at once.
"Mr. Mackay, please come back to the villa immediately.
I can't say more over the telephone. But please come imme-
diately; it's most urgent." And with that she hurried back to
the cedar room. Here she found that Smith was almost forcibly
lifting Mrs. Brownlow away from her husband's dead body.
"I'm most frightfully sorry," he was saying, and as though
he meant it, "but you mustn't alter his position. Not until the
police have seen him. He's quite dead. I swear to you that both
men are dead. There's nothing we can do for them. Here! One


94
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
of you women help her up to her room and stay with her.
Don't step on that revolver!"
Vivian returned to the hall. There were plenty of women
servants. She was not needed.
Was Mackay never coming? She wanted him. He might
not be much use as a detective, she suspected, but she liked
him as a man. She felt sure of him, and these last few minutes
that had come to mean something.
She finally heard steps coming up to the front door, which
stood wide open, with the butler as a sort of distracted sentinel
every now and then stepping through it to see if no one was in
sight yet.
It was the private inquiry agent. He was followed by a
police sergeant and two of his men. They tried to stop Mackay
from entering ahead of them. He got past by a very dexterous
sort of sideway duck.
He jumped over the mat and made for Vivian, while they,
led by the butler, turned off towards the cedar room.
Mackay listened to Vivian with a look of absolute stupe-
faction on his face.
"A duel?" he muttered in an incredulous tone; "but that's
clean impossible! Did you say a duel?" He spoke as though
she had told him that the room in question contained a dino-
therium.
"Sure thing," she replied confidently. "Each has his gun
beside him. Apparently Mr. Brownlow beat Anthony Cross to
the draw, but Sir Anthony got his man." There was a friend's
pride in good work done in Miss Young's tone. "Got him dead.
His was the better shot."
"Losh!" muttered Mackay feebly, and said nothing more
for a moment. Then he asked, "Whaur's the wife?"


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
95
"In her room. She's half crazy. But only on her husband's
account. Oh, I hope she's satisfied now with her work!" Vivian
felt a sudden surge of anger race through her. "But I shouldn't
say that! She's sorry enough now it's done."
"Do you think she had any idea there was trouble on?"
he asked after another pause, during which, by his face, he
seemed trying to get his bearings, and not succeeding over
well.
"I think when her husband didn't turn up, she pretty well
knew. Oh, yes, she guessed then what must have taken place.
As who wouldn't? Still I don't want to talk as though she was
the sinner and they just sheep led astray by her. They were
all three equally to blame. If there's any blame due anywhere.
After all, one must live one's own life. No one else is going to
live it for you. And when a man's dead, it seems to square up
accounts somehow."
The telephone bell whirred. The sergeant strode to it. Fol-
lowed a series of those grunts which only a perfect sense of
intonation preserve from sounding like the language of pigs.
Finally he replaced the receiver and turned to Smith, who
had drawn near.
"Our commissaire is attending an international Confer-
ence at Macon, presided over by the chef de police of the de-
partment. But, by good luck, a high officer from the Surete de
Scotland is attending the conference too, and he is accompany-
ing our commissaire down here. A great compliment to us,
that! He will be a witness to the fact that it was a duel between
two English gentlemen, and that none of us was to blame. That
the deaths were not due to any negligence on the part of the
police of France. Enfin, that our licenses are not to be en-
dorsed—on this occasion."


96 THE CLUNY PROBLEM
J
"I tak' it the mon means Scotland Yarrd?" Mackay asked.
Smith nodded loftily as he turned away towards the stairs.
He had assumed an air of ostentatiously dissociating himself
from the villa and all that therein was.
A little later he and Murgatroyd came down the stairs
together.
"Brownlow!" Vivian could hear the stress of utter incre-
dulity on the name of the dead man, "did you say, Brownlow?"
Vivian could not hear Smith's reply. But finally she heard
the other saying in shocked tones of profound horror: "Ter-
rible! Terrible! And utterly incomprehensible. To me, at least.
What could have caused those two men "again she lost
the rest. But a moment later the historian came into view, mak-
ing for the cedar room itself.
He was not admitted. Even though, like Mr. Smith, he
was known to be an acquaintance of the commissaire. This
was Mr. Murgatroyd's first visit to Villa Porte Bonheur, but
it was by no means his first stay in Cluny. Year after year
his rotund little form had been seen paddling backwards
and forwards between the museum and his hotel.
Finding he got scant attention and even less information
from the police, the professor made his way back to the lounge,
where Smith was buried in a time-table.
"Poor Mrs. Brownlow!" he said once more; "I wish I
could stay and offer her my poor attempts at consolation. But
the affair is too terrible. . .
"Horrible!" said Smith. "Positively shattering!"
. . And she has her own priest to help her. That being
so, I am afraid I cannot put off my departure even because of
this terrible event, as I shall explain to Monsieur Pichegru
when he arrives, as, of course, he must, at once."


98
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
friend certainly. It was emphatically all his fault. She had
warned him. It was as though he had been bewitched. Had
he been bewitched? He, with those standards of right and
wrong which were otherwise so unbendable that they were
one of the things in him which made her uncomforable! Vivian
always liked exceptions to be made—for herself, for those she
loved—but Anthony never made any. Not even for himself. In
those days. A fortnighi ago. And now-dead on the field of dis-
honor. . . . The thought stung. She jumped up again. Could
she be mistaken? A duel, yes, but for another, some other rea-
son? Then she shook her sensible little head. No. All that
lead up to it had been too clear. He had deliberately put him-
self into the path of temptation again. He had disregarded all
warnings in his blind infatuation. He had provoked a jealous
man past all bearing. . . . Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Brownlow
were people who had, or who could have, any connection with
his company. Their meeting—the whole fact that it was to
the wife not to the husband that Anthony had devoted himself
so utterly, all went to prove it. And what had it brought him?
Death. A tarnished memory. And not even the love of the
woman for which he had paid so dear. Mrs. Brownlow had
not so much as glanced at Anthony Cross's dead body. Sud-
denly, that seemed to Vivian a very pathetic fact. For it was a
fact. She had staggered to her husband, she had fallen on her
knees by his side, Smith had had almost to tear her from him,
but she had not even looked towards Anthony Cross's dark
corner. It was quite clear where her love really belonged. But
Anthony must have had good reason for thinking otherwise.
Vivian remembered Edith Montdore's belief that the wom-
an was a vamp. Certainly she had tried by every wile known to
a clever woman to lead him on, as Vivian herself had noticed,


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
99
this last night. And it was all a mistake, or play, or self-de-
ception?
Now Cluny is but fourteen miles or so from Macon, the
capital of its department, Saone-et-Loire, and there, as the
sergeant told Smith later, a big international conference was
being held while the dance at Villa Porte Bonheur was but be-
ginning. It was the closing night of the conference. Monsieur
Cambier, the commissaire of the Saone-et-Loire police, was its
vice-president. He gave the closing address, and wound up
with the words:
". . . and above all, my dear colleagues, let us beware
of the clever, the tortuous, as opposed to the simple explana-
tion of any crime. It is so easy to be unexpected and so temp-
ting."
Monsieur Cambier sat down amid applause.
The president nodded his head approvingly, and turning
to a young man on his rigtit, asked in tolerable English, "You,
I know, Chief Inspector, agree with me, our confrere? The
English character of itself answers that, with its love of the
plain, its well founded distrust of the complex."
Chief Inspector Pointer of New Scotland Yard made some
noncommittal reply. He was pre-eminently a man who could
keep his opinions to himself. His pleasant, but inscrutable,
glance said as much. So did the quiet dignity of his manner,
an unconscious dignity that suggested unusual force of char-
acter.
With the formal closing address, the circle of men sitting
around the table shifted more comfortably in their chairs and
started fresh cigars. No one was in a hurry. Tales such as you


100
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
could hear to-night would not come any one's way for an-
other twelvemonth.
When it was over, Pointer walked back to his hotel. He
wished most heartily, as he went to bed, that English mattress-
makers would turn detectives and find out the secret of French
beds. But he was a man who, by nature and training, could
do with very little sleep, so that, in spite of springy ease, he
was up early next morning. There is nothing in dull little Ma-
con to take a man into the streets before the rest of the world
is astir. Like most French towns, it has, to English eyes, a pe-
culiar desolation and grubbiness, due in part to the lack of
flowers, gardens and trees.
True, Macon has a past. It was a Roman camp. It had a
cathedral. Lamertine was foolish enough to be born there.
Macon also has a present—its innumerable factories. While
the view of Mont Blanc from the bridge which links past and
present, is, like its wine, of no great interest.
Pointer decided to stay where he was and listen to Sir
Walter Scott instead. He turned to the Journal, a traveling
companion old and tried, and was losing himself in a page,
when the night porter, after the quickest and lightest of taps,
slipped into his room. Pointer was wanted immediately at the
police station. A car was waiting for him below. A message
was being wirelessed for him from London, which the police
thought that he would prefer to receive in person.
Pointer was soon listening in. It was New Scotland Yard
that was speaking, and in its own often-changed code. Worked
out it came to this:—
Two Englishmen had been found dead at Cluny, quite
close to where the chief inspector was. The French police
were still a little on edge over the remarks made about their


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
101
handling of the recent case of a drowned English-woman in
Paris. The Home Office wanted to pay them a marked and
soothing compliment, and had asked Scotland Yard to let
Chief Inspector Pointer proceed to Cluny, to act as the British
official observer for whom the French police had just asked.
The assistant commissioner, who was speaking, added that since
Pointer's leg had not yet recovered from the injury that it had
received in his last case, he would on no account be allowed
to go on active service again for another couple of weeks.
Pointer grunted at that, but finally sent back the equivalent for
"I hear and obey" which was expected of him.
The commissaire, Monsieur Cambier, came in as he was
finishing.
Pointer explained the request that he had received, and his
own acceptance.
"Like myself, the chef de police of our district will be
overcome by the honor done us." Cambier bowed deeply. "It
is indeed a most unlooked-for favor that an officer of your po-
sition should be willing to watch a simple little local case. But
on the other hand, as the two gentlemen concerned appear to
belong to your 'high life,' your mere presence will be a guaran-
tee of the complete impartiality of the investigation, and will,
therefore, be of immense comfort to the English nation." Mon-
sieur Cambier made a superb gesture and proceeded to thank
Pointer on behalf of himself, of his colleagues, of the chef de
police, of the prefect of the department, and was apparently
working his way along to the president of the republic when
some one brought in hot milk and coffee, which was poured,
in the dexterous French way, in two simultaneous streams
into a couple of cups.


102
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
"Cluny," Pointer repeated; "any connection with the Ho-
tel de Cluny?"
In Paris there runs a legend which recognizes three kinds
of French. The French of the Academie, the French of the man
in the street, and the French spoken by the English and Ameri-
cans. But Pointer spoke the tongue well. His consonants
popped, or came with the crisp patter of pebbles on metal.
His sentences turned up their tails.
"You mean the museum? It used to be the Paris house
of the abbotts who lived, et ma foi, ruled, in Cluny. The town
is small. Lace and pottery-making are its chief claims to notice
—bar its ruins, of course."
They stuffed their croissants and rolls into their pockets
and hurried down to the car below.
In it was a bright-eyed, dark-haired young man who sat
writing fast in a pocket-book. As they opened the door, the
breeze caught a loose end of paper and whirled it into the air.
Pointer did not seem to make any movement, but his
fingers closed on it and he held it out to the young man who
jumped up.
"Parbleu, I should like to meet you with a foil, monsieur!"
Cambier introduced him.
"This is Rondeau, my aid. He thinks himself a detective,
but he is young." In Cambier's tone was an affected discontent.
In his eyes great friendliness. "He is a revolutionaire. In de-
tective theories only, I can vouch for that. Also, he is a writer
of detective stories. And detective stories, monsieur, should be
forbidden by law. They are poison to the intelligence."
"I follow Poe and his Dupin," Rondeau said cheerfully.
"I build with humble bricks an altar to intelligence, to the
Goddess of Reason. Monsieur Cambier, my chef here, would


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
103
make her a slave, chained to the heels of old boots, coming
after blobs of candle grease—an old chiffoniere, a rag-picker."
"Detection is a science," Cambier said sternly.
"It is an art," Rondeau maintained; "all the groveling
after clues in the world is not worth one pinch of fl"
"Say the word flair, and you fly out of this door!" thun-
dered Cambier; "the detective's flair is the criminal's mascot."
All three laughed.
"Detective stories discourage crime," Rondeau pointed
out.
"Not yours, my friend. Your detectives are calculated to
increase the number of murders a hundredfold. But what did
you learn on the telephone while I was upstairs? Anything of
importance?"
"The men who are killed are a Baron Cross and a Mon-
sieur Brownlow.V They looked inquiringly at Pointer, who
tried to place a Lord Cross—and failed.
"I know the house where this lamentable thing has hap-
pened," Cambier explained to Pointer. "I know the owner of
Villa Porte Bonheur. He is a Monsieur Pichegru—a gentle-
man of the utmost respectability, an owner of some small, but
good, vineyards. A couple of years ago his entire crops of
grapes failed, and he took into his house what you call 'pay-
ing guests.' It was a revolutionary idea! But it saved our
good Pichegru. And since then he has continued to have some
foreigners always with him. In case the crops failed again! His
villa is well run. It is well staffed with local servants, who say
that it, and the people staying in it are always, in every way,
of the most correct." Cambier ran over the names of the in-
mates as known to him.
"I have met one of the dead men—Monsieur Brownlow—


104
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
once or twice. He played a good game of tennis, and was a
fair shot, besides seeming a most agreeable companion. Un-
fortunately his wife is young and beautiful"
"Her age is given on her permit de sejour as thirty-two,"
cut in Rondeau. "But I agree that she is very interesting-look-
ing, though I ask myself"
"You agree! Interesting-looking!" scoffed Cambier; "ah,
the presumption of youth! How old is Baron Cross; did you
learn that?"
Rondeau said that he had. The baron was between forty
and fifty apparently.
"Present at the fancy-dress dance which was given at the
villa last night were "Rondeau enumerated the names of
the guests as telephoned to him.
"Here we are!" murmured Cambier, who was looking out
of the window. "Here, at what was once the hub of the world.
Here, in this deserted nook, where prelate and prince came
to have their disputes settled, where sovereigns make a pil-
grimage. The Abbot's Palace is now the Hotel de ville, with
which you, monsieur, will doubtless become well acquainted
before the formalities are over. I do not expect that it will be
a long business"
"One never knows "began Rondeau hopefully.
"But one learns!" retorted Cambier. "You, monsieur I'in-
sjiecteur-en-chef—he turned to Pointer—"have naturally an
absolutely free hand. In every way, in every respect. Any ob-
servations with which you honor us will be carefully treasured
and at once embodied in the official reports. Ah, here is the
villa gate!"
A moment more, and the three were out on the gravel.
Another moment, and they were met by the police sergeant


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
105
on guard, who described the finding of the "duellers," first by
the inmates of the villa, then by the police.
"This way, mon chef." He took them to the cedar room.
All but one set of curtains were still drawn. The commissaire
snapped on the electric light as well.
"They fought in the dark," murmured the sergeant, stand-
ing bare-headed by Sir Anthony's body. "Here is a switch most
convenient to turn out the light."
The police bent over the bodies in turn. The doctor was
waiting for them to be handed over to him, but he showed
how Baron Cross, as he called him, though mortally wounded
in the side, had had time to fire and kill his adversary with
one fatal shot. Death in Brownlow's case had been instantane-
ous. By each man's side lay the revolver which had presumably
been used. Both jobs were what the doctor called neat. Bleed-
ing had been chiefly internal.
"The facts seem clear enough. I regret deeply"—Cambier
turned to Pointer—"that there is nothing here to show you
what we can do. Husband—wife—husband's friend. The door
locked on the inside. The key in the keyhole. Bah, it explains
itself—-so far. Not even a detective of Rondeau's could miss the
truth. Not even in the first chapter. I do not suppose that you
know either of the dead men's faces, monsieur?"
Pointer did not.
The sergeant reported the servants' gossip, which was to
the effect that "milord Cross" had devoted himself entirely to
Madam Brownlow last night. Evidently monsieur had either
misunderstood, or understood—according to one's point of
view.
The sergeant had been making inquiries over the wire. No
one of the guests to whom he had telephoned—very guardedly


106
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
—had any idea, as far as he could judge, that there had been
anything in the way of an accident at the villa last night.
"Just so," nodded Cambier. "It was a duel to the death
—in the dark—between these two, of which every one else was
in ignorance probably. Except, perhaps, madam. We shall come
to her by and by for that point to be cleared up. Though what
could the poor woman do? Having done all the mischief, she
would now have had to stand on one side and let the conse-
quences work themselves out."
"Yes, but I ask myself "began Rondeau. His chief cut
him short.
"Do not embroider, do not twist, Rondeau! Do not, I beg,
be subtle! Here we have two men and a beautiful woman.
Some incident heats their anger to fury. Each fetches his re-
volver. They stand in corners opposite to each other the length
of the room apart, turn out the light, and voilal—that is all."
"I have an idea that it is not so simple!" insisted Rondeau.
"An idea!" scoffed Cambier. "Have you a fact? Let us
see what we can find?" He looked about him keenly. "Here is
a tiny pin on the inkstand"
"Such as is used to pin together bank-notes, eh, mon
chef?" Rondeau asked excitedly, drawing in his breath, as he
bent over the first find, as though the air were laden with some
wonderful perfume, the perfume of a pin.
"And other things, my lad! You always forget the other
things, the every day other things." Cambier continued to go
over the room, inch by inch.
He examined the disguise worn by Brownlow—the card-
board bottle of Macon. It showed no marks of a tussle.
"It has many straps inside. None of them are strained. He
took it off quite calmly, without haste." Cambier passed on.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
107
"There are no finger-prints on either pistol," Rondeau
murmured.
"Tien, and I thought the thinker despised clues! But as
we both know, more often than not, with people whose hands
are clean, and cool, no prints are left." Cambier got up and
dusted his knees. "I think we can leave this room now. Locked
up, of course. The photographs have been taken and are being
developed?"
The sergeant said that was so.
"And how about the room of milord?" Cambier next
asked.
He was told that it had yielded nothing significant.
"Then I think we will interview that poor lady, Madam
Brownlow. She has my most profound sympathy. After all, it
was God, and not herself, who gave her her strange, troubling
beauty and a charm that mounts to the head like our own
rich wine. Rondeau, you can finish your report in the next
room. Hand it to my secretary, who will be here shortly. But,
as railway freights have again risen, and it will eventually have
to be sent to Macon, may I suggest a little more compression
than last time? As for Monsieur Pointaire and me, we will now
go up to the room of Madame."


CHAPTER VI

GENDARME approached the commissaire. After a few min-
utes' talk, Cambier turned again to Pointer.
"It appears that there is an English private detective
already on the spot. He is investigating the loss by a gentle-
man who was staying at Villa Porte Bonheur of a considerable
sum of money in the Paris rapide some days ago. He speaks
a French which can be understood—with a little trouble—and
he can understand whatever is said to him, which is all that
really matters. Fortunately this private inquiry agent has met
the dead milord, and can, therefore, positively identify him
as Baron Anthony Cross."
Anthony Cross. Pointer at last placed the dead man. One
of the directors of the big South African Diamond Combine.
He decided mentally that Rondeau would certainly start ask-
ing himself questions when he heard of that fact. Even he,
Pointer, wondered whether. . . .
"The sergeant rightly did not care to allow him the run of
the room until we should viser his papers," went on Cambier.
"Would you be so kind as to do that for us? Since we have
the inestimable benefit of your presence." Cambier spoke to
one of his men. A minute later and Mackay entered. One glance
and he stepped up to Pointer.
"You'll be yon chief inspector frae Scotland Yard they
are talking of outside as having arrived. Here are my creden-
tials." He handed the same wad to Pointer that he had shown


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
109
to Vivian Young. Pointer also went through the contents care-
fully.
"And here's a letter frae Mr. Davidson, who's my em-
ployer for the time being, referring to some question I asked
him. And here's a line frae the dead mon, Sir Anthony Cross,
enclosing me an invitation for last nicht's dancing. I did some
warrk for his firm not long ago. Looking up a doubtful refer-
ence in Edinburgh. I hadna met Sir Anthony till I chanced on
him here." Pointer handed him back the papers, and intro-
duced him to the commissaire, who shook hands.
"It seems a clear case of a duel," Cambier repeated
thoughtfully. "Is there anything known to you that explains the
ill-feeling between the two gentlemen?"
"I'm afraid I can't be of the smallest use to you, except
by saying that one of the dead bodies is certainly that of Sir
Anthony Cross," Mackay explained, in his fairly correct, but
very weirdly-accented French.
"Pity. We were on our way to question Madam Brown-
low," Cambier continued. "You, too, monsieur, are welcome to
hear what she has to say."
Mrs. Brownlow was very pale, very haggard even, yet not
the distraught figure that might have been expected. She was
in a short, black dress of some shimmery silken stuff that
outlined her really lovely figure in a way which would have
caused a sensation before the war.
All the men thought that she was made up. But made up
to hide, not to accentuate the marks of grief and shock.
The whole terrible affair had come as a complete thunder-
bolt on her, she said in the soft murmur of a well-bred French-
woman. She knew, she had always known, that her husband
was jealous almost to the point of madness. That was really


110
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
why she was thankful to stay on here in Cluny. She and Sir
Anthony had flirted a little to-night. But it was only a flirta-
tion, a game. Only a pose. Her husband must have known as
much. True, he had once before objected to her acquaintance-
ship with Sir Anthony, and that was why he and she had not
seen anything of each other for so long.
"Was your husband a violent-tempered man in private?"
the commissaire asked.
Mrs. Brownlow wiped her brimming eyes. "It took a tre-
mendous lot of feeling to break through the restraint habitual
to him. He rarely lost his temper, but when he did, he lost it
completely."
Coming to last night, she said that he had seemed vexed
with her for having sat out a good many dances with Sir An-
thony. But the dead man and she had naturally a good deal
to talk about. Her husband had scolded her, and she had been
very indignant with him. Then, later, he had apologized, and
they had made it up. But evidently the feeling had remained
behind—and this was the result!
"Madam," Cambier said gently, "come, now, be frank
with us. It will go no further. You were planning to elope last
night with Sir Cross, were you not? It was for that that he had
come here?"
Mrs. Brownlow's head sank lower yet. She did not reply
until the question—a guess—was repeated, still more gently.
"Yes," she whispered all but inaudibly. The Frenchman
looked very sympathetic.
"I am so desolated, madam, to have to press the point, but
we must, you know. You and Sir Cross intended then to go
away together? And your husband learned of the plan?"
"I think he must have," she murmured brokenly.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
111
"And when did you decide on it?"
"Last night. Before the supper. I did not notice the time.
I—oh," she broke down apparently, but there were no ravages
visible on her tinted cheeks when she raised her head again,
though she was very pale and looked very unhappy. She
looked very lovely too. Hers was a type of face that needs
emotion to kindle it.
"And you knew nothing of this duel?" pressed Cambier.
"Absolutely nothing." She spoke very earnestly. "I am
willing to swear that on the crucifix."
"I believe you, madam," the commissaire said gently. He
questioned her as to when she had last seen each of the two
men. Mrs. Brownlow could not be sure. She had no idea of the
exact hour, but in Sir Anthony's case it had been before sup-
per; and in her husband's case it had been some little time after
supper. Perhaps half an hour, but perhaps less or more.
Pointer and Mackay listened attentively. Cambier now
turned to them. "Is there anything you would like to ask ma-
dam, messieurs?"
Mackay fidgeted a moment on his seat, then he burst out:
"I canna get the affair properly into ma head," he said
at last. "There's nae logic intilt. To kill a mon—it takes a lot
o' feeling to gae that far. I canna hear that Mr. Brownlow
showed any sign of jealousy before. The general opinion, on
the contrary, is that he was anything but of a jealous temper."
He looked at Mrs. Brownlow questioningly.
"But you see he was," she said sadly. Speaking in English
too.
"He never betrayed himself before," Mackay went on
obstinately; "for a mon o' oor race to kill anither—na, na,
ma'm, I canna think ye're richt! I feel siccer there was mair


112
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
nor that behind these deaths—this fecht. Ye maun forgi'e me,
Mrs. Brownlow, but ye see I ha'e met your guid man, though
but at this dance. He didna strike me as in a tooring passion
at ony time last nicht. Na, na! It wasn't jealousy! Judging
accordin' to the licht o' reason, I canna think it that. I canna!
There maun be some ither cause." Mackay spoke very firmly.
"But you see, Sir Anthony and I were going to run away
together," she said, hanging her head with its top-heavy mass
of thick, rather coarse, dusky red hair. "And somehow he must
have learned of it—and Sir Anthony has a quick temper—so
that, between them, they quite lost all sense of proportion."
Still Mackay shook his head. Still he looked absolutely
unconvinced.
"Tisn't logical, ma'm. To suddenly fecht a duel—he's a
law-abidin' mon a' his days. 'Tis too sudden. There maun be
some ither cause."
"Oh, it isn't the first time!" she replied in French, her
voice marking acute pain. "I—I ought to have been on my
guard. I am so terribly to blame!" She buried her face in her
slender, long, beautiful hands for a moment, and shuddered.
The commissaire looked sympathetically at her.
"There was another time," she went on in a little, hushed
voice barely audible, and still in her native language. "It was
years ago. In China. A young man used to come to our house
a good deal there. He was such a nice boy, and so homesick.
And so frank and friendly. I was so dreadfully sorry for him.
I never guessed, until the last evening, that—well, that he
didn't look on me as a sort of temporary sister, as I thought.
That last evening "she paused. "Mr. Brownlow came in
and found him saying good-bye to me. My husband wouldn't
listen to any explanations. And next morning poor young


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
113
Jackson, that was the boy's name, was found drowned in the
river near our house. And some people said"—she bit her
trembling lip; she was genuinely shaken by the old story—
"some people said that Tom had drowned him." Her voice was
a mere whisper of horror.
"Had he?" the commissaire asked bluntly.
"I was never sure." Alys Brownlow shivered. "I was never
sure, but"—she lifted her head and looked at the three in-
tently listening men—"I think that he did. I think there was a
quarrel over me by the river, and Tom flung young Jackson into
it without caring, at the moment, whether he could swim or
not."
"Was the affair never cleared up?" Cambier asked.
Mrs. Brownlow shook her head.
"It never came to a trial. There was no evidence. But
many people, as I say, thought that he had. You see, Mr.
Mackay, many people guessed what you can't seem to believe,
that Tom Brownlow was a very hot tempered and very jealous
man in his heart."
There was a long silence.
"Thank you ma'm, for explaining," Mackay said finally.
"You've pit the logic intilt that it lacked before. There's nae
doot in ma mind the noo but that you were richt, and that Mr.
Brownlow was a maist dangerous man."
Again there was a silence. Finally Cambier turned to the
chief inspector.
"If there are no questions you would like to ask madam,
I have no further queries to put for the moment."
On Pointer and Mackay both murmuring a negative, the
commissaire rose, said a few words of respectful sympathy,
and led the way downstairs. It was understood that Mrs. Brown-


114
THE CLCNY PROBLEM
low would remain in the villa for the present, though they
hoped not to have to disturb her again.
When the newly-made widow was alone, she rang and
asked if Miss Young would speak to her for a moment.
Vivian came with great inward reluctance. She was angry
and very disappointed in herself that this should be so. Mrs.
Brownlow had taken nothing from her worth keeping, or that
had ever been really her's. She knew that it was only wounded
pride that made her wish never to see the woman again.
But after a little delay she came. She found the other
stretched out on a chaise-longue. Vivian thought she had been
lying with her face buried in the cushions. More, it looked to
her swift glance as though a corner of the cushions had been
bitten by sharp, small teeth.
"Oh, Vivian—may I call you that—please stop with me!"
Mrs. Brownlow laid a hand on the girl's shoulder and drew
her down closer. "I couldn't tell those men, they wouldn't
understand it—but, oh. . . . Don't shrink from me"—Vivian
had made her back stiff—"you can't blame me as much as I do!
But oh, I'm punished! For you see"—she gulped down a sob—
"you see, it was my husband I loved! Not the other man at all.
Now it's too late—I know that. Now it's too late!" There was
desolation in the tone. There was desolation in the large but
narrow eyes, in the whole sunken face.
Vivian's kind heart melted.
"I'm very sorry for you, Mrs. Brownlow," she said, and
meant it.
"Stay with me!" pleaded the other; "I can't leave here
immediately. I don't feel able even to think. Tom decided every-
thing for me for so many years. Tom "Her eyes over-


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
115
flowed, her lips quivered, and snatching her hand away she
burst into passionate sobbing.
Downstairs, Mr. Murgatroyd had asked if he could speak
to the commissaire for a moment. He explained that he did not
want to be detained at Cluny. That he very much wanted to
catch the next Paris express at Macon.
Now, as has been said, Monsieur Cambier knew the pro-
fessor. For the latter had special access and permits to what
remained of the old abbey library, where he often worked for
days at a time. Mr. Murgatroyd went on to explain that he
had no faintest notion of anything that could throw any light
on why Mr. Brownlow should have shot Sir Anthony Cross,
nor why Sir Anthony should have wanted to shoot Mr. Brown-
low. He had not met either of the men until he came here to
Cluny this last time. And on that, and leaving his address, Mr.
Murgatroyd was assured that since he said that he must leave
at once for Paris, no objections would be raised, though he
was asked to remain in France until he heard from the com-
missaire. That official did not add, what he did later to his
superior, the chef de police, that seeing that all the guests who
had attended the dance had dispersed, one more, and that one
who had not been present, might be allowed to go on too.
As soon as Mr. Murgatroyd had left them, Monsieur
Pichegru arrived from Dijon. He was in a state of mind that,
had the matter not been so serious, would have been funny.
Added to his shocked horror as to what had happened to
the two dead men, was an intensely human curiosity as to
why it had happened, and what Mrs. Brownlow would do. Also
how it would affect the name of the villa itself, which, as he
explained, he advertised as a quiet retreat, a perfect nerve cure.


116
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
The Brownlows had been the first people of the party now
staying in the villa to answer the advertisement.
"I looked up their references, which were in every way
satisfactory," Pichegru went into details. He now furnished
the information that had been given him. Brownlow was a
member of three good London clubs, and was engaged in silk
importation. Apparently he was a man of considerable means.
His wife had some unsually fine jewels, a part of which, as
the commissaire knew, had been stolen lately. They were so
fine that Pichegru would only allow them in the villa on the
understanding that they should be locked up every night in
his safe.
As to Sir Anthony Cross—he explained how slight was
his knowledge of that gentleman.
"And now, monsieur, or rather messieurs, what ought I
to do? I am really needed in Dijon, and badly. The warehouse
is but a riddled sieve of a building. You know what happens
if good wine is carelessly handled—on the other hand, I would
not for the world appear wanting in respect"
He was called to the telephone. A question had arisen
which only he could solve, and only he on the spot. Monsieur
Pichegru was distracted. Cambier finally advised him to go to
Dijon, and from there keep in touch with the villa over the
telephone. He could be summoned at any moment. He would
be so summoned should his presence in Cluny be of the slight-
est help. Meantime his household staff would carry on, the
butler in particular, as Monsieur Pichegru pointed out, en-
joyed his entire confidence. So finally, half-relieved, half-
apologetic, the owner of the villa jumped into his car and
made off once more for Dijon and his hogsheads and his
bottles.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
117
Mr. Smith was asked to come into the room. He shook
hands with the commissaire. They had faced each other on the
hard courts many a time. He ran over the finding of the two
dead bodies, explaining that he had first thought that Brown-
low must have fallen asleep, then that he had had a glass too
much, when he failed to reply to the calls for him.
As to when he had last seen either man, Smith was very
vague. Around one o'clock, he fancied, in each case. But Cam-
bier's closer questioning made him say that time at a dance was
not, as far as he was concerned. Simply was not. He had one
curious little incident to relate, however.
"Sir Anthony came out of the cedar room as I was pass-
ing, shortly before midnight. Or shortly after it. He was with-
out his pierrot mask and dress, and asked me if I would act as
co-witness with Mr. Murgatroyd to his signature. It was a fi-
nancial paper that was to be signed, he explained, and he said
that he regretted that he could not let me see the contents. I
followed him into the room, and found that he had folded the
paper so that his signature, when he wrote it, was the only
thing visible. Below it Cross had written the words 'Witnesses
to my signature,' with a bracket within which we signed, Murga-
troyd and I."
Smith added that, seeing the position of Sir Anthony, he
had not given the matter a second thought. He had found, and
he had left, Murgatroyd in the room with the baronet. Now
he thought it highly probable that Sir Anthony had in reality
been asking him to witness his will, but, for fear of arousing
comment, had preferred not to state the truth. Though why he
should have told a lie about the matter, would, Smith thought,
need some one who knew him to understand.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
119
in the room, Monsieur Smith says, when the latter entered,
and he left him still in the room."
Inquiry for Mr. Murgatroyd showed that the historian
had already left in a car, for which he had telephoned very
urgently to the one local garage.
"I have the name of his hotel in Paris," Cambier said
placidly. "I will write and ask him the question I intended to
put personally. The answers mean but little. The paper signed
might have either been a will, as we think, or concerned some
money affair which Sir Cross wished settled before he died.
Madam Brownlow believed, as you know, that he has no rela-
tives living. We will, of course, communicate at once with the
London office of his firm. What is it, Chevron?"
It was Mr. Smith again. Mr. Smith wished to be allowed
to go on to Vichy, where he expected to take a cure. He
had been going later on, in any case, and now, very naturally,
preferred to leave at once. The commissaire jotted down the
name of the doctor—it was one known to him, for Vichy is
fairly near to Cluny—and said that, provided Mr. Smith
would hold himself in readiness to give any evidence which
he, the commissaire, frankly did not think would be needed,
there was no objection to his proceeding to the spa at once.
And Smith, looking quite grateful, left the room hurriedly to
make his arrangements.
The commissaire now turned his attention to the serv-
ants. Rondeau was told off to have a look at Sir Cross's bed-
room. Pointer and Mackay followed him. Sir Anthony had
sent on his suit-case to Paris from the hotel yesterday after-
noon.
"There are only two bags of his here." The sergeant


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
121
and had driven off in a car that seemed to be waiting for her.
A sleepy night porter was not very exact. The lady had left no
address. She had only come for a couple of days to study the
historical remains of the place, so she had said on arriving.
When had she come? By the same train as Sir Cross, though
apparently they were only slightly acquainted. The hotel had
only seen them exchange a few words once or twice in all.
"Probably train acquaintances," murmured Cambier when
the telephone information was passed on to him.
"She is said to have been very handsome," Rondeau added.
It was he who had telephoned.
"Just so. That's why train acquaintances," snapped his
chief. "The points—the only points of interest to us—are that
she apparently did not know Mr. Brownlow, and that Sir
Cross's behavior towards her was not one to arouse any jeal-
ousy in any onlooker. This is a duel, remember. Kindly let
that fact clip a little off your imagination's wings."
Rondeau subsided. His last effort had "explained" a man
injured by a mule's kick into a violent attempt at highway
robbery on the part of four armed apaches.
"We will see what the two others guests staying in the
house can tell us." Cambier had the butler once more sum-
moned. He learned from him that Monsieur Tibbitts, who had
been helped up to bed by Brownlow and the servant last
night, had gone out for a spin to cool his brain at some early
hour in the morning.
"If a man—a foreigner not accustomed to wines—will
prefer Burgundy to our light claret "the butler shrugged
his shoulders. He was a Clunyois, well known to Cambier and
the police as a most respectable character.
Questioned as to the hour of Tibbitt's retirement from


122
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
the hall, he gave it as around half-past twelve. Early this morn-
ing, one of the temporary footmen, who was a waiter at a near-
by inn, had happened to see Mr. Tibbitts driving alone in a
little sports car. The car belonged to Monsieur Brownlow, the
butler added, though Monsieur Tibbitts often used it. As to his
early drive, he had done this once or twice before after a
bottle too many, and might be expected to return before
lunch very much the better for his outing.
"Meantime, the young lady is available," he suggested.
Vivian was requested to speak to the commissaire for a
moment. The questions put to her were purely formal. Neither
of the Frenchmen asked her if she had met Sir Anthony Cross,
nor yet Mr. Brownlow, before arriving at the villa, for, know-
ing from the butler's account of Sir Anthony's first visit that
she had not met him then, and aware of the fact that she was
an American on a tour of the world, it was taken for granted
that the one was a total, and the other a comparative, stranger.
She added nothing to Cambier's knowledge of what had hap-
pened, merely corroborating the butler's and Smith's accounts
of how the bodies had first been found.
The doctor's preliminary report was handed in before
Cambier had finished this dull but necessary part of the in-
quiry. A fuller one would follow later. This first one merely
established the fact that, as had been thought, the bullet that
caused each man's death fitted the weapon found beside the
other man, and had been fired from the front in Mr. Brown-
low's case, and sideways in Sir Anthony's case, but at a distance
that precluded any singeing of cloth or powder marks.
In Mr. Brownlow's case death had been instantaneous,
while in Sir Anthony's, the wounded man had, as they all knew,
had time to kill the other before himself expiring.


124
THE CLUNT PROBLEM
plaque hung fourth in order, on the little end wall, it would
have been exactly opposite the door. There was no one about.
He jumped on a chair. The "sun" in the haystack was a small
bullet, such a bullet as an automatic might have fired. It had
not gone through the thick metal, but had embedded itself
very deeply in it.
He turned around as the door of the cedar room opened.
The two French officials were going to have a general inspection
of the gardens. Pointer joined them.
"Nothing amiss," Cambier said finally; "as was to be ex-
pected. You agree with me, messieurs, do you not, that the
gardens tell nothing?" He addressed Pointer and the private
inquiry agent. Mackay nodded. Chief Inspector Pointer said
nothing.
"It tells you something?" Rondeau said instantly, all alert-
ness.
"You mean?" Cambier was no less interested.
"I think some one has searched the garden already,"
Pointer said finally.
"None of our men. The sergeant did not trouble, seeing
that the deaths—so far—look like a duel. You think some one
has searched here—this morning? May I permit myself to ask
why you think that, monsieur?" Cambier asked.
Pointer showed them some leaves here and there which,
he thought—and he was a country boy—had been either dis-
turbed or turned over. The morning dew, thick and heavy, was
what he went by.
"But there are no footprints "Cambier was examining
the ground very closely. "A dog, perhaps; some animal?"
Pointer thought not. He thought that the marks showed


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
125
that some intelligent person had been looking for something
and had had an idea of where to look.
"I think it was some one who had lost or dropped some-
thing on the way between the front door and the gate and re-
traced his steps looking for it."
"Losh!" muttered Mackay. "Mechty me!" he added after a
pause.
"Ah-h!" breathed Rondeau, with that eager intake of his
breath that suggested a dog trying for a scent. "Ah-h!"
"But what makes you think the same person searched as
lost?" Mackay wanted to know. "Why wasna it some one
searching for what some ither person had dropped?"
Pointer thought that the searcher was both too vague and
too precise for that. He had, so he believed, turned over or
prodded some leaves from every bush on the right-hand side
—supposing he were walking away from the house that
touched or bordered the winding main drive.
"You think the leaves and plants that have been disturbed
are only in that direction," murmured Cambier. "We will see."
But he could not agree with the man from Scotland Yard.
There were many signs to Pointer's eyes that the other missed,
perhaps because he did not believe that they held any message
bearing on the case.
"No footprints, messieur, no mark of a hand in the
ground," he finally pointed out. Pointer quite agreed with him.
"What object would you think it was?" Rondeau wanted
to know.
"Something small and flat," Pointer thought; "small
enough and flat enough to be hidden under those primula
leaves, for instance, back there. Something that he was carry-


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
127
richt, or yon Frenchie's, but I'll luik a bit longer." He did.
But finally he gave it up.
"Yon's a terrible thing to have happened," he said half to
himself as he straightened up. "But what's the use!"
"The use of what?"
"Of arguing according to reason in this affair. Ah, here
comes Miss Young. We maun stop, for she's seen us. And if she
wants to speir oot hoo things stand, she wull."
Mackay's tone of resignation made Pointer smile.
But Miss Young was only told what the papers would
soon know, and what she knew already: that a duel to the
death had taken place at the villa last night, and that both the
men who fought it were dead. Vivian nodded sadly.
"Well, I'm glad that there's to be no long drawn out in-
vestigation. And so will Mrs. Brownlow be."


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
129
Incidentally, of course, the hotel asked the man-servant for his
own address, and I have had him summoned here at once. But
to return to this lady—she tells me that Sir Cross has been
staying at Enghien-les-Bains with her and her husband and her
sister. Was it true, as the valet had been told, that he was sup-
posed to have met his death in a duel over some lady down
here? She evidently intended to receive a reply. I said that we
thought so. The voice of this Madam Gatwick then replied that
that was absolutely impossible, and went on, in her truly dis-
tressing French, to say that her sister was Sir Cross's fiancee,
and that that gentleman had certainly not fought a duel over
her sister. Wait, mon aim"—he silenced Rondeau—"do not
give vent to those suppositions that I can almost see thronging
to your lips! Stranger things are yet to come. I inquired—
tactfully, I trust—when the engagement had taken place. And
ma foi, it is odd!" Cambier made a grimace. "Just now! A
fortnight ago! I asked her where her sister was. I expected to
learn that she was on her bed, dissolved in tears, or even under
medical treatment, but I confess I did not expect the answer
that I received."
He paused.
"The answer!" implored Rondeau breathlessly.
"The answer was that Mademoiselle Young—that is the
lady's name—is here in Cluny. More, is here in the Villa Porte
Bonheur itself."
"Mademoiselle Young!" gasped Rondeau, and actually
seemed too surprised to ask himself anything at all. Mackay
jumped in his seat.
"Now," insisted Cambier, "this piece of news is very in-
teresting, and very dramatic. And perhaps it changes much.
And perhaps it changes nothing. An engagement may be en-


130
THE CLUNT PROBLEM
tered into for reasons of, shall we say, good sense? An affair
of the heart might persist in spite of it. You young men are
not the only romantics. Unfortunately. And now we will again
question Miss Young. This so very reserved young lady."
"Reserved!" Rondeau threw up his head. "It is more than
reserve that we have here, mon chef. I ask myself"
"Softly! Softly!" cautioned the older man; "remember
the facts! A young lady suspects her fiance of an entanglement
with an old flame, a married woman. She comes down on the
quiet, though without changing her name, to investigate. She
knows who the woman in the case is, for she goes at once to
the house where that woman is staying. She keeps out of sight
of Sir Cross, for the first evening at any rate. Until she is
sure. Then—now Rondeau, you are fond of guessing, what
then?" Rondeau refused to rise to the bait.
"Then, I think, she has an interview with Sir Cross next
day," Cambier continued. "She would have done much better
to have placed the affair in the hands of her brother, the head
of her family. But apparently she did not even consult him.
Young ladies nowadays are of an independence! But is the
world any the better? The safer? It is not. On the contrary!"
"Why do you think she had a meeting with her fiance?"
Rondeau asked.
"Because she makes no move to interfere the night of the
ball—last night. She lets things take their course. I think that
means that she had had an interview with this baron, and her-
self breaks off the engagement in fact, which he had already
broken in spirit. Not reflecting that in these days, since the
devastations of the war, good husbands are easier lost than
won. Carried away by his passion for Madam Brownlow, he
accepts his freedom. Then comes this duel. He is killed. The


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
131
young lady sees no reason to relate a very sad little episode—
a very humiliating one for her. . . ." Cambier went over with
characteristic French penetration to suggest the feelings that
might have prompted Vivian to keep silence.
"Enfin" he wound up; "that is what I believe to have hap-
pened. And that is why I say this new development, which
seems such a boulversement in reality, may alter nothing."
Even Rondeau was of this opinion after an interview—a
long one this time—with Miss Young. She seemed perfectly
candid throughout. But Pointer noticed, so did Mackay, that
she waited always for Cambier's lead.
She acknowledged that she had been engaged to Sir An-
thony, but said that she had broken off that engagement yes-
terday morning. She had come to Cluny really to see its
interesting architectural remains. But on her arrival, recom-
mended to the Villa Porte Bonheur by a friend, Madam Mont-
dore, she had recognized Madam Brownlow as a lady whose
photograph she had seen a few days before in Sir Anthony's
hands. The rest ran very much as Cambier had outlined it.
She did not speak of the reason for his visit to Cluny that
Anthony had given her, because she did not believe it to be
true since the evidence of the duel.
It was very painful to all of them, this showing up of
the dead man, this forcing the girl to tell of what was after
all a humiliation, though Vivian refused to consider it as such.
But she asked for absolute silence about it. And the commis-
saire promised her, that the facts should not be made known
by the police, if it were possible to keep them quiet.
When it was over, she turned to Mackay, who walked away
with her into the gardens and up to the old fortress beside
them.


132
THE CLUMY PROBLEM
Both were silent at first.
"I'm sorry!" he said in a low voice. That was all, but she
felt strangely comforted.
"So'm I!" she said quietly. "I'll be frank with you. I
didn't love him. But I respected him tremendously. Oh, tre-
mendously!" she repeated. "But as far as myself, my own feel-
ings went—I wouldn't say that in that room; it seemed unfair
to Anthony somehow—but I wanted to break off the engage-
ment anyway."
"You did?" Mackay was relieved to hear that. He had
feared a broken-hearted girl.
"Say, do you think I would have let Mrs. Brownlow have
a walkover if I had loved the man?" Vivian demanded in-
dignantly. "Not on your life, Mr. Mackay! My father was a
Texas ranger. He never sat with his tail between his legs while
people went off with what belonged to him. No more would I!
I let Mrs. Brownlow try her hardest because I didn't care. And
mind you, she's right in saying the tragedy is her fault. She
did try. By leading Anthony Cross on. Of course, though"—
Vivian corrected herself—"I must remember that he was very
hard to read. My, yes! Too hard. I like franker people. I
wouldn't say that to any one else, but it's the truth. I felt
more and more that I might live a hundred years beside him
and never know what he was feeling deep down"
Suddenly she broke off in that way that means that an
opposite thought had just struck home.
"Yes?" he asked with interest.
"I saw him really moved just at the end," she spoke in a
gentler tone. "I mustn't forget that. He must have cared tre-
mendously for Mrs. Brownlow to have looked like that. He was
all out to win. Say, when he turned at my entrance into the


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
133
cedar room, I could fairly hear the swish of steel in the air. I
wouldn't have guessed he had it in him. He was on the war-
path, sure enough. Oh, he was out for Brownlow's scalp. Per-
haps it was only that I didn't really stir him, just as he
didn't me, that made me think him so cold and calm and self-
controlled. You see we met under exceptional circumstances.
. . ." She told Mackay of the storm at sea, of that wild and yet
wonderful night when each had found in the other a courage,
high and serene, that neither waves nor wind could touch.
"If Anthony had kept on being the man of that all but
wrecked ship, and I reckon that if I'd kept on being the girl
of the same, we wouldn't have drifted away from each other
so quickly. But even on board I never saw him look really
roused. Not like last night! It took the woman he loved to do
that. Every one could see how things were shaping all eve-
ning. Every one but himself and her, I suppose. But I guess he
didn't think there was any risk. He and I once practiced at
a floating target, and my! he sure was a crack shot, and swift
as lightning on the draw."
"Aye," Mackay said dully, and fell into his reverie again.
"Talking clears the mind, you know," she said encour-
agingly.
"What a clear-minded worrld we ought to live in," he
said with his swiftly appearing, and as swiftly disappearing,
flash of even, strong teeth. "It dosena clear mine. It addles it.
Now, thinking on the ither hand—meditating according to the
light o' reason on the facts as known"
"Oh, do can that!" she begged. Opening her heart just
now was a relief to her. "Or at any rate let me give you
something to meditate on.
"Why did Mr. Lascelles come back on the quiet last night?


134
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
What did he want from me, when he thought I was 'Jane'? Ap-
parently he and the woman Anthony Cross wouldn't talk to
were in some plan together. And she surely looked as though
it had gone off well at supper. Oh, yes, I know that Anthony's
and Mr. Brownlow's was a duel fair and square, but apart
from that, there sure were strange things on foot here in the
villa last night."
"I doot but the explaining o' the strange things is far be-
yant ma powers. There's nae logic here. And wi'oot logic, I'm
a helpless mon." Mackay looked very tired. And in the sharp
morning light he looked shabbier than ever. Vivian, who had
watched, not once but many times, the turn of the card that
might have meant absolute poverty for herself, looked at him
sympathetically. He was not likely to make much out of his
present job.
"Did Mr. Murgatroyd explain what he was doing in that
writing-room last night?" she asked next.
"He never mentioned it," Mackay said, still with his
thoughts somewhere else. "He said he had nae suspicion that
onything was wrang between Brownlow and Sir Anthony."
"My!" Vivian looked shocked. "Say, he can tell them
when he wants to, can't he! Like the rest of us, I guess. But I
suppose he didn't like to talk over whatever it was Mrs. Brown-
low had said to him. He sure was in a difficult place. For
surely to goodness he's what he seems? But apart from him,
there's all the rest of things I can't understand. There's"
"Aye!" cut in Mackay in the tone of one who doesn't
want to talk. "There's a' that. A' things for which I'm nae guid.
"Ye see," he went on after a pause, "in stories it's invari-
ably the private detective that wipes the eye o' the police. He's
ca'ed just in time to prevent a terrible miscarriage o' justice,


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
135
and in the last vairse the police officer is shaking his hand,
and saying, wi'tears in his een: "Whaur should we be but for
you, Mr. Knowell?' Aye, it's like that in buiks. But in real
life?" He shook his head. "Tak' ma job"
"I wish I could!" she said with spirit. "Say, /'d make
things hum!"
"How?" he asked pertinently. She thought awhile, and
then agreed that there might be a few difficulties about getting
under way. . . .
"I searched the rooms overhead last night and found
naething," he pointed out. "Naething at a'. But, of course, I
canna search them as a policeman wud. Pulling this and tear-
ing up that. I have nae richts at a'. I havena an army of help-
ers dotted o'er the land." He spoke bitterly. Vivian studied him.
She was not particularly fond of people who failed. Nor over
lenient in judging them. She herself had never failed. But
somehow—she was sure sorry for Mackay, as she expressed it
to herself. The young man's face, voice, carriage, spoke for him
as a man who would do his best—who had done his best
honestly.
"You're all right," she said encouragingly, "all you want
is a bit more drive. More hustle and less logic." At the sight of
his face she broke off in her exhortation to exclaim in horror,
"You're not going to quit?"
He made no reply.
"But you can't leave now!" She was in open dismay. "Say,
Mr. Mackay, you simply can't leave now!"
He made no promise except that he must, of course, stay
until the inquiry, short though it apparently would be, was
over. Vivian lost patience with him for his willingness to ac-
cept defeat.


136
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
"/ can leave, but I wouldn't. Not for anything! I must
know just how things happened. Of course, I know how they
happened—but I want it proved. Besides, I've promised
Mrs. Brownlow to wait here until—well, I guess, until she can
get away. Oh, I know it's a funny situation. But it's less painful
for both of us not to rail at each other. Besides there's Mamie,
my sister, Mrs. Gatwick. She's on the way down here already.
Worse luck. Say, I do hate being cried over."
But Mrs. Gatwick did not look as though she had come
for that damp purpose as she hugged and kissed her sister in
the latter's bedroom a few hours later.
"My dear girl, you can't stay in this house! We'll go
back by the afternoon train. What a horrible little place this
is. I didn't see a single decent store as I came up the street.
And dust! Now, you get to your packing, or are you through
already?"
Vivian disentangled the arms around her.
"Mamie," she said resolutely, "I'm staying right here until
Mrs. Brownlow is able to get away. She's waiting to take her
husband's body home with her. And I think it looks better for
us to be friends. There's no reason why we shouldn't be."
"Waiting for Mrs. Brownlow!" echoed her sister shrilly
and indignantly. "Mrs. Brownlow!"
"She asked me to stay with her."
"She sure has a nerve!" was the sister's indignant com-
ment. "I don't know what's come over you, Vivian. To be
taken in by that sort of creature. Mrs. Brownlow, indeed!"
The married sister sniffed.
"Now, Mamie," Vivian said as patiently as she could.
Which was not anything wonderful in that line. "I know how
you feel, and why you feel like that, just on my account. But


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
137
you needn't. I had broken off my engagement with Anthony
yesterday morning. He was free. He wasn't running away from
me," she finished a little proudly.
"Why did you give him up? Because of this woman?"
Her sister continued hotly, "Vi, I'm surprised at you! An-
thony Cross loved you, and you alone. I don't care what she
says. He loved you!"
Vivian put up a hand to stay her. Mamie's cheeks were
flaming. She could be a terribly red-hot partisan, as her sister
knew.
"Don't, Mamie, dear! It's not fair to any of us to weigh
which of the two women he loved the better. / know. And so
does Mrs. Brownlow—and I don't mind. No, no!" in answer
to her sister's opening mouth, "don't Mamie! I know how you
mean it—just out of championship for me—but the sympathy's
not necessary. Not for me, and—what you say isn't true."
"Vivian Young! Why, how you talk! Of course it's true!"
Vivian shook her head.
"Anthony told me himself about her," she said finally.
"He told me that it was over and done with. I know he thought
so." She shut her eyes to the doubts about that.
"Vivian," Mrs. Gatwick spoke more quietly now. The two
were sitting on the couch at the end of the bed. "There's some-
thing wrong about all this. I don't believe it was a duel at all.
I believe that woman is lying out of whole cloth when she says
that she was going to run away with your Anthony. What have
you got to go on but her word? I didn't tell you, but Anthony
Cross talked to me the day before he asked you to marry him.
He thought he was too old for you. And too—well, too con-
ventional for your fancy. He spoke of his love for you. I
wish I could repeat his words, and above all, his tone. He


138
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
loved you, dear heart. Loved you really and truly. Nothing,
no lies, no police theories, nothing would make me think that
the man who spoke of you like that could, within a month,
be trying to run off with another man's wife. Not a man of
Anthony Cross's character. I was ever so pleased when you
took him. That was why I told you about George helping you
out as he did. It seemed brutal, but I thought you might not
take him otherwise. And about this old love affair of his, he
told me, as apparently he did you, that it was absolutely done
with. I guess he would find it easier to talk to me about her
than to you. He said he's seen her quite lately, and found that
not a spark of his old feeling remained. That even if she were
free, he wouldn't marry her. He added, it's true, that she still
wasn't free, but he assured me that he hadn't the slightest trace
of love for her left. And you think, after that, that he would
run away with her?"
"No," Vivian said, feeling exhausted with this flood of
argument which did not stir her; "no, Mamie, but I think he
was talking like that to you because he wanted it to be like
that. And perhaps he really thought it."
"I don't believe anything of what they say here. An-
thony Cross wasn't the sort of man to have duels," Mrs. Gat-
wick said vehemently.
Oddly enough, the dead man's valet, who was speaking to
the police just then, was saying very much this same thing as
the last sentence of Mamie Gatwick.
He was a typically quiet-spoken, quiet-eyed man. Starling
had been with Sir Anthony Cross only a little over a year but
he felt quite certain of his employer's characters, though Sir
Anthony was a man who never, under any circumstances, took
him into his confidence in any way.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
139
"Or any one else, as far as I know, sir," he added laconi-
cally to Chief Inspector Pointer.
As to the engagement to Miss Young, Starling had heard
of that. He had ventured to congratulate Sir Anthony, who
had replied that he considered himself a very lucky man. He,
the valet, knew of nothing whatever that would explain a duel
between his master and Mr. Brownlow, a name he now heard
for the first time.
"But is it the sort of thing that surprises you?" Mackay
asked. "I mean, was your employer the kind of man to fight
another man easily?"
"The very last man in the world, I should say," Starling
replied decidedly. "If it hadn't happened, I should say it was
the sort of thing that couldn't happen. I never knew Sir An-
thony lose his temper. And, if I may presume to say so, that
was the character I had from his late valet when I took the
place."
The list of articles found on Sir Anthony and in the bags
was handed to him. As far as he could tell, nothing was miss-
ing, but Sir Anthony had packed his smaller bag himself.
Starling knew nothing of its contents, which must have included
the revolver that he now identified as a revolver which his late
master generally carried while traveling. The smaller bag was
one exclusively used, as far as he knew, for important papers
and such like. Papers which Sir Anthony had probably dealt
with by now.
"About coming to Cluny, do you know if it had long been
in Sir Anthony's mind?" Cambier next asked, through Pointer.
The valet thought it a sudden decision. "We were staying
at Enghien-Ies-Bains with some friends of Sir Anthony's. Yes,
Mr. and Mrs. Gatwick and Miss Young. Sir Anthony was go-


140
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
ing back to London to-morrow; Mrs. Gatwick and Miss Young
were to join him in August at his place in Yorkshire. It was
three days ago that my master told me suddenly that I was
to pack a bag for him—that he was going away for several
days and would not want me till his return to Paris to-morrow.
He told me to put a dress suit in, and gave me my instructions
as to reserving seats and a cabin for our journey back to Eng-
land. That evening he dined with Mr. and Mrs. Gatwick, and
afterwards he gave me some final directions. Sir Anthony
spoke of looking over the monuments down here for two, at
most, three days."
"Was he interested in such things?"
"Very much so."
"There was nothing out of the way, nothing that now
strikes you as odd, about his coming down here?"
"Nothing whatever, sir."
"Did he often go without you?"
"Sometimes he would, sir. When it was a case of any busi-
ness he would often be good enough to dispense with my
services."
As to who was the person of Sir Anthony's family to sum-
mon to Cluny to take charge of the body, Starling said that he
has already cabled the dreadful news to Mr. Maitland, a great
friend of his master's. Mr. Maitland, therefore, might be ex-
pected to arrive, or at least, cable some instructions, any mo-
ment.
"Was your master a good shot?" Rondeau wanted to know.
"Very."
"Was he fond of dancing?"
"Uncommonly fond of it," was the answer, and with that
he was dismissed.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
141
"Yet Sir Cross did not dance last night," Rondeau re-
marked when they were alone. Like his chief, he considered'
that the use of the Christian name implied familiarity or af-
fection.
"He was possibly carrying a loaded revolver on him,"
Cambier pointed out dryly. "Well, messieurs, I see no reason
to change my verdict. A duel. Not a crime. The bodies of
the two men will be free when the doctor's final report is made,
and can then be coffined and taken away in due course." He
stopped. The door was jerked open and Mrs. Gatwick bounded
in. No other word describes her energy or her action.
"Say, chief, I want Mrs. Brownlow arrested for the murder
of my sister's fiance, Sir Anthony Cross," she began. "I told
you about the engagement"
"Very clearly indeed," murmured Cambier hurriedly.
"Well, I've just had an interview with that woman," Mrs.
Gatwick went on, in her fluent but faulty French; "and there's
not a word of truth in her story. I believe she shot poor Sir
Anthony because he wouldn't run away with her, and then
killed her husband to prevent his giving her in charge. And
what are you going to do about it?"
Evidently order the French equivalent of Black Maria was
the least that the lady expected. Mrs. Gatwick resembled
one of those electric eels put into fish tanks on long journeys
to insure that the fish caught will keep in good condition, for
only by great agility and an uncommon turn of speed can they
escape. Yet to look at, Mrs. Gatwick was a small and pretty
blonde, with rather gentle, wistful, blue eyes.
The house was in a turmoil within five minutes. It took
the whole of her hour's stay in Cluny to induce her to allow
matters to continue as they were. But occasionally folly, or


142
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
what seems like it, is justified of her children too. This was
such a case, for half an hour after Mrs. Catwick's very dis-
gruntled return to Paris and her children—her husband was
in bed with a chill—came a piece of news that made her accusa-
tion against Mrs. Brownlow no less wild, but at least less pre-
posterous.
The fully-completed autopsy brought a staggering fact
to light. There was no possibility of doubting the proofs ad-
duced, and they altered everything.
As was known, both men had drunk of Monsieur Piche-
gru's claret-cup at the same time. In it had been woodruff,
and the stages of the absorption of that herb into the system
is as accurate as a clock.
Medical examination showed that Sir Anthony had been
killed about an hour after the drink. Whereas Brownlow could
not have received his bullet until nearer an hour and a half
had gone by. In other words, there was an interval of around
thirty minutes between the two deaths, and it was Anthony
Cross, the injured man, who had died first. Probably a couple
of minutes after the infliction of the wound in his side.
What had been taken for a duel, now stood out as a crime,
or two crimes, very cunningly camouflaged by the criminal or
criminals.
"Mon dieul" Cambier stood for a moment as though the
doctor's final bulletin had been a spell depriving him of the
power of moving. Then he came to life with a bound. Orders
rattled swiftly.
He turned to Pointer.
"The case is from now on, of course, in the hands of the
juge d'instruction, or I should at once question Madam Brown-
low again, but he will be here immediately. Until his arrival


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
143
I have enjoined absolute silence in the matter on all my men."
The juge d'instruction is an official whose powers and
duties might be loosely compared to those of an American
coroner. Or one of our own coroners; sitting, however, with-
out a jury, and on an inquest which continues until, in his
opinion, the case is sufficiently clear for him to have an arrest
made, and decide whether the arrested person shall be sent up
to stand his trial or is to be released. He has most formidable
powers of loosing and binding.
"But what about Monsieur Smith off in Vichy?" asked
Rondeau under his breath.
"He will be safe enough there. Nor is there any question
of Monsieur Smith—as yet."
"And Monsieur Murgatroyd in Paris! And what about
Monsieur Tibbitts, still at large," Rondeau went on.
"What about all the guests at large!" snapped Cambier;
"we must take the case as it is, not as we would have it. We
are not writing a novel, we! Besides, remember, whoever staged
this little tableau in the cedar room here thinks that he—or
she—has hoodwinked us. Let them continue to think so. As for
Tibbitts, he will return. Whether innocent or guilty, he will
soon return. Why should he not? But let me see the key of the
cedar room again." He hurried to the room in question. "Yes,
yes! Here are marks that might have been made by ring-
nippers such as hotel thieves use, such as we detectives use,
to turn a key—left in a keyhole—from the other side of the
door." Cambier frowned down at the scratches in question.
"But this means that a professional, a trained criminal, has
been at work here. Sapristil" He turned to Rondeau with a
wry smile, "Well, for once I acknowledge that the simple ex-
planation was too simple. Eh bien, we must build another. We


144
THE CLUHY PROBLEM
know—what do we know? That Brownlow could have killed
Sir Cross, and that a bullet from his automatic probably caused
Sir Cross's death—though the make is very usual. And we
know that a bullet from Sir Cross's automatic killed Brown-
low later on, for his revolver is not usual, but that Sir Cross
could not have fired the shot himself.
"I think these odd facts mean that both men were shot
by some third party who had possessed himself, or herself, of
their revolvers, and, after inveigling them one after the other
into the cedar room, shot each with the other's revolver, know-
ing of the jealousy between them. Knowing perhaps of the
contemplated elopement of Madam Brownlow. Anything else
would mean a combination of chances so strange that they
would verge on the improbable. To suppose, for instance, that
Brownlow killed Sir Cross, and then, some half-hour later,
was himself slain by another hand. . . ." Cambier shook his
head. "That is highly fantastic. For that presupposes two
murderers—two motives"
For once Rondeau made no reply. He was thinking too
hard over the absolute reversal by the final medical bulletin
of all that had been taken for granted. Then he broke out:
"But I ask myself, what if Monsieur Tibbitts does not re-
turn? He went off very early. He should have been back by
now"
"You forget, mon cher, that this is supposed to be a duel!"
Cambier reminded him dryly; "there is no reason why all the
world should not come and go, therefore. As for Tibbitts, he
has probably had a breakdown, or, since he was in the state
suggested by the butler, a smash-up somewhere is delaying him.
In any case, since he is using that particular car, we need not
worry, for"


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
145
At that moment the sergeant came in. One of the police
had found a small, round-barreled, slotted key in the garden.
He had found it by chance as he stooped to retrieve a dropped
cigar. It was lying in a cut of the turf, quite hidden from view,
though apparently not buried in any way.
The commissaire had the finder and the object found
brought in. He eyed the key closely.
"Not well finished. . . . Very good metal. . . . No num-
ber on it. . . . Where exactly did you find it?"
The man took him to the exact spot. Rondeau followed
like a terrier. The key had lain close to the gate, under some
leaves, and on the right-hand side of the drive going away
from the house. The cut in the turf into which it had fallen, or
had been thrown, or hidden, was very close to the path, a bare
inch from it, though completely out of sight.
"Ah, mon chef," Rondeau said as the two walked back
together; "you always beg me not to embroider. Very well,
this time I do nothing. I content myself with admiring the pat-
tern presented by the facts."
"Just as well," Cambier thought. "For one of the guests
may have dropped it—though it has all the look to me of a
handmade key. There is something in the barrel—we will have
it analyzed at once. But first I will ask Monsieur Pichegru
and Madame Brownlow if either has ever seen it. Just to
make sure"
"I asked myself at the time if the officer from Scotland
Yard was not right in thinking that something had been hunted
for—on thaf side of the path," Rondeau muttered half aloud.
"And why should not an English official be right—some-
times?" Cambier spoke with conscious generosity as he reached
for the telephone.


146
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
A little later Pichegru rushed up in his car, gasped at the
latest news, stamped about the floor, and raved at the impos-
sibility of being in two places at once. He seemed genuinely
distraught at the conjunction of a murder at his villa and a
fire at his warehouse.
As to the key, he disclaimed all knowledge of it. There
was a safe in his study, but its key was quite different. He
now handed over all his house keys to the police, insisting on
their examining everything.
"Search anywhere you like," he begged; "but you will
not find why those two mad Englishmen decided to shoot each
other—ah, I forget, it is not a duel! But in any case, what
can I do? I am not of the police. But I must—I must superin-
tend the re-racking of my Chambertin!"
The commissaire was all sympathy. He told him to wait
for the arrival of the juge <T instruction, a personal friend of
Monsieur Pichegru's.
Meanwhile Madame Brownlow was shown the key. She
said that she was sure that she had never seen it before, and
that it could not, therefore, belong to her husband. All his
keys were accounted for. As to whether it belonged to Sir An-
thony Cross, she could not, of course, say.
But the valet was positive that he had never seen it before.
Though that might not mean much. Vivian Young, though that
meant even less, was equally sure that she had never seen it
in Anthony Cross's possession.
The guests of last night were asked over the telephone
whether any of them had lost a key. The same inquiry was
passed around the shop assistants and other helpers. Though
a great many could not be reached, all those to whom the ques-
tion could be put replied in the negative.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
147
The analysis of the dark matter found in the shaft proved
to be dried blood, and dried in such a way that it must have
lain in a little pool of it, and not been used since.
Now, the only pool of blood was in the clothing—over
the heart—of Brownlow. The key contained nothing else, no
fluff of any kind, and no dust, which rather suggested that
it had been used immediately prior to the shooting. A hint of
oil bore this out. The police analyst thought it was a key that
had been fairly frequently used, that it was of amateur make,
and that, as the commissaire suggested, it was possibly the key
of a safe.
Pointer looked it over carefully too. Mackay stared at it
hard.
"It's not unlike one Mr. Davidson had in that pocket-
book he lost," he said finally. "I'm na sure o' course. He juist
said twa keys, and described them. Now, wud it be possible
to send this to Mr. Davidson?"
The commissaire explained that that would be quite im-
possible. If Mr. Mackay really thought the key tallied with
that lost by his employer, a subpoena would be at once issued,
and Mr. Davidson would have to appear in person. The key
could not be allowed to leave the Hotel de ville, where it would
be deposited within the hour.
Mackay scratched his chin.
"He wud be pleased!" he murmured to Pointer. "He's
juist stairted in on a maist important job. If he was ca'd
off doon here, whether it was his key or no, he'd shoot me for
having brought him awa frae Paris juist the noo. I'll na risk it."
He looked at the key again. "The mair I study it, the less
resemblance I find to Mr. Davidson's," he said finally; "and


148
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
that's true enough. Not juist said to avoid being shot by Da-
vidson."
"Probably it belonged to Sir Cross," Cambier said, tak-
ing it back and carefully locking it in his steel box. "We knew
that it was not Monsieur Brownlow's. Or at least we have
cause to think so. Ladies are as a rule only too eager to get
hold of the keys of their husband's safes—their contents are
not subject to death duties with us, you know. But as to who
dropped it by that gate—why it was flung away. . . ." Cam-
bier stood looking down at his locked box as though it were
a crystal.
"I ask myself if it was not some one who thought him-
self suspected," Rondeau burst out. "I might wonder, for in-
stance, if the some one who had taken it had not taken some-
thing more valuable, say the pocket-book which contained this
key, and that he did not want the key, and flung it away as
being only an additional danger if found on him. Flung it
from a motor car, say—in other words I ask myself if Tib-
bitts was not the loser. The man who left so very very early
and has not returned"
"Tranquilize yourself," murmured Cambier; "even should
he not intend to return—which would be absurd with that nice
little duel set in the cedar room as I have told you before—
still, should he not return, thanks to Detective Good-luck we
should not have the slighest difficulty in tracing his car. I will
ease your mind by telling you that that is being done now. At
this minute."
Turning to Pointer the commissaire explained that a car
of similar make, and with an all but similar number, had been
wanted for a long time for vine-stealing on a large scale from
the vineyards around. It was a French make, bought in Lyons.


CHAPTER VIII
onsieur Grandpoint, the juge in question, was at the
IV1 villa before Cambier had finished speaking. He was a se-
vere-looking man, with a narrow forehead and bleak eyes. In
manner he was distant but very patient, with a patience that
was inexorable rather than gentle. He could be a formidable
cross-examiner, unhurried and persistent. But he absolutely
agreed with Monsieur Pichegru that the latter could be of no
more help to the police in Cluny than in Dijon, and of infinitely
greater use to himself in the latter place. Monsieur Pichegru's
alibi had been tested. There was not a moment of last night
when he had not been accounted for.
On being asked to tell them all he could about Tibbitts,
before he left, he said at once that he knew very little about
that young man. As a rule, he was exceedingly careful who his
guests were. He felt that he owed this to his neighbors, he
added, with a bow to the juge who bowed in return. But un-
fortunately in the case of Tibbitts—Pichegru explained that the
young man was the Brownlows' protege, who had come upon
him at Monte Carlo making ducks and drakes of his money and
getting into a most undesirable set. When Brownlow, came to
Cluny to recuperate, Tibbitts had accompanied the pair. He,
Pichegru, had not cared for his presence in the house, but
Mrs. Brownlow had been so sorry for the oaf that he had not
liked to press the point. They were all three leaving shortly
to return to England.
Mrs. Brownlow had told him that she had an idea that


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
151
Tibbitts had been a clerk in a drapery shop when he came
into a big fortune. Mr. Murgatroyd had happened to mention
to him, only last night, that undoubtedly the young man had
been a metal worker of some kind, that his knowledge of
foundry work was first-hand and thorough. Pichegru had no
further information apparently to give on the subject of the
young man. Questioned as to Tibbitts's infatuation for Mrs.
Brownlow, an infatuation which the juge had noticed when he
had dined at the villa, Pichegru, with a faint smile, said that
it was Tibbitts's one redeeming trait. Certainly Brownlow had
not seemed to mind it. Not in the least. Monsieur Pichegru was
quite certain on this point.
"About that journey to Paris a fortnight ago, in the rapide,
when two of your guests lost, the one a large sum of money,
the other some very valuable, and insufficiently insured jewels,
monsieur," put in the commissaire; "Tibbitts was one of the
party, was he not?"
Monsieur Pichegru agreed that Tibbitts had been there,
as had Monsieur Smith.
Now Smith was still considered by the police as definitely
out of the possible suspects—like Monsieur Pichegru himself.
Not only was he a subaltern in a crack regiment, a cavalry
regiment, but last night he had been in the public eye practi-
cally all the time.
True, it only takes one second to fire a shot that kills a
man, and only two, therefore, to kill two men; but in Smith's
case there really seemed no motive to raise any suspicion of
his having played a part in the tragedy.
Monsieur Pichegru was asked a few more questions and
then dismissed to his car with the official blessing, as it were.
And the juge turned his attention to the real members of the


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
153
Cross was the head of a large diamond syndicate. The South
African Diamond Combine."
Mrs. Brownlow lowered her hands to her lap very slowly.
Over her face came the look of a wanderer who, lost in the
dark, at last catches sight of a light.
"So that was why!" she breathed. "Not on my account.
Thank heaven! But because he was helping Sir Anthony Cross
in some deal, my husband was shot down!"
"Helping Sir Cross in a deal?" repeated Cambier; "you
said no word of that before, madam!"
"I never thought of it till now. I thought that it was I—
that it was over me "She drew a deep breath. "But, as a
matter of fact, Mr. Brownlow was acting for the time-being as
a sort of secret go-between for Sir Anthony, either for the pur-
chase of, or the sale of, some big stone or stones. I think that
was why he went to Paris a couple of weeks ago. The time when
I lost my jewels in the rapide on joining him."
"But this is very interesting!" said the juge. Every one
nodded. "But I thought there was ill will between your husband
and Sir Anthony?"
"Not until this visit down here. But when I was told that
a duel had been fought, it seemed that it must have been over
me. For"—she looked at Cambier—"as I told the commis-
saire, Sir Anthony and I were thinking of going away to-
gether. It was madness on my part—a passing madness. But
I feared that my husband must have learned of our intention.
I never even gave a thought to the possibility of murder!"
"And this business between the two? Can you be more ex-
plicit, madam?"
"About a month, or six weeks ago, I happened to notice
my husband reading a letter in Sir Anthony Cross's hand-writ-


154
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
ing. I saw him tear it up very carefully into tiny scraps. I
asked him how he came to be hearing from our—old friend he
had once been very jealous of him and me—and why he said
nothing about the letter to me. He told me that Sir Anthony
wanted him to undertake 'a rather delicate bit of business'"—
she gave the last words in English—"that the terms were so
tempting that he intended to accept, but that the business in
question was a close secret between himself and Sir Anthony.
That he would not have spoken of it even to me yet, but for
my noticing the writing. He went into no details. And I may
even be wrong in thinking that the visit to Paris was connected
with the receipt of that letter. But I think it was. Or he would
have taken me with him. When I ran across Sir Anthony down
here in Cluny, I thought, of course, that he had come to see
Tom. But neither man would acknowledge as much. At least,
Tom refused to say one way or another, only he told me to be
sure and refer to the meeting at the table so as to give him a
chance of speaking of Sir Anthony before the others. When I
did so, he himself spoke as though it were years since he had
heard from Sir Anthony. Sir Anthony was coming in after din-
ner for a chat, so he had said, when I met him. My husband
told me to have everything look like a mere chance meeting of
old friends. He was most insistent on this point. So insistent"
—she passed a hand across her eyes—"that now I realize that
he believed there was danger in anything else. But whom did
he dread? Who was there at the table with us who had to be
misled?"
She stared at the men with fear-distended eyes.
"The man who took the revolvers and locked that cedar
room door from the outside—but with the key on the inside,"
Cambier said gravely. "And, now can you tell us whether the


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
155
murderer might have obtained possession of your husband's
pistol fairly easily?"
"Very easily indeed. My husband kept his automatic in
that little locked cabinet on the wall, there where you see the
crossed foils. The key was always in the copper vase standing on
the top of the cabinet."
"It does not seem to have called for a vast amount of
scheming to obtain possession of the weapon," Cambier mur-
mured dryly; "but who would know of the place where it was
kept?"
She thought a moment.
"I think all the other guests must have seen him take it
out or put it back. The shooting gallery is on this floor, you
know—the picture gallery which Monsieur Pichegru uses for
that purpose. And on dull afternoons my husband used to
practice with our host, and with Mr. Tibbitts, too, a good deal."
"Ah, with Monsieur Tibbitts," nodded Cambier. "With no
one else?"
"With Mr. Smith, of course. And yesterday with Miss
Young."
"Ah," murmured the juge; "Mademoiselle Young—she
can shoot then?"
"Very well indeed. She beat Monsieur Pichegru, and he is
as good as my husband was."
"And Monsieur Tibbitts, was he good?"
"I don't think so. But, really, I don't know."
There was a short pause. Cambier broke it. "So then, if
Sir Cross was equally easygoing as to the place, probably his
bag, where he kept his revolver last night, it, too, could have
been obtained quite easily. . . ."
"However it was managed about the revolvers," Mrs.


156
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
Brownlow spoke as though that part of it were of small im-
portance; "at least their deaths have nothing to do with me!
I shall not have to drag out my days under a feeling of guilt
almost too heavy to be borne."
"... And the revolvers were changed afterwards—changed
to put us off the track," Cambier murmured slowly.
"By the man who shot my husband," she finished. "Un-
less, of course, they might have been changed by accident.
Monsieur Smith, and Mademoiselle Young, and the butler,
were all in the room before you came. So was I, of course.
How easy to take up the weapons to look at and get them
mixed in putting them down again. But of one thing I feel sure.
My husband either disturbed the murderer of Sir Anthony, or,
equally with Sir Anthony, was in the murderer's way. And be-
cause of that, both men were killed."
"And then the scene was set for a duel. . . ." Cambier
nodded.
"How about your husband's papers?" asked the juge;
"we must look through them, madam."
"Certainly. But he kept few notes. He prided himself on
his memory. As to business papers, they would, I expect, be
in his London safe. In the city. His partner is a Mr. Tenby,"
she gave the address; "but he would know nothing of any busi-
ness between my husband and Sir Anthony. He was not at
all in Mr. Brownlow's confidence, except as regards the ac-
tual business of the firm."
She sank back as though exhausted, and certainly looked
it.
"Oh, my poor head!" she gasped. "Please send for Dr.
Bourelly; I feel so faint. Perhaps Miss Young would come to
me?"


158
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
Rondeau was holding out a pair of dancing pumps. On
the glass-smooth soles were smears of reddish brown.
Cambier took them from him and touched the stains with
something from a bottle that he had put in his pocket early
that morning. They were bloodstains. The commissaire whipped
off his own footwear and looked at the soles closely.
"No there are no marks on mine."
Nor were there on the shoes of Chief Inspector Pointer
or Mackay.
"These shoes of Monsieur Tibbitts—if they are really his
—walked over that carpet downstairs in the cedar room when
the bloodstains there were quite fresh."
Now, though he did not need to recall it to the minds of
any of them, the only stains on the carpet were around Sir
Anthony Cross. That unfortunate man had fallen sideways.
Certain marks made it look as though he had raised himself
on his elbow and shifted his position before he died, though
they now knew that he had not, as had been at first thought,
then fired the shot that killed Brownlow outright.
"So Monsieur Tibbitts was in this cedar room, apparently.
And probably he could have possessed himself without any
great difficulty of the revolvers of both Sir Cross and Mr.
Brownlow. Also, he must have been aware of the jealousy be-
tween the two men, and might have known of madam's inten-
tion of leaving her husband with the other man. Monsieur
Tibbitts is supposed to have been helped to bed in a state—
well, verging on intoxication. That might be a clever ruse. A
very clever one."
"Then it wasna Tibbitts's," Mackay said contemptuously.
"Ah, do not be too sure!" Cambier retorted meaningly;
"these stupid young men can be very clever sometimes. Remem-


160 THE CLUNY PROBLEM
as far as the police went, now he moved up into the position
of an ally.
Mackay was answering with caution. A caution that im-
pressed the commissaire. This man had brains. Only a man
with brains, in the commissaire's opinion, held his tongue.
Cambier finally drew out of Mackay the confession that he
believed it possible that Tibbitts had stolen the sum of money
lost by Mr. Davidson.
"Did Monsieur Davidson suspect his fellow guest and fel-
low traveler of having stolen his money?" the- juge asked
Mackay. The private inquiry agent nodded.
"Aye, he suspects him strongly, as is logical. But we have
nae proof. Nor am I sure in ma ain mind that it was he who
took money or jewels."
"Monsieur thinks?" queried the juge.
"I have a notion that it was Brownlow," Mackay said,
after a moment's hesitation.
"Brownlow!" All the men stared at the private inquiry
agent in surprise. "But the drugging "Cambier protested.
"Oh, Tibbitts was an accomplice, no doubt. But I have
na heard anything that proves that the money and the jewels
werna stolen before the train started. Brownlow was at the
station to see his wife off. He claimed—and would have got
the insurance put on them. A low enough insurance, but five
hundred is a useful bit o' siller. In ma opeenion," Mackay
said finally, "the jewels were too peculiar to have been stolen
by a clever thief. Broken up, they would not have been of any
great value. None of the stones was of remarkable size as far
as I can learn."
"But Brownlow is a wealthy man!" protested Cambier.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM 161
"Are you sure?" Mackay asked sceptically. "If he's in
Chinese silks, then he's in troubled waters these years."
"That might explain why he was so willing to take on the
offer of Sir Cross," mused Cambier.
"Supposing that it was ever made," Mackay said to
Pointer.
"Quoi?" asked the juge, catching the tone.
Mackay repeated his remark in his Scottish-French.
The juge raised his very arched eyebrows.
"You think Madam Brownlow was lying?"
Mackay refused to commit himself to that, but she had
not convinced him that she was telling the truth, he said. Not
at any time throughout the interview.
"So far, I see no reason to doubt her statement," the juge
said coldly. "She is a lady for whom all we who know her
have the greatest respect. As for her husband—my only im-
pression of him was of a well-traveled, well-educated man. A
man of the world."
But coming back to Mackay's doubts of the lady's state-
ment, the juge wanted to know what caused them.
"Sir Anthony wasna a seller or buyer of diamonds," Mac-
kay went on; "and he wad hae mony a mon to his hand if he
wanted some particular stane. It doesna stand to reason that
he wad hae written to a mon he hadna had any dealings wi'
for years juist to dae a thing like yon for him. Brownlow was
in silk—not gems."
"Still, in the case of some particular stone or gem wanted,
that would not matter," the juge said slowly. "The Brownlows
had just come from Monte Carlo, where the most amazing
jewels can be seen at times. I can imagine that Sir Anthony
had noticed the Brownlows' name as present at some dinner


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
163
further information about Tibbitts. But Mrs. Brownlow was
no help whatever. She had not the faintest idea, she said, who
Tibbitts was, nor whence he came. All she knew was that at
Monte Carlo he was so obviously a sheep waiting for the
shearers that first her husband, and then she herself, had been
interested in the young man.
"Why in him especially?" Mackay wanted to know. "If it
was juist that the sprockle flung his sillar aboot daft like."
Mrs. Brownlow looked a trifle impatient.
"How can one say why one is sorry for one person and
not for another?" she asked in the tone of one putting an un-
answerable question. "Perhaps it was because he seemed to like
us so much. My husband doesn't often care for young men of
his type, but he asked me to do what I could to get him away
from the set with whom he was mixing. I did. And the result
was that Mr. Tibbitts followed us here, or perhaps that's too
strong a word, but when he asked if he could come too, as he
was at a loose end for a fortnight, neither Tom nor I minded.
Personally, I was glad. The poor boy at least was grateful for
what we had done and were trying to do for him."
There was a pause. The juge broke it.
"Well, he may come back to the house any moment. He
may have had a breakdown, and this absence that looks so
doubtful be explained, but it looks odd. Very odd."
Mrs. Brownlow gave a sort of strangled cry.
"You don't mean that you suspect Mr. Tibbitts of"
she stopped, as though too appalled to finish the sentence. The
idea seemed to stun her.
"There are several things about him that have an odd ap-
pearance," the juge said quietly. "And there is another point.
I am sorry to grieve you, madam, but I must refer to some-
r


164
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
thing that you told us. Do you think that this Monsieur Tib-
bitts knew that you were about to run away with Sir Anthony
Cross?"
Mrs. Brownlow's eyes widened. Evidently this was a new
idea.
"You mean that he—that because "she broke off,
trembling a little.
"It might explain the murder of Sir Anthony. It might
explain the murder of your husband," the juge said slowly.
"Mind, I do not say that it does. Or that it will. All I say is
'it might.' But there is this, madam; we have here a young
man of whom nothing seems to be known to his credit who
could possibly have, or think he had, a motive to kill either
or both of the men we have found dead. That connection be-
tween their deaths may not be the business bond which for the
moment linked your husband and his old friend, but it may be
in this young man's evil mind. Jealous of the friend—jealous
of the husband."
She seemed thunderstruck.
"But what—you must have something to go on," she said
finally.
He did not reply.
"It may have been no affair of the heart," Cambier now
put in; "but a much baser motive. Going back to that time, a
fortnight ago, when you lost your jewels on the rapide"
He questioned her very closely as to the movements of each
member of the party. So did Mackay. The upshot was that
Tibbitts was by no means cleared of the possibility of being
the thief of both money and jewels lost on that occasion. Each
of the four had had a compartment to themselves. The whole
carriage had been empty but for them. Three of them next


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
165
morning claimed to have been drugged. But Tibbitts had in-
sisted on the doctor attending to him last of all. At the time,
Mrs. Brownlow now said, she had put it down to unselfishness.
Now it transpired that when Tibbitts's turn came he had been
able to stagger up and go for a walk in the air, and that, there-
fore, he received no medical attention whatever.
Cambier raised his eyebrows. But he made no comment.
Further questioned, she agreed that Tibbitts had shown
a remarkable knowledge of metal work while with herself,
Miss Young, and Mr. Murgatroyd. Up till then she had thought
that he had been a clerk in a little haberdashery shop some-
where in the Midlands.
She had not seen Tibbitts since just before, or after,
supper last night. She forgot which. Her husband had told
her, in answer to some casual inquiry on her part, that he had
helped him to his room.
"You think," she asked, her hand held to her head, "that
Tibbitts had got on the track of whatever it was that my
husband was doing for Sir Anthony Cross? And that that
was why he seemed so devoted to us? That he didn't care really
for either my husband or me?"
The silence of the men told her that that was exactly what
they did think. The juge began some questionings about the
letters from Sir Anthony.
Pointer meanwhile moved quietly around the room to-
wards the book-shelves. Taken unawares, and a violent death
nearly always takes a man unawares, much can be learned of
his character from what he reads. More than from the com-
panions he keeps. For the latter may. be chosen for reasons
of diplomacy or business, and not from liking. There were
several rows of light reading, probably sent up by Monsieur


166
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
Pichegru for the use of Mrs. Brownlow as well as of her hus-
band. Suddenly his glance stopped and went back to a pre-
ceding row. Yes, he was right. There was a French as well as
an English translation here of Assomoff's Along the Old Trade
Routes of Kublai Khan. The English book looked quite new,
the French was very old and neglected, yet apparently its leaves
had only just been cut, for the top edges showed like curly
antennae. He took out the English translation, which was from
a later edition, and had come from a shop in Paris. Brown-
low's initials were inside the cover. Only three pages had been
cut, he saw, and they were in the middle of the book. Pointer
wondered what subject had so interested Brownlow—one of
the dead men—that he had apparently had a dip into both
books, his own and Pichegru's, for the French copy was not
likely to be in the room, unless Brownlow himself had taken
it upstairs.
Standing back of the lady, who was utterly engrossed in
her talk with the police, Pointer turned the three pages. One
he held level with his eyes. A mark had been put to a sen-
tence, and then rubbed out, and very carefully smoothed down.
It was this last that interested him most. The sentence in
question merely spoke of a road that here joined another road,
the first one leading to Krasny, with its nomad herdsmen, and
of the writer seeing a camel-caravan bound for the town. That
was all.
A little French brochure stood beside it. A French trans-
lation of Sven Hedin's comments on the Russian work. Here
again a mark had been rubbed out. The marked passage con-
cerned the course of the Uluh Kema river, which, the great
explorer pointed out, ran in a different direction to that as-
signed it by Assomoff, with the remark that the town of Krasny


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
167
would have to be moved some hundred miles farther towards
the Gobi Desert to be able to stand on the bank of the river
as the latter was sketched in Along the Old Trade Routes.
Pointer put English translation and French brochure back
and picked up the next book. It was a French treatise on
The Territories of the Soviet Union. It was of the current year.
Here again, only part of the pages had been cut. This was the
section dealing with the Turco-Mongolian races.
The writer was fond of flowery phrases and disliked pre-
cision. Pointer gleaned much unsought-for information of a
vague kind, but finally he came on one familiar word. The
name of a town. And again that town was Krasny. Mr. Brown-
low seemed to have a genuine interest in the place.
He carefully looked at each of the other serious works.
They had not been even handled, for every volume, as he
lifted it, showed a little scollop of fine dust on the shelf where
it stood. Evidently the feather whisk of the maid had only
given the shelves a flick, and evidently Mr. Brownlow was a
man of narrow tastes. But when he reached the last volume,
a fat book on Chess Openings, he found a glossy surface below
it. Yet the book was some thirty years old, and could hardly
interest a man able to obtain up-to-date works on chess.
Pointer's interest, therefore, was in what might lie behind it.
From this dark nook he drew out a little Turkish-English
grammar with a sheet of paper in it. The writing on the paper
was the same as that on the letters in Mrs. Brownlow's lap at
the moment. Brownlow had evidently been working out an
exercise. Now Pointer's hobby was the learning of languages.
He knew nothing that so rested the mind wearied with heavy
thinking. At the very moment he was learning Persian, work-
ing just as Brownlow evidently had been doing. But Farsi is


168
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
the same, beautiful, elegant, flexible for the traveler as for
Hafiz. But no one ever learned Turkish because of its literature.
It has none. Surely it was not for the purpose of reading the
speeches of Mustapha Kemal Pasha in the original, that
Brownlow was working out the Osmanlee equivalent for "The
miller's daughter has the cat"? Besides, Turkish, such as this
little grammar taught, was only for traveling purposes. It is
not the Turkish spoken by the upper classes. It is really Tartar,
the lingua franca far and wide in Asia.
So Brownlow was preparing himself to travel somewhere
where this language would carry him. . . . To Krasny? Turco-
Mongolian Krasny? Pointer replaced the grammar and the
fat book on chess and turned away. The others were preparing
to leave Mrs. Brownlow alone again. He followed them down
into the writing-room, used by the juge for the moment as the
consulting room. Cambier asked the chief inspector if he
would find out through Scotland Yard if anything were known
about—which meant against—Tibbitts. Pichegru had left them
a snap-shot cut from a group that Murgatroyd had taken. And
they also had what it was reasonable to assume were the young
man's finger-prints on many objects in his bedroom.
"As I say, in his case, Detective Good-luck will be our best
assistant," Cambier said with an anticipatory smile. "Even
now my agent is tracking that car, village by village, on its
route. Luckily no remark was ever allowed to leak out as to
its number. Therefore no comment could ever have reached
Tibbitts to show him how much attention it roused in every
policeman whom he passed."
A portrait parle was at once drawn up of the missing man.
That is to say, a catalogue of his features classified with a
truly French minuteness of detail. By these "portraits" of


CHAPTER DC
IVIAN stared at the stony look on all four faces turned to
V her. On Mackay's features such an expression meant a
warning, she felt sure. A warning that something important
was afoot, and that she should be careful. The eyes of the juge
were like icicle points. She took an instant dislike to Monsieur
Grandpoint. One of those dislikes that are always mutual.
"Mademoiselle," he began sternly, after the preliminary
introduction; "why did you not tell us that Sir Anthony Cross,
your fiance, was down here to meet Mr. Brownlow on busi-
Vivian was more amazed by the question than she had
been since the discovery of the two dead bodies. But she was
a reporter. A very good one. Trained to keep her face under
control. She did not show any signs of the surprise that she felt.
"Because I did not know it," she replied coolly. "Is it a
"You had no idea that Sir Anthony was down here in
Cluny except to run away with Madam Brownlow?" he asked
sarcastically.
Vivian caught her breath.
"I don't understand," she said after a second. "I guess
there's something new happened that I haven't heard of."
Still she spoke in a calm tone that made the juge privately
believe that she knew all this already.
"We have learned that there was no duel," he said very

ness f
fact?"


172
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
coldly. And proceeded to tell her what he had just told Mrs.
Brownlow.
Vivian only opened her eyes a little at the end. She glanced
once during the recital at Mackay who nodded imperceptably.
As for Pointer, he only watched her with his pleasant gaze
that gave sharp-witted Vivian the feeling that she was made of
glass.
"No, there was no duel," the juge repeated again; "but
there are two murders. Two crimes. Possibly connected with
this visit of Sir Anthony to our quiet little town. Possibly not
connected with that visit at all."
"Oh, yes, it was, too!" Vivian spoke, as she had to listen
partly, through Pointer. A proper interpreter was on his way
from Lyons, but for the moment the chief inspector filled the
post.
"My! Yes, it was!" she repeated Anthony Cross's words
to her of expecting to get some information down here in Cluny
from a man whom he was going to meet. The juge listened at-
tentively. Vivian, after a second's hesitation, went on to speak
of the constant thefts from parcels of diamonds sent to and
from Amsterdam which had brought Sir Anthony to France
in the first place.
"And you said nothing of this 'mission' of Sir Anthony's
up till now? Not when he was found shot?" the juge asked very
quietly.
"I thought, like every one else, that it was a duel. I guess
I thought that more than any one else," she said firmly. "And
that being so, Sir Anthony had asked me to consider every-
thing he told me about the losses to his company as absolutely
confidential." She went on to say that she understood from him
that inquiries were on foot which any talk or publicity might


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
173
<
quite frustrate. She, personally, knew nothing about these in-
quiries, except the fact of their existence. Sir Anthony had only
referred to them in general terms, as explaining what had
brought him to Europe just now.
The juge thought a moment. Adjusting his gold-rimmed
glasses, he sat for another moment reading through a page,
of notes.
"You say Sir Anthony knew that you were coming down
to Cluny, and yet he, who was also coming down here, did
not accompany you?" There was something like disbelief in
the cold eyes on her. "And you made no effort to see him here?
To meet him?"
She explained that he had wished it so.
"You had not quarreled with him about his coming
down here?" The juge spoke as though he doubted all that she
had told him.
Vivian again repeated what she had said. "Sir Anthony
was coming down to Cluny on business, so he told me," she
finished. "And for that reason we did not come together. I
doubted whether the reason that was bringing him down was
really business when I recognized Mrs. Brownlow from a pic-
ture I had seen him looking at not long before. And because
of that doubt of mine, I came here to the villa. But it was due
to his own wish that we should not be seen together, that we
met, as we did, outside the house."
"Mrs. Brownlow's portrait "Cambier pulled at his
moustache.
"And yet," the inexorable voice of the juge went on; "yet,
mademoiselle, knowing what he had told you of what brought
him to Cluny, you did not connect the two deaths with this
errand of his, this so secret errand?"


174
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
"Certainly not. Because I was told it was a duel, and be-
cause I had seen for myself that Mr. Brownlow was jealous
of him. I guess motives were a bit twisted up all around. Also,
I sure didn't reflect that a man can be doing business with
another and yet have a private grudge against him."
"M-m-m," hemmed the juge. Again there was a silence.
Strictly speaking only the juge, when he was present, could
question a witness. Some leaves in a note-book turned by him
was all that broke the rather tense stillness of the room.
"Apparently, mademoiselle, you were the last person to
see Sir Anthony Cross alive?" There was something ominous
in his stare. The words came with harsh emphasis.
"I guess the man who shot him was the real last," she
said composedly. It was a composure that did not please
Monsieur Grandpoint. He thought Vivian hard. And truth
compels one to admit that not even her best friend could
call her soft. Just now, however, all personal grief had been
dynamited away by the startling news that Anthony Cross's
death was a crime. And a most puzzling riddle.
Vivian's very eagerness to understand, to solve the riddle,
took the whole fact of the death away, as far as she was con-
cerned, from the heart—the warm realm of feeling—into the
mind, that cool place where problems dwell.
"But, putting the moment of his murder on one side,"
the juge resumed; "you, I say, mademoiselle, are the last per-
son of whom we have any record who spoke to the dead
man. Now that is a very important point."
He said this last very meaningly. Pointer translated.
Vivian's French was a little clouded by her anxiety not to
understand it wrongly.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
175
"Say, don't let him forget that they learned that point
from me!" she said with her usual spirit.
"Oh, quite so!" agreed the juge; "told us, however, while
his death seemed to be due to a duel. But to pass that by for
the time being, kindly tell us, once more, exactly what Sir
Anthony was doing when you saw him in the cedar room."
Vivian went into every detail that she could remember.
The juge worried her. Her own very anxiety tripped her up
sometimes. And every fresh detail, or trifle, that she mentioned,
would be met by the harsh remark of, "You did not men-
tion that before, I think." Vivian would reply that she had
not remembered it till now, or not thought it worth noticing.
It was a true French scene. Utterly hopeless from the point of
view of helping an innocent person who really was trying
to aid the law, though well calculated to confuse a guilty man
or woman. Pointer had met it before. He knew the French
theory that when a witness adds anything to their first testi-
mony, this addition is to be considered as most suspect. As
either unconscious self-deception, or conscious effort to "em-
broider" the plain facts, as Cambier put it.
The juge finally rose.
"Now, mademoiselle, kindly accompany us into the next
room and show us how, and where, each of the bodies was
lying. You were the first to reach both."
Vivian hesitated for a fraction of a second.
"It's not fair," Mackay began hotly in an undertone to
Pointer; "they didn't ask that of the wife. Then why of the
lassie?"
"You forget Mrs. Brownlow's a Frenchwoman by birth,"
Pointer said dryly.
Vivian quickly overcame her shrinking from the thought


176
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
of again stepping into that room where but a few hours before
she had seen so horrible a sight. Leading the way in now, she
explained very carefully what she had seen.
The juge studied the photographs which he held.
"And you say that you passed over to Sir Anthony, step-
ping just beside Mr. Brownlow's out-flung right hand?"
Vivian nodded.
"It must have been a narrow passage way between that
hand, and that table leg there."
"It was," she agreed; "but I don't take up yards of room."
"No. And the revolver, where was it?"
Vivian looked at him for a second, a long, intent look.
Then she stared at the part of the floor of which they were
talking.
"You have forgotten the revolver?" the juge asked icily.
"You have describe very closely many trifles, but you have
forgotten to mention stepping over it?"
"It wasn't there," Vivian said finally.
"That means to say?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.
"That it certainly wasn't there—then. Oh, I know it's on
that photograph probably. Now I come to think of it, it was
lying close beside that table leg when I came back into the
room, but some one must have moved it out a little "she
stopped herself.
"You said that you lifted his, Mr. Brownlow's, right
arm to see if he were really dead."
"Yes, I lifted the hand, which lifted the arm."
"And you did not see the revolver undeneath the arm
either?"
"No." She spoke rather curtly. "No, judge, I didn't."


178
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
The bullet that had killed Anthony fitted the weapon that had
been found lying beside Brownlow's outstretched right hand.
Of that there was no question. But how had that weapon got
there? Or rather, when? For Vivian was certain that there
had been no revolver in sight when she had first bent in
shocked surprise over Brownlow's body. She had done more
than lift a hand or an arm. She was very strong. She had half-
raised the body to be sure that life was really extinct. There
had been no revolver lying hidden beneath the dead man. But
if not there then, how had it materialized later close to his
hand? By whom, and when, and above all, why?
She, and Mrs. Brownlow, Mr. Smith, and the butler. . . .
They four were known to have been in the room between the
time she moved the body, without seeing any weapon, and the
time when the weapon lay there for all to see. Also, possibly a
maid had stepped in to help Mrs. Brownlow up to her room.
But Vivian dismissed the servants. It was not as though either
man had been killed in his own house. Here could be no ques-
tion of feudal loyalty, she told herself grimly. But was there
a gang at work? And like a flash came the thought of Mr.
Lascelles—of the "Egyptian Lady," Jane Eastby, and of her
evident fright lest Lascelles should open that cedar room door.
What would he have seen? What would any one have seen?
A dead man? There had been that in the woman's tone which
made the terrible question ask itself now in Vivian's groping
mind.
For Mrs. Eastby had tried to hide the urgency of her fear.
Vivian saw again the forced and frightened smile with which
she had pulled his hand away from the knob. And such a
woman as Vivian had seen staring after Anthony Cross that
first evening, the evening before the dance, would be capable


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
179
of almost anything. Mrs. Eastby could not have produced that
revolver, but what about an accomplice of hers?
Mrs. Eastby, Lascelles, Smith. . . . Was that the way the
wheel turned? But Smith had not left the room this morning
early until after she herself had returned from telephoning. Had
he the revolver already on him? She mentally ran her eye
over his trim chef's dress of white linen. It had fitted beauti-
fully. But an automatic takes up little room. And if not Smith,
then there only remained Mrs. Brownlow. Was it possible that
it was she? Vivian remembered the smelling salts and the
velvet handbag that Mrs. Brownlow had clutched as she ran
past the telephone in the lounge where Vivian was trying to
get Mackay. That handbag. . . . Now, in retrospect, Vivian
seemed to notice how stiff and rigid it hung. Had it been heavy?
Revolver heavy?
She tapped her even little teeth. She realized now that few
are the crimes, and very simple, that are capable of being solved
en bloc.
She went downstairs and found Mackay looking at the
pewter plates that had so interested the chief inspector.
"They're too fussy for my taste," Vivian said, drawing
him away. "Say, Mr. Mackay, that judge has a grouch against
me."
"Na, na!" he protested. "Only you were a bit short wi'
him. And in a republic, as you should ken weel, Miss Young,
you mustna be short wi' officials. It's only in a monarchy that
ye daur be rude to a mon in office."
"Instead of freezing me, if he'd only concentrated on that
revolver that wasn't there when we first broke into that room
this morning, he might give the case a shove forward. He didn't


180
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
even see the point. That Englishman did though. I caught his
eye."
Mackay's own eyes were on her now, waiting.
"As far as I can see," she went on in a low voice; "Smith
could have produced the gun if he had had it on him. But
Mrs. Brownlow could have fetched it, or its mate." She told
him of the bag, the "smelling salts." "Mr. Brownlow may easily
have had a brace of automatics."
Vivian knew of many men who had always carried a pair.
Such as her own revered father, for instance. Men who, like
him, had to go into wild places. Such places as China was
nowadays. Yes, Mr. Brownlow, once of Shanghai, might well
have owned a pair of automatics. Or his wife might have had
the mate to the one which he usually carried.
"There's nae logic in the supposition that the wife had
any hand whatever in the deaths," Mackay began, in the di-
dactic fashion that made Vivian want to laugh and want to
pinch him at the same time.
"I'm not saying that she had," she retorted swiftly; "all
I claim is that she muddled up the trails. And mind you, Mr.
Mackay, she must have known at once what make of bullet
had killed Anthony Cross. The bullet hadn't been extricated
by then. She knew it so all-fired surely that she did on the in-
stant the one thing that made it look like a duel. If she knew so
much, did she know more?"
Vivian could not help it, but the wild words of her sister
flashed through her mind.
"Aye, that's the point," Mackay conceded; "did she know,
or didn't she?"
"But if Mrs. Brownlow mixed things up so as to start that
duel idea," she went on in a still lower voice; "then she cared


182
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
spector Pointer when he came out of the conference room,
as the room beside the cedar room was now called.
"Could I have a word with you, alone?" she begged.
He followed her into an empty room.
"Chief, will you find out for me who murdered those two
men? Or at any rate who murdered Sir Anthony Cross. Though
I guess they're linked. The man who got the one, got the other
too."
But Pointer explained that he was only an observer in
this case. That he had no standing other than that. Nor could
have. The juge begged him to help him out with a piece of
English at that moment, and Pointer left, with another word
of regret to the girl.
"Too bad," Vivian said in considerable vexation to Mac-
kay when she met him a little later and recounted her failure.
"I wanted you and him to work together."
"But I'm pledged to Davidson "began Mackay.
"I telephoned to him," Vivian said triumphantly; "the
butler here has his address, and I asked him if I couldn't get
you to help me in this inquiry. He was most frightfully sorry
to hear of Mr. Brownlow's death, and said that of course you
could take it on. He seemed surprised that I asked him, and
not you! But I didn't intend to speak to you about it before
knowing that you could say yes—if you wanted to. And, of
course, you do want to!"
Apparently Mackay did not.
"Davidson or no Davidson, I'm nae guid. I canna see ma
hand before ma een," he said despondently. "There's nae light
o' reason here to guide my deductions."
"But you can't refuse!" she protested. "My, I simply
can't look on and see a man kick his chance down the stairs


184
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
"That soonds gey fine," was his only rejoinder; "but
there's nae private investigator to touch the police."
"Say, Mr. Mackay, your grandfather must have been a
wonder," she said dreamily.
"Eh?" he asked.
"You must be his image. I guess you forget at times that
you're not ninety -nine—yet. Well, good-bye; though it's one
more disappointment. For you sure have brains, though you
don't know how to use them. And I had another piece of news
to discuss with you." She flung this over her shoulder as she
moved towards the stairs.
It was not in human nature not to prick up its ears. Viv-
ian was generous.
"It's this. Mrs. Brownlow hasn't an idea who Mr. Murga-
troyd was talking to down here in the waiting-room last night.
So she says, and I believe her—there. Then who was it? Why
was Mr. Murgatroyd there at all at that hour? And looking as
mad as mad could be."
"Mad?" queried Mackay, but with a grin.
"Angry. Vexed. That sort of mad. And why did he skip
off before any one could question him? Of course, while we
all thought it was a duel, and while I believed he had been
having a heart-to-heart talk with Mrs. Brownlow, it was dif-
ferent. But now! I think he knows something! Only that, of
course. I guess even I don't connect a well-known lecturer and
a crime. Though I don't know. ... He might have been
just acting a part. I'm beginning to think he was too good to
be a real, and that mortal man couldn't be honestly as keen on
history and stones as he was. But I'll tell the world he really
knew a lot. My, he really did!"
"Sure did!" Mackay agreed; "but whaur do I come in?"


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
185
"In finding out more about Mrs. Eastby,” she said prompt-
ly. “I saw her trying to detain Anthony, you know, and him
trying to shake her off. It was the face of an absolutely des-
perate woman, Mr. Mackay.”
“He sent her an invitation to the dance!" Mackay said dis-
believingly; "and argueing by that ...” he shook his head.
“Then there's Mr. Murgatroyd's odd behavior that night.
I think now that he was talking to her—to the 'Egyptian
Lady.'”
“There's nae wumman nor yet a professor in last nicht's
terrible events," Mackay said firmly. “It wad be against a'
reason.”
“That's to find out,” Vivian countered smartly.
“Aye, find oot,” scoffed Mackay. “Ye'd better apply to
Monsieur Rondeau, that bright-eyed French laddie o' the po-
lice. He writes detective mysteries, and like you he's amazing
good at asking questions.”
“But-like meno good at solving them?” Vivian was
piqued.
“Well”—he temporized before the sparkle in her eyes
“hoo wud ye find oot aboot Mrs. Eastby, for instance.”
“Why, I—I'd— ” she thought hard.
“She hasna left an address. The police cud trace her, but
I canna,” Mackay went on. “Whaur I score wad be in reason-
ing, in mature deliberation—but there's no chance for that in
this case.”
He paused to let that said fact sink in.
“Haven't you any idea yourself about the link between
those two murders,” she asked finally?
"Aye. But it's nobbut an idea. Ye canna arrest a mon even


186
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
in France, I'm thinkin', on an opinion. There's ower mony o'
Sherlock Holmes's case wudna haud water in court."
"But you have an idea!" She was all agog. "Oh, my! Mr.
Mackay won't you give me an inkling of it—of who"
"A' I can say at present is that I dinna think a wumman
did either. Let alone baith," was his cautious reply.
She chuckled impatiently.
"You sure are the lightning calculator of your year! But
I'll drop one more pearl before I go. Find out whether the
link between Mrs. Eastby and Mr. Lascelles isn't Mr. Smith.
Or what about Mr. Tibbitts? It seems to me every one's for-
gotten him. He hasn't come back yet, you know."
Mackay did not tell her that the police were quite cognisant
of that young man's existence—and of his whereabouts.
"You're always talking of reasoning, of deliberation"
she began swiftly.
"It soonds like a gey varied conversationalist," he mur-
mured.
"But why not meditate on Mr. Tibbitts? Here's a man
who's prepared an alibi beforehand, as it were, and yet one
that would take him away from the ball-room for the rest of
the night. Say, Mr. Mackay, I think you ought to concentrate
on Tibbitts as a murderer as well as a thief."
"Na, na!" he said firmly. "He hasna the kind o' mind that
a murderer maun have." And with that Mackay left her.
Vivian was not so sure. Tibbitts might well represent the
link between the deaths of the two men, she thought. She was
certain that the deaths were closely connected. She did not for
a moment believe that in the same quiet old town, in the same
villa, on the same night, two murders, separate and distinct,
could have been planned and carried out. On the whole now,


CHAPTER X
'he juge wanted the chief inspector to go over a letter that
J- had just arrived, sent by air mail from Geneva. It was from
Mrs. Eastby, who apparently lived at Winchelsea when in Eng-
land. Mrs. Eastby claimed the French equivalent of three hun-
dred pounds from the effects of the late Sir Anthony Cross.
She wrote that the sum in question had been handed by her
to Sir Anthony on the night he met his death. The receipt, which
was made out for her, had gone on with her luggage to Como,
but it had been witnessed by a professor staying at Villa Porte
Bonheur and by another guest, Mr. Smith. The money had been
handed in notes of a thousand francs to Sir Anthony in order
that it might be at once invested by him in a particular com-
pany and under special circumstances, and was almost too late
to be so used. She could not give the number of the notes, as
the numbers of French notes are never taken, but all but six of
them were thousand franc notes, and as she had pulled out the
bank pin to count out one of the packages to Sir Anthony, in the
cedar room, she had torn the top note across, and had mended
it with a strip off the flap of an envelope from the rack on the
writing-table. The lady wrote that the matter was extremely
urgent. She hoped that as she had the receipt signed by two
men, who were doubtless still present at the villa, there would
be no delay made in finding the sum and returning it to her—
without the necessity for legal intervention.
There was a hint in the last line that such intervention
would quickly follow any effort to withhold the money.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
189
"So it wasn't a will Monsieur Smith signed, as he thought.
It was evidently this receipt of which the letter speaks." The
juge looked at the sum in francs and pursed his lips. "Here is
an interesting piece of news! There is no trace of any such
sum. None whatever. Sir Anthony has only some loose notes,
amounting to a thousand francs in all, on him."
"That pin found on the ink-stand!" Rondeau almost whis-
pered.
Cambier nodded. "That pin!" he agreed. "But there is
another interesting piece of news. Rondeau has found out that
a Mademoiselle Fumier—she is the daughter of a doctor who
lives in a little village near us"—he explained to the chief in-
spector and Mackay—"overhead a conversation while sitting
out with a partner not far from the open window of the cedar
room. She understands English and speaks it well. I have just
questioned her. She could not hear much of what was said, but
the conversation was of the nature of a quarrel. It took place
before supper, and between Sir Cross, whom she could see
now and then coming towards the window—he was apparently
walking up and down the room—and some other man. Eng-
lishman probably, as the conversation, the quarrel rather, was
in English. As to this other man, she could only hear a low-
pitched man's voice speaking very quietly in between Sir Cross's
indignant outbreaks. She thinks this other man was urging
some course on Sir Cross which the latter was indignantly
refusing to take. But that, of course, is only her interpretation
of the affair.
"Once, when Sir Cross stood looking out into the garden
for a moment, she heard him say as he turned away, in a
very threatening tone, 'It's a case for a criminal prosecution.'
That was the only sentence—complete sentence, which she


190 THE CLUNY PROBLEM
heard. But in the beginning she had caught a very signficant
word. That was the word 'thief!' Spoken in a tone of positive
fury. Later she heard the word 'money' many times. So many
times that she was sure the disagreement concerned that
common source of friction. She, of course, was under the idea
that the talk concerned some third party. Some political dis-
cussion even. We can make a better guess. 'Thief—'money'—
it was Tibbitts's, we may be sure—that quiet voice speaking
so softly. The honest man is not concerned with the open win-
dow, with the possibility of a listener. But a dishonest man, a
thief—ah, he is not forgetful of eavesdroppers. Never!"
Cambier went on to explain that Mademoiselle Fumier
had not spoken sooner because, though she had heard of the
duel almost at once, her father had objected to her concerning
herself in what seemed a straightforward, but unpleasant af-
fair—until the report reached him that it was no question of
a duel any longer, but of murder. Nor did she think, at first—
that which she had overheard was of any importance.
All the Frenchmen evidently knew the young girl, and
equally evidently were tremendously impressed by what she
had to say.
"The money she heard spoken of was very likely this
money of which this letter speaks," the juge murmured. Cam-
bier nodded.
"But in that case one asks oneself why Tibbitts was con-
cerned with it "Rondeau ventured. And this time Cambier
allowed his query to stand, even nodded agreement to it.
Meantime, the car that Tibbitts was believed to be driving
had just been traced to an hotel in Paris in the Latin quarter.
The Surete was taking the matter up. And evidently both ex-
peditiously and well, for within half an hour came the tele-


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
191
phoned news that Tibbitts had been arrested in a room of the
small hotel in question. On him had been found several wads
of thousand franc notes, one of which had a top note that had
been torn across and mended, apparently with a strip from a
gray linen envelope, on which the beginning of a "V" was
legible, an envelope from Villa Porte Bonheur.
Oddly enough, as soon as she heard of the arrest, which
was early next morning, Vivian began to have doubts of Tib-
bitts's guilt. She knew nothing of the letter of Mrs. Eastby, nor
of the torn bank-note found on the young man.
"He fits all right—bits of the puzzle—but I can't think
it was that poor simp!" she confided to Mackay, whom she
met walking towards the villa after a hasty breakfast.
"Brownlow murdered Sir Anthony, Miss Young," he said
suddenly. "I'm as certain o' that as though I had seen him do
it. And it was because I was sae sure that I wadna tak' on
the job when you asked me yesterday. His wife has suffered
eno' by the husband's death. I wadna be the one to add to
her grief."
"But, surely to goodness, you thought it a duel at first
like all of us!" she protested, amazed and a little indignant.
He shook his head gravely.
"Never. Not once. But it isna ma case. I'm engaged to get
back Mr. Davidson's money—if I can. As for the twa deaths
"he hesitated. "Miss Young," he said suddenly and very
earnestly; "I havena been able to say a worrd o' ma inner-
maist thochts for fear o' being laughed at. For a man should
reason—and reason according to the rules of logic. But I ha'e
the gift. The hielan' gift. Some ca' it 'second sicht.' Ma faither
was the seventh son o' a seventh son and baith he and his faither
were borrn on a Sunday. I can aye see bluid on the hand o' a


192
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
murderer. Believe me or no. When I first lookit at Brownlow,
I said to myself 'There goes a murderer!' For, though he had
gloves on, to me his palms were red and gory."
Mackay's voice suddenly rang out. There was that in his
tone and eyes that spelled conviction, however fantastic his
words might be.
"Gosh!" Miss Young breathed in amazement. She had
never thought of connecting this steady-eyed, red-haired young
man with anything occult.
"You mean to say that you can see further into these
murders than the police?" she asked finally.
"Aye and no. The gift comes and gaes. And, as I say, I'm
working on ma ain case. But of this I feel certain, Tibbitts
is nae murderer."
There was a pause.
"Hoo's Mrs. Brownlow takin' a' this talk aboot Tibbitts
the noo?" he asked next.
"Haven't you heard? She's so ill that they've installed a
nurse. The doctor talks of inflammation of the brain. Poor
thing! And yet—I wish I could quite place her in all this. . ."
"So do I!" Mackay agreed fervently. "I canna read Mrs.
Brownlow. Neither by the light o' reason, nor by any gift I
possess!"
He hurried off at that, and Vivian took a turn through
the orchard, thinking over what he had just said and what
she knew of the affair.
She was not a believer in things occult, but it was possible
that Mackay had a sensitiveness to the thoughts around him that
often goes by that name. At any rate, he evidently thought that
he was endowed with some special powers. They had not
seemed to lead far, but one never knew. . . . This was a most


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
193
perplexing problem. The morning paper, Le Petit Clunyois,
had been full of it. The paper mentioned that Maitre Lenor-
mand, the great Paris avocat, had been briefed to assist Tib-
bitts, and would arrive in the evening. This was very unusual.
Lenormand's fees were on a scale that usually precluded his
being called in so early in a case. Evidently Tibbitts, or some
one behind Tibbitts, had money to spend on his behalf.
The villa became the center of a whirpool of activities. Re-
ports in inconceivable number were drawn up by the doctors,
by the detectives, by the police, and by reporters for their pa-
pers. Every one who had been present at the dance and could
be reached was interviewed. The stationery shops of Cluny did
a roaring trade, and were cleared out of sealing wax.
For an hour before he questioned Tibbitts the magistrate
busied himself in reading over the reports tabulated for him
by his chief clerk. Then he sat and thought over the whole very
carefully. Now and again he paced the well-worn strip of car-
pet in the bare room of the Hotel de ville, whose beautiful
proportions and noble ceiling had once been part of the palace.
But its present use was suggested in the ink-stained green baize
cover over the long table in the center, in the dusty chairs with
their once leather seats, and in the files that ranged the walls.
Chief Inspector Pointer and Mackay were both present at
the interview.
As it progressed, a formidable total was built up against
Tibbitts.
The servants one and all claimed to have noticed that he
was madly in love with madam, though she, apparently, treated
him like an indulgent elder sister. There was only one witness,
the woman who acted as Mrs. Brownlow's maid when wanted,
who did not agree with this at all. She maintained that Madam


194
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
Brownlow on many occasions did her best to turn Tibbitts's
head. But the woman disliked the newly-made widow, and by
her own dislike spoiled the credibility of her evidence. Miss
Young was called, and did her best for both the accused and
Mrs. Brownlow. She considered Tibbitts's attachment rather
of the knightly adoration type than of the passionate apache
kind necessary for such a double crime. But here again, her
evident wish to help harmed her testimony. Then came the
facts of the journey to Paris, when the thousand pounds in
money and the jewelry worth more than another thousand had
disappeared. The Pullman attendants and the doctor who had
been summoned to attend Davidson and Mrs. Brownlow and
Smith—of whose unconsciousness there was no question—re-
membered many little trifles, which, put together, seemed defi-
nitely to prove that Tibbitts could not have been drugged as he
said.
Tibbitts himself made a very poor impression on every
one. Pale, hunted-looking, he faced the juge, his guard behind
him. Unshaven, and apparently unwashed, his whole appear-
ance spoke of guilt and shrinking dread. He put up such a lathe-
and-plaster defence that, had the occasion been less terrible, it
would have been ludicrous. He himself seemed made of putty.
And was in some state of secret terror which, like a frightened
driver, made him swerve into the very things he wanted to
avoid.
Within half an hour the juge wrung from him the acknowl-
edgment that his tale of the drugging was false. But he protested
that it had only been told with some silly idea of not seeming
luckier than his companions. A confused jumble of an explana-
tion that did not explain, least of all to the magistrate with
his chill eyes.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
195
Suddenly the juge produced the key found in the garden
near the gate.
"And now about this "he said in dramatic accents.
One thing was evident about it. It froze Tibbitts. His face
went livid, and yet there came a gleam into his green-gray,
watery eyes that made them flash like a cat's at night. He looked
as though he could have made a leap for the little piece of
metal lying on the juge's table. Then he stammered out that he
had never seen it before. And this with such abject terror that
his denials only strengthened the idea that he connected that
key very definitely and very terribly with one at least of the
dead men.
The juge, after he had adjourned for lunch, gave the com-
missaire instructions for the reconstruction of the double mur-
der, which he intended to carry out at midnight. Tibbitts was
to be confronted with the room as it had looked the night be-
fore last, the night of the dance. At the writing-table would sit
a figure very like that of Sir Anthony Cross. Into the room,
later on, would come another agent made up as like Brown-
low as possible. The juge hoped to get the truth before dawn.
Which meant, so the commissaire thought, a confession
from Tibbitts. The magistrate neither agreed nor disagreed with
diis. He only looked very thoughtful, and pursing his thin lips,
plunged into the reports again. Cambier was expecting every
minute further information from Lyons as to Brownlow's plans
there. Plans that now looked as though they might link up with
Sir Anthony Cross, for Brownlow, it seemed, had spoken of a
very wealthy backer who might be coming in with him. No
name had been mentioned, but it might be ferreted out, and the
name might be Anthony Cross.


198
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
his head. "Tibbitts a thief, aye. A safe-breaker possibly. But
nae murderer."
The chief inspector rose.
"Well, Cambier and the juge think we shall know to-night.
The commissaire is convinced of Tibbitts's guilt."
"But the juge isn't?" Mackay asked.
"I think he doubts it," Pointer gave Mackay a faint smile;
"but I think it's only because he rather believes that Miss
Young is mixed up in the affair in some way."
"Yon great lawyer is coming by the evening train; he
may see some way oot," Mackay murmured.
"Unless the way is out of the room where Tibbitts is safe-
ly locked-up, I don't see how he can be of any help. But his
coming shows that Tibbitts has some friends concerned for
him. He looked a very astonished man when he heard of Le-
normand's expected arrival and partisanship."
"I thocht that put on," Mackay said, rising in his turn.
"Weel, I'm more than ever glad that ma pairt is juist the
money—the siller. This life and death business sickens me. I
felt like a lad watching a rabbit chased by stoats this morning.
And to-night will be waur. For that puir fule hasna the wit to
help himself."
But there was no reconstruction of the crime that night.
At seven Maitre Lenormand arrived from Paris. He dined in
his room at the inn and about eight-thirty, after a careful read-
ing of copies of all the reports, sallied out to interview his
client. The client was not there. Tibbitts had escaped. An es-
cape that is still talked of in Cluny. A quick investigation by a
furious Cambier brought out the truth.
This was not the maitre's second visit, but his first Yet
at half-past seven some one wearing his big black hat and


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
199
black cloak, both well-known garments of his, on which even
the morning paper had commented, had arrived at the wing of
the Hotel de ville where Tibbitts was housed on the first floor,
with no exit except through a guardroom, or at least a room
always occupied by at least two busy policemen writing their
reports.
The great avocat arrived, handed in his card, and was at
once shown into Tibbitts's room. He mentioned that he would
have to go back to the hotel almost at once for an important
paper which he had forgotten. He had a largish bag with him.
In about five minutes he passed out again, at least the police
thought it was he. This time he made no remark, but was in a
great hurry, as was natural. Nearly half an hour later the men
in the outer room went off duty. While they were still talking to
the men who were to take their place, handing over the reports
and discussing the items of the day, the man they took to be
Lenormand, still in hat and cloak, came out again from Tib-
bitts's room.
"This time I am really off for the night," he remarked
pleasantly.
"We did not see you come back," the agent nearest him
said quickly.
"No! I will report myself at the table each time after this,"
the so-called Lenormand said very civilly, offering the man a
couple of cigars and wishing them all good-night.
That was all. But it was enough to make Cambier nearly
break a bloodvessel when confronted with the maitre's denial
of any such previous visit, and the abundant proofs that he
had not left the hotel since his arrival at seven until now, half-
past eight.


200
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
"It was some accomplice of Tibbitts's," Rondeau mur-
mured; "some apache friend. French, apparently"
"Certainly," rectified Cambier. "His accent was that of a
Frenchman. And besides—the neatness of the whole plan—its
admirable simplicity"
"It must have been some one who knew that our police
are changed at just that hour," Rondeau thought; "that looks
like a local man. It sounds bizarre, but have you reflected, mon
chef, that Monsieur Pichegru is just the height and build of
Maitre Lenormand? It sounds bizarre, as I say, yet I ask my-
self whether "he left the sentence unfinished.
"Monsieur Pichegru?" almost yelled Cambier; "what an
idea! And the motive? And how did he escape recognition?"
Rondeau was silent for once.
"My lad, whoever released Tibbitts was himself the mur-
derer," Cambier said firmly. "Do you not agree with me?" he
asked the chief inspector and Mackay.
Pointer said that he did. Mackay said that he would have
to think it over before deciding.
"Whoever it was," Rondeau said aloud, "was evidently
provided with a double set of the great Paris avocat's well-
known cloak and broad-brimmed black hat. One he wore, one
he carried in his bag."
Cambier nodded. Rondeau went on:
"He put those in the bag on Tibbitts, who walked out
swiftly, without saying a word—ostensibly to fetch the paper
that had been forgotten—down on to the street, around a cor-
ner, and into a car waiting for him. The other waits nearly
half an hour in the empty room—he has a nerve that one—
and then, still impersonating Lenormand, comes out at a mo-
ment when he knows that there is always a good deal of bustle


202
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
not yet returned. He had spoken of running up to Mont Dore.
»
Cambier wished to be told the instant that he returned.
He next spoke to the Vichy police, asking them to see when
Monsieur Smith got back, whether the car tires suggested
Mont Dore dust or Cluny's softer loam. Then he had a talk with
Maitre Lenormand.
The great avocat was only a little less curious than was
the commissaire at the trick that had been played. But he wished
silence on the affair. He was leaving at once. Returning to
Paris, he said, in a tone that suggested a man flying back to
civilization. The police agreed with him that no word should
leak out as to Tibbitts's escape. Only those actually concerned
in the inquiry were to be aware of the fact that that young man
was not locked up au secret.
Then came the report of Smith's arrival back in Vichy,
after a lapse of time that might have meant an excursion to
Mont Dore or to Cluny. The tires refused to say which. Smith
himself said that he had just run around the country gen-
erally, not stopping anywhere, merely trying the car with an
idea to buying her. The police, who searched the little ton-
neau, found a piece of a torn envelope with a Swiss stamp;
the postmark was Geneva, though the date was very blurred.
"Geneva!" repeated Rondeau; "where Madame Eastby
wrote from—where she is staying! Sapristi, but I ask myself
He was bundled from the room.
The juge next morning left Tibbitts on one side and con-
centrated on a fact that interested him greatly, which he had
discovered late yesterday afternoon. That was, that there was
one of the guests at the dance who had only been seen masked.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
203
Who must, therefore, have left before the one o'clock unmask-
ing and supper. It was the footman who had first given the
juge the clue in some answer of his, but the butler, too, when
his attention was called to some of the facts, bore out his fel-
low servant's idea. Both men now recollected that the tall
figure, wearing a long robe with a hood pulled over its head,
had only been seen by them near Miss Young. The "Lady with
the Fox" as they called her. They could not recollect having
seen the man in question talking to any one else, though this
was only a vague impression. But both were certain that they
had not seen the man after unmasking time. The butler could
not recollect what name had been on the card handed in by the
guest in question. He had happened to arrive at the same time
as a group of local people, one of whom, "Good King Rene,"
had mislaid his crown, and in the confusion until the royal
regalia was complete once more, the stranger had passed on.
The servant only remembered one point about his appearance
—that his hands were unusually dark for a European.
"African combine—dark hands!" Rondeau ran his hands
delightedly through his curly hair.
Now the juge, a fervent Roman Catholic, was the author
of a book on Roman Catholics and the Ku-Klux-Klan. As the
garb of the unidentified guest was described to him in detail
his face grew longer and longer.
"What have we here?" he muttered, all but crossing him-
self. "What have we here? And remember, messieurs, this man
so dressed, this guest who was not seen after the unmasking,
kept entirely to the company of the fiancee of one of the dead
men. And remember also that we have only her word that it was
she who broke the engagement off. Everything suggests that it
was Sir Anthony, rather than she. Everything! And now, rec-


204
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
ollect that this same stranger was apparently no stranger to
her. We have the evidence of one of the waiters, now back in
Macon, who heard him ask her to 'give him what he had come
to get.' Personally, gentlemen, I find here in this mysterious
figure, and this mysterious fiancee, a conjunction more sugges-
tive than in the thief of the rapide—Tibbitts and some accom-
plice. I will question Mademoiselle Young yet once more."
Vivian sensed the increased antagonism of the juge at
once. In his manner, in his eyes, in his voice. Her own dislike
answered to his.
Questioned, she replied that she recalled the figure per-
fectly. It was Mr. Lascelles, she felt sure. She explained Mr.
Lascelles, as far as she knew him. She had not seen the figure
after supper either, that was to say, after the unmasking. There
was something in her tone that made the magistrate sure that
she was holding something back or not telling the truth. Per-
sonally, he thought the latter.
"What is your religion, mademoiselle?" he asked unex>
pectedly.
"I am a Christian," she answered blandly, for Pointer did
not need to translate the simpler sentences to her.
The magistrate frowned. This was levity. Or downright
mockery.
"Are you a Roman Catholic?" he asked shortly.
"No."
"And Sir Anthony Cross?"
To his disappointment the juge learned that he was not one
either. Vivian assured the magistrate, after many further ques-
tions, that she knew nothing whatever of the frater of the Ku-
Klux-man beyond meeting him at Villa Porte Bonheur as Mr.
Smith's friend. The juge did not believe her. He sensed that she


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
205
was not telling all that she knew. For Vivian at first kept back
the strange episode out side the door of the cedar room between
the frater and the "Egyptian Lady." She hoped that Mackay
might yet make some good use of that. She wanted that lame
duck of a self-distrustful young man to swim. So finally the
juge dismissed her with some acerbity.
"A very determined young lady!" was his comment; "and
yet, according to her own story, we are to believe that she
stood aside and let things take their course?" He shook his head
slowly and firmly. "That, I do not believe."
"That is what I ask myself," Rondeau burst out excitedly;
"did she do that or did she not? I learned, though at the mo-
ment I thought it of no importance, that she practiced pistol
shooting on the very morning of the dance together with Mon-
sieur Smith in the shooting gallery. Now that is an odd way for
a young lady to spend her time, just before her lover came
down to see an old flame again."
"Mademoiselle is an American," Cambier put in dis-
passionately. "I understand that in that country pistol shooting
is part of every lady's daily round."
The other Frenchmen nodded. Yes, they, too, were aware
of that, but still, in this case. . . .
"She brought her pistol down with her, and it is an auto-
matic," Rondeau pointed out. "And I ask myself if she did not
bring it intending to use it on Sir Cross."
"Rondeau, do not embroider!" begged his chief. "Her au-
tomatic was not the one that killed either of the two men. And
a national amusement does not mean a crime."
"But, la bas, I understand that every one shoots at least
one person in their lives. So I ask myself "Rondeau mur-
mured, but Cambier asked him to jot down instead some in-


206
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
quiries about Lascelles which were to be made by telephone and
wireless.
"It is very curious," the commissaire went on, "that all
the men who were at the villa just before or during the time of
the murder have disappeared. Mr. Murgatroyd is unfindable.
He is expected back home in September, and you"—he turned
to Pointer—"your people cable you that all researches into his
past are of a most ironclad respectability. That he is, as we
here always took him to be, a savant, a writer on many works
of the past. As to respectability, that, too, seems to clothe Mon-
sieur Smith."
There was a short pause.
"Have you inquired of Monsieur Smith the address of his
friend, Lascelles?" asked the juge of Rondeau.
The latter had, but Smith had said that he hadn't the
faintest idea where Lascelles was hanging out, bar the fact
that both had arranged to meet at Zermatt in a week's time and
try the Matterhorn by a different traverse. Yes, he had heard
from Lascelles since leaving Cluny. But the letter was only
posted en route, from Geneva, he thought, but he couldn't be
sure.
This was all that could be got from Smith, and it was very
unsatisfactory.
"We have no reason, however, to think that either Smith
or Lascelles knew the dead men before coming to Villa Porte
Bonheur," the juge pointed out. "Madame Brownlow, before
she became so ill, poor lady, told us explicitly that she and
her husband knew none of the guests staying there. Except, of
course, Tibbitts—and except, as came later, Sir Anthony Cross,
i He, we know, came to Porte Bonheur villa because of Brown-


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
207
low, whom we now know was not merely an old acquaintance,
but a temporary partner of his."
"Whom we have been told was. I dinna believe that last
part," Mackay remarked as always.
In the afternoon Mrs. Eastby arrived. Nothing could made
her anything but a very handsome woman. But her wonderful
eyes looked as though they had spent some hours staring into
black depths. The lines around her passionate, rather disappoint-
ed-looking mouth had grown a great deal deeper than when Vivian
and she had watched each other at the supper table the night
of the dance. She explained to the juge that she and her hus-
band, Colonel Eastby, were old acquaintances of Sir Anthony.
Her husband was in a nursing home, or the whole affair would
have been carried out by him—doubtless very much more
cleverly. This pleased the juge. It was the correct attitude for
the other sex. She went on quickly, but clearly, to explain that
the friendship between the three of them, though of long stand-
ing, had never been a very close one. On coming down'to Cluny
to see a town of which all the world had heard, she had met
Sir Anthony in the train—to their mutual surprise. He had
happened to speak of a new business venture which he was
about to sponsor. He had not gone into details, but he had let
it be seen that it would make the fortunes of those who got in
on the ground floor.
"Now," Mrs. Eastby went on with winning frankness;
"I'm under fearfully heavy expenses just now, with my hus-
band ill, and I asked Sir Anthony at once to invest in it some
savings which I had been able to make out of our very tight
fit of an income." He had put her off, but not definitely. She
had hardened herself and waylaid him for an invitation to the
dance at the Villa Porte Bonheur—a dance of which the hotel


208
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
was talking, and where she hoped to find him in a more genial
mood. Her hopes had been justified. He had taken the sum
which to her was so big, to him so tiny, and had promised to
invest it at once for her as she wished.
"But I must—I must—have my money back, since it's not
been invested as I hoped. I simply must have it!" She was ex-
traordinarly pale, and in her eyes was a look as though she
were fighting down stark terror.
Terror of what? wondered the two Englishmen.
Vivian had talked over Mrs. Eastby with both the Chief
Inspector and the private inquiry agent as soon as it was known
that that lady was coming to Cluny.
Mackay had advised silence.
"That puir wumman had naething to dae wi' the deaths,"
he said for the tenth time. "Why drag her affairs oot for general
inspection? It was some wee matter o' her ain, sic as we a'
have."
"Is that according to the light o' reason, or second sight?"
Vivian asked with her disarming laugh.
"It's all very well for Mr. Mackay to say that Mrs. East-
by had nothing to do with the two murders," she went on. "I
don't think she had actually, but the Ku-Klux-man? Those
words I overhead were sure funny! Do you mean to say, Mr.
Mackay, that you won't even make any use of them?"
"I'm on ma ain job," he replied doggedly, undeterred by
her half-incredulous, half-pleading face.
Chief Inspector Pointer had now spoken, and very gravely.
"You ought to tell everything you know, Miss Young. Pos-
sibily Mackay's right, and Mrs. Eastby has nothing to do with
this double crime. But that's not for any civilian to decide. The
responsibility is too tremendous. The very thing you keep back


210
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
means at her best. "I wish to God Sir Anthony Cross were here
alive and well. But that girl? The girl who could tell such a
wicked untruth is capable of anything!" And she began to cry
shakily.
Pointer, watching her, thought that her grief was even
deeper than she wished to show. The others thought the same.
"She loved him," Cambier said firmly, after she had left
them; "yes, poor woman, she is, I think, agonized by the fear
that by handing him over the money, she may have been an
indirect cause of his murder. For three large piles of bank-
notes . . ." the juge shrugged.
"But that money was not to be invested!" Rondeau said al-
most violently. "I have learned that Mrs. Eastby was seen talk-
ing to Sir Cross at the station in Enghien by a porter. There-
fore she followed him down here. Oh, there is more behind that
sum of money than an investment! I have a feeling that there
is more!"
So had the juge, and he was a very experienced psychol-
ogist.


CHAPTER XI
RONDEAU spent the afternoon in a frenzy of activity. His
chief, the commissaire, was busy too. Between them they
learned that two other people had seen Mrs. Eastby and the tall,
hooded figure talking very earnestly together. In each case, un-
fortunately, the observer did not speak or understand English.
But each thought that Mrs. Eastby was soothing her tall com-
panion, or adjuring him to do something that he did not want
to do.
Rondeau found out that a youngish man with very dark
hands had driven Mrs. Eastby away from the hotel. Questioned,
she refused to give the man's name who had driven her or any
information as to the car. She tried to pass off the finality of
her refusal as the merest decency to an absent friend, but the
explanation was patently false.
But, whoever the man in the robe or the driver might have
been, it did not seem possible that he was Lascelles. For Ron-
deau finally located that young man. And Lascelles referred the
police Geneva for the night of the dance, to an hotel there
which had known him for years, with whose resident proprietor
he had often gone climbing. Inquiries proved that unless the
whole hotel staff, as well as the Swiss who owned it, were all
in league together, Mr. Lascelles had most certainly spent the
fateful night there. Investigations at the frontier showed that
his passport had duly passed through in the later evening. So,
in spite of Vivian's fancy, whoever the man in the long robe


212 THE CLUNY PROBLEM
was, it could not have been Smith's friend, the young science
master.
Vivian was at first incredulous, then utterly dumbfounded.
As for the juge, he plainly showed that this shaking of part of
her testimony gave him the gravest doubts as to the rest.
"But I thought—say, I was dead sure "she stammered
to Mackay in the garden.
"Aye. One thinks!" he retorted; "and one's dead sure. But
half the time one's wrang!" And on that he fell silent.
"Are you coming down to the village, I mean the toon?"
he asked, as she made for the gate.
"I am. Before that judge has me arrested I want to return
something I've stolen." She waved an umbrella at him. As to
her words about arrest, Vivian had no idea how possible, in
the magistrate's opinion, that step seemed.
Mackay had already noticed the umbrella hanging on her
arm, and noticed, too, that it was of a size and make unusual
in her belongings.
"Whose is it?" he asked.
"Don't know. A couple of strangers came to the museum
yesterday, in which I am being driven to take an interest, very
much against the grain I do assure you. Like Mr. Murgatroyd
these two, however, obviously came to worship. I left before
they did, and the man in charge of umbrellas gave me this in-
stead of my own. As Mr. Murgatroyd said, it's always to me, or
near me, that things happen!"
"What makes you think this belongs to those men you
saw?" he asked grumpily.
"I happened to notice the men walking up to the museum.
One of them had this very umbrella swinging on his arm. As
it's no use to me, I intend to return it."


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
213
"If you've identified it as well as you did Mr. Lascelles's
voice," he began with unkind frankness.
"That alibi of his may be phony after all," she said at
once, but only half-heartedly.
He shook his head. "Better give me the brolly," he sug-
gested. "I'm going that way, the way of the only hotel in the
place where strangers are likely to put up besides my own,
and they're not staying where I am."
But Vivian did not let go.
"Tell me what he looked like and I'll find him out," he
persisted.
"Why shouldn't I have some interest in life?" she coun-
tered. "As to what he looked like in the museum—an under-
taker taking a friend to see his mother's grave. That's what he
looked like." And with that brief sketch of the umbrella's
owner, Vivian turned down the avenue of limes. He kept beside
her.
"You've quick eyes if you can be as sure as that of the own-
er," he repeated after a moment.
"Sure. When all this terrible affair is over, I'm going into
partnership with you, Mr. Mackay. We'd get on fine. You
could do the reasoning, and I the mistakes."
Mackay looked at her. His careworn young face lighted.
For a second she thought that he was going to speak and say
something pleasant, but the usual cloud of taciturnity swept
down on him again.
"It's a ruined concern, Miss Young," he said wearily; "yet,
if I pull off this thing, I might take you at your word," he fin-
ished, giving her a keen, searching look, "but I doot it's beyond


214
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
"The dice are sure loaded in this game," she said gently.
"It would take some one like that chief inspector to play them."
"You think he's so good?" Mackay asked without any
look of pleasure; with something that sounded like jealous
disparagement in his voice.
She nodded with certainty. "I know that make of man.
And I know your make."
"And the difference?" Mackay asked shortly.
"You're a man of action," she said kindly. "And that's
the trouble. Detecting doesn't take action. But here's the hotel.
I'll go in and ask if any one answering to the man I saw with
this is staying here."
But Mackay insisted on doing it for her, while she sampled
some ices and cakes at the town's best confectioner's.
Vivian was never more sure that America was God's coun-
try than when she was in a French cake shop. But Mackay
found her doing her best to initiate the young woman in charge
into the mysteries of a Texas sundae. The best local equivalent
seemed to consist of jam and cream and strawberry ice. Mac-
kay shuddered at the sight, but Miss Young thought it quite fair
for a first effort.
"Did you find the man? Is he an undertaker on his way to
his mother's grave?" she asked Mackay on his return.
"He's a Swedish art critic, who only speaks Swedish, so
our interview was short. But he recognized his umbrella."
"And what about mine?" Vivian asked. "Consider me as
crushed as you like, still I want my umbrella."
"The chap, whose gamp was given you, has sent yours to
the villa."
"But how did he know where I was staying?" she per-
sisted in surprise.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
215
"The mon in charge told him your name and address. A'
the lot of us at the villa are marrked men and women, ye ken."
"But the man in charge of the umbrellas doesn't know
me! I went to him at once about it before I came away. He sure
didn't know me from Adam—or let's say, Eve. He told me as
an excuse that he was new to the town. Say, that's queer!"
"Some other official supplied the information then," Mac-
kay said carelessly.
Vivian returned to the villa, where she found her um-
brella. It had been left by the chasseur of the hotel where the
strangers were staying. She was sufficiently intrigued to walk
on to the museum which shared with the Hotel de ville the hon-
or of being housed in what had been the Abbotts' Palace.
The same man was in charge of umbrellas.
"I received my umbrella safely," she said at once; "did
you give the man who took mine my name?"
"But I do not know your name, madam," he said in open
amusement.
"Didn't he come and ask you for it?"
He had not. The man assured her that he had not had any
questions asked about either her umbrella or the one given her
by mistake, except from herself. She decided to ask the same
question of the man at the door. But he was talking volubly in
low tones to a couple of gendarmes. Just behind their heads
was an open window, so high up that any one standing there
could probably not be seen but could hear. Vivian had passed
that room coming out. It was empty now. She stepped back
into it and, as she hoped, her head was barely level with the
sill. She listened intently. She felt quite sure that it \ms of
"the Problem" that they were talking. It was. And, as far as
she was concerned, it certainly was news. For it was of Tib-
r


THE CLUNY PROBLEM 217
assist. It could only be solved by a close inside knowledge of
the postal routine of two continents and the seas between. Had
the late Brownlow been a retired officer of the merchant serv-
ice or some postal official, there might have been a possibility
of Sir Anthony having asked his help; but a silk merchant!
As to a suggestion that Sir Anthony had come to Cluny to
meet some other person still who might throw light on the
losses, the speaker had been in secret telephonic communica-
tion with Sir Anthony on his leaving Enghien, and the baronet
had not mentioned the matter. Yet Oor was absolutely certain
that he would have done so in that case. Sir Anthony was a
very loyal man, who took no step without talking it over with
the men engaged on the task. Nor could he have stumbled by
chance on any proof at Cluny which might have brought about
his murder or the murder of any helper.
Oor again repeated that the case was not far enough ad-
vanced for anything of that sort to be possible.
The juge murmured that he had felt sure all along that
Mademoiselle Young's suggestion as to Sir Anthony having
come down on any inquiry connected with the diamond thefts
was but a blind, a false trail.
"She is deep, that young lady!" he said gravely. "Very
deep!" As to whether Brownlow was helping Sir Anthony as
a go-between for some purchase of a stone or stones, Oor
could not say. All he did know was that such a purchase would
have nothing to do with the firm, but be a purely private matter.
Meanwhile, Pointer, by wireless via Lyons, had been get-
ting all the information possible about Mrs. Eastby. As far as
was known, neither she nor her husband had ever been in any
trouble, and until he exchanged into a camel corps, he had


218
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
generally been stationed in some home garrison where all pos-
sible facts were available.
They had one son. This son had entered the counting
house of the Johannesburg branch of the Diamond Combine
two years ago. He bore, as far as was known, a satisfactory
character in every way. He had been nominated by Sir An-
thony Cross, and inquiries showed that it was Sir Anthony
again who had told him to take the four weeks holiday which
was due him this autumn, now, in July. Young Reginald East-
by was over in London it was thought, though his only address
there was a small club much used by army men from Egypt.
There Pointer could get no present address, only a vague idea
that young Mr. Eastby was in France.
It was the existence of the son which was the important
point. Why had Mrs. Eastby said nothing about him? A son,
moreover, who was old enough—twenty-six—to be in the em-
ployment of Sir Anthony's company, though not, it appeared,
in any capacity that brought him into personal touch with that
director.
A confidential inquiry had been "beamed" to the firm as
to whether Sir Anthony had in any way seemed to especially
favor young Eastby. The reply was that, considering that the
young man was his nominee, Sir Anthony had always seemed
ultra-critical of his work. Eastby had just been recommended
for a very important rise, a vacant post in London, to which the
other directors thought him especially fitted, but Sir Anthony
had opposed the recommendation, saying that he did not think
the young man up to the new position's difficulties.
An idea of the juge's was swept away by these later facts.
"Otherwise, of course, one might think . . ." he said
vaguely, shaking his head; "yes, indeed, one might think. . . .


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
219
Fortunately Sir Anthony Cross's legal adviser and personal
friend is, I understand, on his way here. He will represent the
family. And from him we may gain a great deal of help."
The juge was referring to Mr. Maitland, who was on his
way to Cluny to take Sir Anthony's remains back to the family
vault. He was, it seemed, one of the executors of the baronet's
will, a friend of many years, and up till now the solicitor in
whose hands the Diamond Combine, at Sir Anthony's instiga-
tion, had placed all its legal business, just as he had trans-
acted everything of that kind for the dead man for many a
year. He had just retired a few days ago—to enter parliament,
it was thought—but seeing the urgency of the situation, he had
volunteered to continue working as heretofore for a few weeks
more, giving the office in London the benefit of his advice and
intimate knowledge of Sir Anthony's plans.
Meanwhile, Cambier had been furnished with approximate
measurements and a photograph of Reginald Eastby from Eng-
land. They showed that it was not impossible for this young
man to have been the Florentine Brother of Mercy at the dance,
and that, later on, he might have driven his mother away from
the hotel. If it were he, why had he come to Cluhy for so short
a time? Why gone, without apparently making himself known
to his host?
Mrs. Eastby was asked where her son was. There was such
stark terror in her face at the question, which was suddenly
shot at her after several quite casual ones, that all the men in
the room were sorry for her. She stammered something unin-
telligible with pale lips.
"Madam," the juge said not unkindly, "you had better
give us his address at once. We shall have to have it. We have
evidence showing that he was here the night of the dance."


220
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
"But I don't know where he is!" Mrs. Eastby cried in
something near to a shriek. "Somewhere in Bulgaria—fishing
—and then he was going on to Cyprus."
"It sounds an expensive holiday . . ." murmured the juge
who, like most of his nation, did not travel. "I understood that
your means were straightened."
Mrs. Eastby replied that Reginald traveled third class and
was doing it extremely cheaply. Most of it on foot. How could
she reach him? She replied that she had no means of doing
that. That when his month was up he would come back to Lon-
don.
"Perhaps!" muttered the juge with dreadful clearness.
"Madam, I am sorry to wound a mother's feelings, but we have
to-day—now—learned that Sir Anthony requested your son
to take his holiday at once, and at the same time that a char-
tered accountant was instructed to go through the young man's
accounts. There was no reason given. But it speaks for itself."
"Because he was appointed to, or as good as appointed
to, a very much better position in London," Mrs. Eastby cried,
twisting her fingers until the small knuckles—the knuckles
of a woman of feeling and impulse, but not of much logical
capacity—seemed to crack.
"Sir Anthony had at the last moment scratched through
that appointment, Mrs. Eastby. That was a proceeding, madam,
that might well arouse passionate fury in the breast of a young
man, who perhaps thought he had a right to extra favoritism
on the part of Sir Anthony Cross.
"You were overheard telling him not to go into the room
where Sir Anthony was." The juge now inclined to believe that
Vivian had told the truth. "He asked Miss Young, taking her
for you, for what he had come to fetch. . . ."


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
221
Mrs. Eastby had pulled herself together by this time.
Again she maintained that her son was nowhere near Cluny on
the occasion of the recent dance—that he and Sir Anthony
were on as good terms as any young man in the firm's employ-
ment. As to Sir Anthony having started him with rather a
better paid post than most beginners had to take, that was
due, of course, to the dead director's friendship with her hus-
band and herself. Her husband had asked him to do his best
for their boy, who had just left Oxford with a scraped-through
pass. Sir Anthony, she thought, was rather afraid that, having
done as much, Reginald possibly, and certainly the other
members of the staff, might think that he intended to make a
favorite of the boy. For that reason he had gone out of his
way to show that, though he had put the young man in his
position out of kindness to the parents, his kindness ended
there. There was no question of any intimacy at any time be-
tween the two.
She was very good indeed now, very matter-of-fact, very
clear, very detailed. Yet there was that in her eyes that told
of her back against some wall.
"She is shielding her son," the juge said when she had
been released from the rack. That was the comparison that
the Scotland Yard man and Mackay both had. "Yes, she is
shielding her son. The poor woman! Of course he came here.
Came to meet 'Jane.' His mother's name is not 'Jane.' Nor do I
think he would call her that. I think 'Jane' is some one else—
perhaps some one who did not come. It is perplexing—very,
very! Now, the latest information which we have just received
is that Mrs. Eastby is in some financial difficulty. That she
had asked, less than a month ago, for a loan of a hundred


222
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
pounds from her bank and was refused, as she had insufficient
security to offer. Her husband's pension ceasing at his death."
Pointer had just ascertained these facts from the bank
manager in question.
"Yet we find her handing three times that amount to Sir
Anthony Cross. Still, there are ways. . . . There are gam-
bling tables, there is a lucky deal on the stock exchange. There
are the petites economies so dear to ladies. The savings in the
stocking, never referred to, but always produced when it is a
question of a remarkable chance. Yes, yes, we understand all
that . . ." murmured the juge. "It is the son, in that extraor-
dinary garb. Even without believing that fantastic tale of the
young American girl's, it is the son that is of interest to us,"
he went on ruminatingly.
A policeman interrupted. Saluting, he brought informa-
tion that on the Paris express from Macon had arrived not Mr.
Maitland, the expected representative of the family and Sir
Anthony's personal friend, but a very important person none
the less, the head clerk of the London office of the combine, a
man who spoke French as well as he did English or Tal.
Mr. Heimbrot, the clerk in question, brought with him a
letter that had reached the office after the death of the writer,
Sir Anthony. It was dated the day of his death, and had been
collected by the midnight collection in Cluny. Evidently it
was one that had been posted by himself late in the evening.
In it, he not only withdraw all his objections to young Eastby's
obtaining the London appointment, but strongly urged that
he should at once start in his new sphere on his return from
his holiday. Heimbrot believed that Sir Anthony had intended
to do this all along, and had had the young man take his leave
now instead of later with this in view.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
223
Mr. Heimbrot went on to say that he had written to con-
gratulate young Eastby on the good news, for this letter quite
settled the appointment. Where had he written? To Mr. East-
by's club in town. It would be forwarded. Mr. Eastby was in
France at the moment. Sir Anthony had referred in a previous
letter to having met Mrs. Eastby in Enghien-les-Bains, and East-
by was traveling with his mother.
Mr. Heimbrot, a middle-aged man with shrewd but kindly
lines on his face, looked uneasy at something in the eyes of
the Frenchmen fixed so eagerly on him. He paused in his nar-
rative.
"Mrs. Eastby and her son in Enghien? Oh, yes. The name
of the hotel? I want to get into touch with Mr. Eastby," mur-
mured the juge with an air of content that relieved Mr. Heim-
brot. But the head clerk did not know at what hotel the mother
and her son had stayed. The dead baronet's reference had sug-
gested a chance meeting.
The juge next asked for all possible details concerning
Reginald Eastby. Heimbrot told everything that he knew con-
cerning the young man. No fresh material was added to the
known facts, though he supplied the secretaries of the officials
with plenty of dates. Young Eastby had done very well in the
office where he worked, and had shown executive and financial
ability quite above the average. For which reason he had been
proposed for the unexpected vacancy in London, which meant
a big rise in position, salary and prospects.
Yes, the head clerk had understood from Sir Anthony that
he did not intend to recommend Reginald Eastby to the post,
but evidently, on reflection, he had reoognized his undoubted
fitness for it.
"And can you tell me why he had a chartered accountant


224
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
go through the young man's books while he himself was away
on a holiday, a holiday which the murdered man had practi-
cally ordered him to take?" asked Cambier. The secretary
pursed up his lips.
"Suspicious, I should say. It looks like that. But evidently
unfounded, or Mr. Eastby wouldn't have got the rise. I think
some one must have been telling tales, false ones, that set
Sir Anthony against young Eastby. There was no reason for
them. You see, I'm from the Jo'burg office myself, a couple
of years ago, and I keep in touch with my old friends out
there. Reginald Eastby is as steady as a rock. Hard working
and clever. Lives quietly with his mother."
"What about Colonel Eastby?" asked the juge.
Heimbrot opened his eyes.
"Colonel Eastby's in an asylum. Has been there for don-
key's years. Got kicked on the head by a camel just after he
joined the camel corps. And no hope of recovery, they say."
"In a lunatic asylum?" queried Rondeau, half-rising from
his seat. "A maniac. Homicidal?"
The secretary nodded pityingly. "So they say—a certified
lunatic."
"And where is this asylum?" breathed Rondeau.
"At Passy. Close to the American hospital there. There's
a man there said to be a marvel. But he hasn't been able to
help the poor colonel, I understand. He's been going from men-
tal home to mental home for years and years. No good."
"How long ago was his injury?"
"I understand that it happened when young Eastby was
a little chap. He's twenty-six now. About twenty years ago, I
suppose."


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
225
"And now," the juge leaned forward and dropped his
voice; "now, about Mrs. Eastby and Sir Anthony Cross?"
Mr. Heimbrot only looked at him.
"The—the friendship between them was of long stand-
ing, hein?"
Mr. Heimbrot could not seem to say. He had apparently
became quite vague as to details. He could not say that he
had ever heard any talk connecting Mrs. Eastby's name with
that of the dead man. But he did know that Mrs. Eastby had
come to Johannesburg years ago, just after the accident to her
husband, with her little boy. She lived there very simply. Heim-
brot added that every one was uncommonly sorry for the love-
ly girl—she was little more than that at the time. For herself
and for the ghastly fate that had overtaken her marriage.
The Eastbys were not badly off,- but their modest resources
were strained to penury by the expensive charges for the
colonel, and had so remained ever since.
"I saw the letter some four years ago in which she thanked
Sir Anthony for having got her son a post," Heimbrot went
on. "She had marked it 'Personal,' but it got into the wrong
pile. Most touching letter I ever read," he said after a little
pause. "And a credit—both to the woman who wrote it and the
man who got it," he finished warmly in English.
"Well done!" breathed Mackay to the chief inspector sit-
ting beside him.
The juge asked a few more questions. As, for instance, how
Sir Anthony and Mrs. Eastby had come to meet at Enghien.
Mr. Heimbrot had no idea. He did not know either where Mrs.
Eastby was at the moment.
Did he think that possibly she and her son were traveling
with Sir Anthony? Mr. Heimbrot did not. He added that there
.<-


226
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
was a belief in the office that, personally, Sir Anthony rather
disliked young Reginald Eastby. Pressed, he confessed that he,
too, thought that the baronet was inclined to be over severe on
that young man's work.
The next question concerned the leakage of diamonds
from the parcels sent to Amsterdam. Mr. Heimbrot was very
reticent, but he agreed that Sir Anthony's presence in France
was due to some investigations now going on. That was all for
the time-being, and Mr. Heimbrot, with many thanks, was al-
lowed to stroll around the little town at his leisure.
There was a moment's silence after he left.
"So it was Madam Eastby—not the husband, who was in
a lunatic asylum—who asked for that post for her son," the
juge murmured. "And she and her son were together at Eng-
hien. And she followed Sir Anthony Cross down here. And
the son? I think we may take it that he followed with her. And
Sir Anthony had refused to give the son this rise." He took off
his pince-nez and rubbed them clear. "Does a man of Sir An-
thony Cross's apparent strength of character give an underling
a post because of such persistance? Is it not rather calculated
to make him stand still firmer to his refusal? You, monsieur,"
the juge turned to Mackay, "have met him; do you think he was
the kind to yield to pressure?"
Mackay did not. "But he was the kind, to yield to com-
mon sense," he said. "Evidently the more he thought it over,
the more certain he grew that this young Eastby was the man
for the job. As Mr. Heimbrot says—and as seems logical."
"Then why did the mother say nothing about the son's
presence here?"
"Pride," Mackay said at once. "She didna want us to think
he had to beg for it. Aye, and verra likely she didna want the


THE CLUNY PROBLEM 227
son to know what was up. Ma idea is that Mrs. Eastby had
him—her son—on hand, if need should arise, if Sir Anthony
should want an interview with him, but that she didna want
Sir Anthony to know that Eastby was there unless he asked
for him. Thae worrds Miss Young overheard, they might fit in
wi' that theory."
The juge pondered this, eyes on the notes taken.
"You forget that we have here a double crime of singular
ferocity," he pointed out; "a double crime. And a cunning
one. Locked door on the inside, revolvers beside each man.
The detective in charge of the inquiry into the disappearance
of the diamonds is certain that there is no one in Cluny con-
nected with that."
"I do not say that I agree with him," Cambier cut in as
the juge turned to him. "But on the other hand, he is certain
that Monsieur Brownlow, whatever Madam Brownlow's idea
was, cannot have been taking any part in the search for the
missing thieves."
"Yes, but I ask myself "put in Rondeau.
Unheeding him, as usual, the commissaire went on: "I
think Mr. Oor's reason for that belief is sound. I confess it ap-
peals to me more than his certainty that no criminal connected
with the thefts from the combine could have come to Cluny.
Tibbitts for one—and in some way, Smith too? Though of
him I do not feel really suspicious. But now this little per-
plexity about the son of Mrs. Eastby. . . ."
"What I ask myself," Rondeau announced; "is where is
the colonel? The mad colonel? Have we not here"
"A forged document," the juge finished, speaking very
solemnly. "That, messieurs, is the great, great question on
which much hangs." He paused. You could have heard a piece


228
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
of paper fall in the attentive silence. "Is this letter a forgery?"
He held up the one Heimbrot had brought him. "Was it a
final desperate effort on a mother's part to get her son into a
good position, or on his own part, with her connivance? Was
Sir Anthony already dead when this letter was concocted, or
was he killed to prevent the inevitable discovery that it was a
forgery? And the death of Mr. Brownlow, was that, as has
been already surmised might prove to be the case, an effort
to cover up the first crime? Did he intrude on the murder—
or the forgery? Was he silenced by the only means that spells
perpetual silence? Since, I take it, in the next world we shall
not need tongues. Our experts will decide the question of
forgery at once. I think it looks very dark indeed, messieurs.
Not so much against that poor wife and mother, whose fate has
certainly been in life's shadows, but against the son. Evi-
dently ambitious. Else why the quiet life, the attention to duty,
of which that kindly disposed head clerk has just told us.
"What do you think, Cambier, you are an expert on such
a point?" He handed the note over and went on: "Personally,
I think the note looks unlike Sir Anthony's usual writing, of
which Mr. Mackay provided us with an example. If it be a
forgery, then we come back to the theory of the impassioned
pleading of the mother, resulting in one more absolute refusal
to place the son in a position for which she thinks him so well
suited, for which he has strained every nerve to fit himself.
That dislike of the son—it looks as though at some time the
mother had put the son first and Sir Anthony second," the juge
said slowly.
Cambier looked up long enough to nod.
"That's what I think." That was what Pointer thought
too.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
229
"One can imagine . . . one can imagine"—certainly one
could almost see the juge at it—"a young wife, very beautiful,
kept to her duty by the little son. And a man rich—of the no-
bility—also young, accustomed, perhaps, to being all-victori-
ous, who found that, because of that son, the mother stood
firm where the woman and the wife would have weakened.
Well, Cambier, what of that letter?"
"It is hard to say." Cambier had all the reluctance of your
expert to commit himself.
"The difficulty will be to find the son—the masked young
man who was no more seen after the hour for unmasking."
"If nothing leaks out, he must return when his leave is
up," Cambier thought. "Then of course"
Rondeau came in with fresh information. He had just been
called to the telephone. His researches had borne fruit. Mrs.
Eastby and her son had stayed at one of the small hotels in
Enghien while Sir Anthony was there, arriving the same day
that he came, and leaving the day that he left. Apparently Regi-
nald Eastby had never been seen with the magnate, but spent
most of his time on the Enghien golf course. But on four oc-
casions he had been seen in the local teashops with a young,
fair American girl.
"Young, fair American? Sapristil" muttered Cambier.
"Does it fit Mademoiselle Young, that description, or does
it not?" purred the juge.
Rondeau went on with his gleanings. Reginald Eastby
seemed to have spent a very quiet time at Enghien. Neither he
nor his mother went near the gaming tables, which was sur-
prising, for one only goes to Enghien-les-Bains to gamble.
"I ask myself," Rondeau said, laying down a copy of the
report, "whether it was Tibbitts whom Mademoiselle Fumier


230
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
heard in the cedar room. Suppose it was young Eastby with
whom that quarrel took place.”
“Ah,” the juge nodded, “ah! That would fit well. Mad-
emoiselle Fumier heard the word 'thief, and many times
the word 'money.” He paused and repeated, “ “Thief'—a char-
tered accountant to go over a clerk's books—a mother who in-
sists on paying to the director three hundred pounds which
she can ill afford to spare. Oh, messieurs, here, I think, lies one
end of this tangle. We will see that poor Madam Eastby once
again.”


CHAPTER XII
rs. Eastby came in looking as though some inner fire were
IVJ- scorching her up.
Rondeau had found a piece of evidence which the juge now
used with very good effect. Rondeau's find was a waiter, at pres-
ent in Lyons, who had been sent by a local pattissier to help
at the villa the night of the dance—the night of the double
murder, as it was called in the local press. He had been told
to fetch a small table from a window in the passage that ran
between the cedar room and the writing-room. He found that
the table had already been taken, but while looking about for it
he, too, had seen that strange interlude which Vivian had
watched and overheard between the veiled Egyptian woman and
the tall hooded figure.
He had seen Vivian too, and his confirmation of her pres-
ence and of the pantomime—he understood no word that was
said—now bore out the girl's story. Even the juge accepted it.
Mrs. Eastby was told that a second witness had been found
who definitely identified her son, a witness who had seen him at
Enghien-les-Bains, where he had been staying with her.
Mrs. Eastby's rouged thin cheeks went blue-white. So did
her lips. Her eyes had in them the unforgettable look of a
hunted deer when the dogs close up. There was only profound
pity in the faces of those watching her, but they were all the
hounds of the law. Pledged to run down the guilty without
pity. Mrs. Eastby pulled herself together splendidly after one
second's hesitation.


232
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
She explained, with an appearance of great frankness
which only the look in her eyes made unconvincing, that she
had so hoped to keep her son out of this terrible affair. This
was what had happened. She wanted Sir Anthony to invest the
three hundred pounds for her as she had already explained, but
her boy had a dislike of Sir Anthony and a great objection to
making any use of him. But she wanted her son to come with
her; after all, should it come to a difficulty in talking over
money matters, a woman liked to lean on a man, even on her
son. She gave a bright smile at this, a smile that she kept fly-
ing in face of the deepest gravity around her. So, in order to
have Reginald with her in case of some hitch, and yet not have
him know what she wanted of Sir Anthony, she told him that a
girl with whom he was very much in love, an American girl
whose first name was Jane, would be at the dance in fancy
dress, and masked, of course. He had come for that reason.
Miss Young was the only English-speaking young woman pres-
ent, and though considerably taller than her son's "girl," the
difference between them was attributed by him to the costume
and mask and the effort to be disguised.
She, Mrs. Eastby, by the way, had a bet on that no one
would recognize him. A very big bet. It did not apply to
"Jane," as otherwise he refused to come with her, but to every
one else. That was why she did not want him to enter the room
where Sir Anthony was, who would, of course, have known
him from his voice, if from nothing else.
With whom was this bet?
She declined absolutely to say. Unfortunately her son had
an understanding with "Miss Jane" about a photograph of hers
that she was to give him if—well, as an answer to a letter
which he had written her. Mrs. Eastby did not know what


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
233
letter nor what answer, but, of course, one could guess. Again
her heart-breaking smile flashed around. Her son, as she said,
had at first mistaken Miss Young for this other girl, but he
chanced to overhear her speaking to Mr. Smith in her natural
voice, and on that he had very indignantly refused to stay,
either to supper or later. She had remained behind, delighted
that Sir Anthony had taken over the money for her, and after
supper and a change at the hotel, her son, who had been driving
about to cool off, had come for her as had been arranged and
driven on with her to Macon, where they caught the Geneva
express.
By this time, for the juge did not let her story go un-
questioned, the report of the specialists was put in his hands.
Three of the five experts considered that the letter brought by
Mr. Heimbrot, the head clerk, was written by Sir Anthony
Cross, though under the stress of considerable haste and emo-
tion. Two were sure that it was a forgery.
He read it through, handed it around, and then turned to
the woman, who passed her tongue over her lips.
"Now, madam, I am sorry, but there is one more point.
One of the dancers heard a man quarreling, or at least having
a very hot disagreement with Sir Anthony Cross just before he
must have been murdered. This man was your son." He spoke
with great certainty.
Mrs. Eastby stared at him in apparently genuine bewilder-
ment. "A quarrel?" she asked more quietly than she had yet
spoken.
"A disagreement of the strongest kind, let us say then."
The juge pursed his lips, as though he had no need to quibble
about trifles. "The word—forgive me for hurting a mother's
feelings—but the word was 'thief,' and there was a constant


234
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
reference to 'money'—to the three hundred pounds you brought
back. There is a suggestion," the juge went on," that the man
speaking to Sir Anthony Cross was Tibbitts. But he denies that
flatly. I am inclined to think it was your son."
"Oh, no!" Mrs. Eastby said eagerly. "Oh, no! He was
dancing with Miss Young at the very moment. I heard that
talk. I and"—she swallowed hard and tried to turn her et—
she was speaking French—into a cough.
"You and Mr. Murgatroyd," finished the juge.
His shot went home. Mrs. Eastby again paled, a sickly
pallor. Her hand went to her heart.
"I too as it happens, heard part of a long talk between
Sir Anthony and a man," she went on steadily enough. "It was
before I had my talk with him."
"Sir Anthony and Tibbitts, I presume," the juge said
wearily.
She shook her head. "Oh, no. I had talked to Monsieur
Tibbitts that evening. This was a gentleman speaking. The
voice was cultured. The intonations quiet."
The juge was rather surprised, though he did not show it,
that she had not snatched at the idea of the speaker being Tib-
bitts.
"Did you hear what was said?" the juge asked noncom-
mittally.
"Unfortunately, no! I was too engrossed with—my hopes
that Sir Anthony would invest the money for me to pay much
attention. I only listened to hear when the voices would stop
and I could speak to him again."
"You heard enough to tell you what they were talking
about, doubtless?" the juge asked.
"I only heard the word 'tufa' said very clearly once."


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
235
"Tufa?" the juge looked puzzled. "What meaning has that
word in English, madam?"
"The same as in French. It's a kind of volcanic rock, I
fancy." There was a pause. The juge was inclined to believe
Mrs. Eastby. The word overheard was not of the kind which one
could see any reason for her inventing.
"How was it used?" he asked next. "I mean, was it in a
sentence or by itself? Said as though in explanation or in a
question?"
"Said in great anger," she replied at once. "Sir Anthony
said it. It seemed to be in reply to a long sentence on the other
man's part which I didn't hear—as I say I wasn't listening to
what was said—but this word came like a sort of whip-crack;
'Not tufal' as though that ended things. There was a long silence
after that, and the rest was carried on in a lower voice, and
again I paid no heed."
Mrs. Eastby was allowed to leave them for a brief respite,
and Mr. Heimbrot was asked to come in again, after the juge
had studied an English-French dictionary very carefully and
consulted an encyclopaedia.
Mr. Heimbrot was at once asked if he had ever heard of
tufa in connection with Sir Anthony's interests or in connec-
tion with the combine's properties.
Mr. Heimbrot thought a while.
"If you mean 'volcanic tuff,' which used to be called 'tufa,'
there might be a connection—if Sir Anthony were talking to
some one who was not familiar with diamond earth. I don't
know of any diamonds that have been found in volcanic tufa,
but we're always on the lookout for that possibility. The Great
Matan stone was found in a layer of it in Borneo. For years it
was held to be a diamond, though now it is considered a rock


236
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
crystal, but it's very close to being a pure diamond. Just a little
more of this, or that, and it would have been one of the finest
stones in the world. Three hundred and sixty-seven carats,
mind you. The Great Moghul was only two hundred and sev-
enty-nine. Yes, I shouldn't wonder at all if the talk was on
diamondiferous earths, which always are volcanic in origin, of
course. Volcanic breccia generally."
"Do you think Sir Anthony was about to start any new en-
terprise? Form any new company?" the juge went on after a
pause, "One into which he might let a friend on the ground
floor now, but which would be closed to further capital on
such advantageous terms very soon?"
Heimbrot was all eagerness. The juge repeated most of
what Mrs. Eastby claimed had passed between herself and Sir
Anthony Cross about the investigating of the three hundred
pounds which she asserted that she had handed him. Heimbrot
was like a ratter who hears a rustle in the hayrick. Nothing
could quiet him down. He pelted the juge with questions. It was
only when he was really convinced that no one in the room
could tell him more that he returned to the role of the ques-
tioned, not the eagerly questioning.
Evidently getting in on the ground floor with Sir Anthony
Cross was a privilege not to be lightly turned down.
Then followed an adjournment for refreshments. Mackay
caught sight of Mrs. Eastby's face at the window of one of the
rooms. Again he thought of the deer and the closing in of the
hounds. Instantly he wheeled and went back, opened the door
of the room, and went up to her. His usual shyness gone. He
took her hand in his. It was as hot as though she were in a
fever.
"Don't give way," he said abruptly enough, but in a voice


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
237
that turned her to him. "Things look black, but your son is all
right, Mrs. Eastby. We know he didn't hurt a hair of either
man's head, and we'll prove it yet. Trust me." There was a
ring of certainty in his voice. Her other hand closed around his
lean brown one with its big knuckles.
"He's innocent, oh, he is indeed!" she said in a gasp; "but
—but "She looked at him in a haggard terror.
"I know he's innocent," Mackay said again. "I have the
gift of second sight, Mrs. Eastby. It hasn't let me down so far.
I saw your son the night of the dance. He's no murderer!"
Her eyes lost a little, but only a very little of their terror.
"If you can bring the others around to your way of thinking,
Mr. Mackay, 111 bless you—wherever I am. The mere sus-
picion of a crime would ruin his career. He would never get
over it. Never! And he's worked so hard to get on, and has had
such an uphill fight. And he's so proud "She turned away,
her face working convulsively.
A gendarme entered. Would monsieur step back into the
conference room? Monsieur Maitland, the representative of the
family of Sir Cross, the dead baron, had arrived at last.
Mackay gave Mrs. Eastby's arm a warm, encouraging
touch, and hurried off. But he stopped before the Winter
plaque on the wall and looked at it very long, instead of going
at once into the room where the juge was receiving the new-
comer.
Mr. Maitland proved to be a tall, thin, very reserved-
looking man of around forty, with a sensitive mouth and rather
unusually dreamy eyes for his profession.
He soon supplied the police with a large amount of fresh
facts concerning Sir Anthony Cross's life and activities.
"Have you any idea what piece of financial activity Sir


238
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
Anthony was contemplating which would be to the advantage
of his friends to invest in, should he permit it?" the juge asked
finally.
"You mean the Mongolian Exploration Trust?" he asked
doubtfully. "I doubt if that would exactly be considered an
investment plum by many people. Sir Anthony was financing it
largely. All the members of the expedition were contributing.
It was rather in the nature of a strictly family party. No out-
siders permitted. There could be no returns for some time."
"But a sum of three hundred pounds invested in it would
be profitable in the long run, eh?"
Maitland seemed surprised.
"Three hundred pounds? You mean three thousand? Hun-
dreds are of no use in such an enterprise."
The juge only nodded. Yes, he thought this rhymed fairly
well with Mrs. Eastby's story. Mr. Maitland might think in
thousands, but on an occasion, for an old friend, Sir An-
thony had evidently condescended to include a small sum in the
enterprise—doubtless a golden one.
The juge passed on to other questions, general ones, about
Sir Anthony. His friendship with the Brownlows, for instance,
Mr. Maitland said that the three had met long ago, but that,
as far as he knew, Sir Anthony and the Brownlows had not
seen anything of each other for many years.
"He wrote to Monsieur Brownlow a short time ago, we
have been told." Maitland murmured that that was quite possi-
ble. The juge went on to detail the idea of Mrs. Brownlow that
the husband was acting for Sir Anthony in some way.
Maitland listened very closely. He made no comment.
Pressed for an opinion, he explained that he would know noth-
ing of Sir Anthony's personal plans. Did he know whether Sir


240
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
dently found some reason to come over to our way of thinking,
or he would not have written the letter pressing Reginald East-
by's claims in a—for him—singularly warm way to the new
post in London. I understand that the head clerk, Mr. Heim-
brot, brought you that letter?"
The juge said that they had seen it.
There was a pause. Then the magistrate wanted to know if
Sir Anthony was interested in geology.
"Naturally," Maitland agreed with a smile. "His Mongol-
ian expedition was to search for valuable minerals."
"A quarrel, or at least a discussion, was overheard not
long before he was murdered, in which the word 'tufa' occurred
in such a way as to suggest that it played an important part in
the discussion. 'Not tufa!' were the exact words, said very sharp-
ly, and apparently angrily. Could you help us to understand
this?"
Maitland had light blue eyes, of that clear color that is
very pleasant to watch. Now they went black. The pupils had
dilated suddenly. But otherwise he showed no sign.
"'Not tufa!' " he repeated, stroking his chin thoughtfully;
"that is not enough of a sentence to help much in guessing the
conversation, beyond showing that the talk was geological in
character."
"The word may have been misunderstood. Or the account
of the interview may be unreliable," the juge murmured. He
then questioned Mr. Maitland about the state of feeling between
his dead friend and Mr. Reginald Eastby.
Mr. Maitland thought that Sir Anthony had not cared for
Eastby personally, but that there was no use denying that the
latter was a most suitable candidate for the London post. As to
any friendship between the mother and the dead man, Maitland


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
241
stiffened at the question. He grew as vague as Heimbrot. Sir
Anthony and Colonel Eastby had been friends before the latter's
accident cut him off from the outer world. Naturally he must
have known Mrs. Eastby, perhaps quite well. Maitland really
could not say. He had never met Mrs. Eastby. His work had
lain in London. Even young Eastby he only knew from his
work and the correspondence which he had had with him.
Mackay entered the room at that. He whispered a word
to Rondeau, who leaped from his seat and vanished with him.
A moment later Cambier rose. There was something in the wind
evidently. When his junior fled in that hurried fashion it was
as well to follow.
Rondeau was standing staring up at the pewter dish at
the end of the hall. "You are right. It does look like it. But"
—a second more and he had jerked the dish from its holders,
all but decapitating himself. On the floor, all three bent over
it—"this apparent second sun, mon chef, Monsieur Mackay
here thinks it—ah, it is!"
With these cryptic words Rondeau pried out a little ball
and held it in his hand. "Look, a revolver bullet!"
Cambier examined it carefully. "Flattened a bit, but the
mate to the one that killed Sir Anthony Cross. But this is most
extraordinary! I confess I have always taken it for a mere re-
pousse lump. Let this be a lesson to you, Rondeau; you think
I pay too much attention to trifles. Here is an instance of not
paying enough attention! This is very strange—evidently that
plaque hung in front of the cedar room door. See the old marks
of the hangers. We will question the maids at once. Without
saying why, naturally. Carry this into the writing-room and
lock the door." Rondeau dragged it off. Cambier went into the
dining-room and held a review of the servants one by one.


242
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
The information he obtained was that the plaques had
hung in their right order the morning of the dance. Butler as
well as maids was positive of that. Also they had been care-
fully cleaned that same morning. There had been a suggestion
of hanging them in a line in the ball-room behind some clumps
of pink geraniums, but Mrs. Brownlow had finally preferred
mirrors. As to the possibility of any bullet having been at that
time lodged in the dish, the bullet had not been polished. But
in the dent behind it, a speck of sand had been driven into the
metal. The plaques were scoured with sand and vinegar.
So two bullets had been fired from the pistol that killed
Sir Anthony, or at least from a similar one. Was it at Brown-
low that it had been fired, and had the murderer then remem-
bered that he had provided himself with Anthony Cross's re-
volver to use on this man so as to suggest a duel? It was a very
perplexed Cambier who finally re-entered the conference room
where the juge, his questions done, was chatting amiably with
Mr. Maitland and discussing the wines of the district. A glance
at the commissaire and the juge begged Mr. Maitland not to let
him detain him from resting after his journey.
Maitland seemed quite willing to leave.
When the door shut behind him, Cambier suggested a move
into the writing-room. There the plaque was examined, the bul-
let was examined, and the butler was finally once more ex-
amined.
"It is a most enigmatical case!" murmured the juge.
"And, monsieur le juge," broke in Rondeau; "that geologi-
cal talk, that word 'tufa'—I ask myself whether a science mas-
ter, who was a geological expert—in other words, whether,
after all, Monsieur Lascelles"
"Do not be led away by what would be interesting!" coun-


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
243
seled Cambier. "Monsieur Lascelles has an alibi that seems un-
shakable.
"Yet it is a thought!" mused the juge, dangling his glasses.
"It seems to me," put in Cambier, "that the finding of that
bullet tends to exonerate all people not actually staying in the
house. For it looks like some one who would have leisure to
change the plaques. It suggests some one who was a friend—an
inmate. Yes, to me it suggests Tibbitts."
"I will ask Monsieur Maitland, if he is still in the house,
a few more questions," the juge said finally, as the result of
his cogitations. He rang the bell. Mr. Maitland had not yet
left. He was inquiring after Mrs. Brownlow, who still tossed
and moaned and babbled on her bed overhead.
The juges questions led to nothing fresh. He was just fin-
ishing the interview when a note was handed him. Mrs. Eastby
wondered if she might speak to Mr. Maitland before he left.
She wrote that she wanted to press for the return of the money
handed by her to Sir Anthony for investment. Possibly the ex-
ecutor of the dead man would raise no objection to its being
paid back at once, out of the estate. Sir Anthony's fortune had
gone, as they had just been told, to a distant kinsman, the heir
to the baronetcy, apart from charities bequests and a very hand-
some legacy to his executor, himself.
Mrs. Eastby was admitted at once. She and Mr. Maitland,
who introduced himself, exchanged a few words of mutual re-
gret on the sad occasion of the meeting, and Maitland went on
to say a kind word about her son. Mrs. Eastby was very pale.
She did not bring forward the reason which she had given in
her note for wishing to meet the newly-arrived friend of the
late Anthony Cross.
Instead she leaned forward to the juge.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
245
express got into Macon in time to bring a traveler, in a car, to
Cluny around then. Now, there are not many night garages in
Macon. An inquiry was put through at once. Meanwhile all
the attention of the French police was concentrated on the new
possibility—Maitland. Maitland, the dead man's friend, the
beneficiary by a large bequest, a party to that new enterprise
which Mrs. Eastby had been told by Sir Anthony was so valu-
able.
There followed a few hours' intensive work, hours which
brought some interesting facts to light. Then Mr. Maitland was
asked to come to the juge's room in the Hotel de ville.
The juge said that a man resembling him had been seen
the night of the dance making for the villa. That a voice, defi-
nitely identified as his, had been heard talking to Sir Anthony.
Where had Mr. Maitland been the night of the murders?
Mr. Maitland was not swift in his replies. He had a way,
from the first, of looking at his interlocutor before speaking
that gave him an air of caution. He now eyed the juge medi-
tatively for a full second, then he said quietly:
"I motored over from Lyons the night of the dance to see
Sir Anthony Cross."
"Indeed? This is the first we have heard of it—from you,
monsieur." Maitland said nothing. He looked quite at his ease.
But he was the kind of man to look at his ease with a boiler
bursting beneath him.
"What hour was this interview, pray?"
Maitland seemed to ponder.
"I got out of the car around eleven. I was driving it my-
self, and left it in a field the other side of the river. I met Sir
Anthony by chance in the garden. He had just posted that
letter concerning Reginald Eastby, so he told me. We walked
f


246
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
together through one of the open windows into a room, which I
think must be the one you call the cedar room. Sir Anthony
had been writing some letters there. We sat down and talked
over a business matter, of which I regret that I am not at
liberty to give you any particulars. Then I left by a little side
door very close to the room, which Sir Anthony shut behind me.
I motored back to Lyons and flew home to London. I think
that is all."
"Indeed!" the juge permitted himself to be sarcastic. He
opened a slip of paper that Rondeau had handed him. It was
from Cambier, who was sitting in an adjoining room with
Miss Young and the doctor's daughter. The latter identified the
voice which had been thought to be Tibbitts's, the voice which
she had heard during her stay in the garden talking in a very
heated argument with Sir Anthony as that now speaking to the
juge.
Vivian Young, on her part, was equally certain that it was
not the voice of the young man in the long robe, the young man
who had called her Jane, and who was now believed to be
Eastby.
The juge destroyed the little note and turned again to Mr.
Maitland.
He wanted to know if there had been any disagreement
between Mr. Maitland and Sir Anthony. Maitland said that,
unfortunately, there had been a distinct difference. About meth-
ods only.
"And are you still unable to explain the mention of the
word 'tufa'?" the juge put in blandly, but at a venture.
Maitland seemed to make an even longer pause than usual
before replying:
"I fancy that must have referred to the possibility of some


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
247
of the regions we intended to explore first of all being in a
tufa belt. I was keen on not wasting our time, the time of the
expedition, which was going to be an immensely costly affair,
on baser metals. Tufa, as we rather loosely called it—I am no
geologist nor yet a diamond expert—referred to those vol-
canic pipes in which diamonds are often found."
"And the question about 'money?' And the word 'thief'?"
pressed the juge.
Maitland looked at him as though he considered him very
dull witted.
"Obviously the 'money' referred to the sums necessary to
fit out the expedition. 'Thief,' on the other hand referred to the
losses the combine was suffering."
The juge had copious notes taken throughout. He now
asked Mr. Maitland if he himself were a friend of the Brown-
lows.
Maitland murmured that he could not claim that honor.
Like Sir Anthony, he had met the couple many years ago in
one of our colonies.
"But not since?"
"Not since," Maitland murmured positively.
The juge held out a lighter. It was a gunmetal and silver
affair. On one corner were the initials "T.M." intertwined.
"Then how do you account for this?" he asked. "This is
yours."
Cambier's note to the juge had finished with this sugges-
tion. He now sat watching the scene like a cat licking its
whiskers after creams. The idea was entirely his own. The
lighter had been considered to belong to Tibbitts, and as such
had not been given more than a passing glance, but the com-
missaire had noticed that if one read the monogram as T.M.—


248
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
instead of M.T., as had been done—they were the same as those
inside Mr. Maitland's hat now hanging on the hall-stand.
Maitland went pale. At last a shot had got home. He turned
the little case over in his hand. Would he deny it?
"It is mine," he said finally and carelessly; "I must have
left it in the cedar room."
"It was not found in there."
"Probably some one picked it up, used it, and left it some-
where else," Maitland still spoke casually.
"The maid found it on the mantelshelf after Mrs. Brown-
low and you had been talking in a small, little-used room off the
billiard room," the juge said quietly.
The maid's story had been that during the dance Mrs.
Brownlow had met her in the passage outside the room in
question and asked her to give a message to Mr. Smith at once.
The message had concerned some music that was to be played
next. Mr. Smith was to talk it over with the conductor. The
maid had carried out the instructions by passing the message
on to a footman and had hurried back. It was the head house-
maid who disliked Mrs. Brownlow. She had an impression, so
she had told Cambier, that madam had only wanted to get her
out of the way. She found no one in the passage or in the rooms
opening out of it, but the little room next the billiard room
smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. Not the kind thatMrs.Brown-
low smoked, but a much stronger kind. And besides that, the
maid was positive that some one had just burned some papers;
the smell was unmistakable, so she claimed. On the mantelshelf
she had found the case, which she had handed Cambier, and
which had then been held to be marked with the initials of
Mathew Tibbitts. Questioned afresh, the maid had said that the
passage way smelt of the same cigarette smoke as she detected


250
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
fire of questions, no cleverly-hidden traps can confuse the
truth or the truth-teller.
But Maitland was confused. Though he maintained that
there was a mistake, that he and Mrs. Brownlow had not met
the night of the dance. In the end, he took his stand in silence,
and with set lips refused to answer any more questions. Finally
a paper was handed the juge. A wireless reply to a wireless in-
quiry.
"Tell me why," thundered the juge; "why did you resign
from the English Law Society the morning after the murder of
Sir Anthony and Mr. Brownlow? I have here an information
that you, by your own letter of that date, no longer belong to
that honored body of respected men."
This time Maitland spoke.
"Because of the enterprise on which Sir Anthony and I
were about to embark—the Mongolian expedition, about some
of whose preparations and itinerary we had quarreled, if one
can call a somewhat acrimonious discussion a quarrel. I con-
sidered that the legality of certain of the steps contemplated
were questionable and, therefore, as I did not wish to give up
my association with the enterprise, I resigned from the Law So-
ciety."
"Because he threatened to denounce you if you did not!"
the juge said harshly, and Mr. Maitland left the room for an-
other on a floor above, with an agent beside him and two gen-
darmes bringing up the rear. Though not actually arrested, he
was to be detained while further inquiries could be made. The
juge made no secret of the fact that unless these brought some
new facts to light—facts that should prove Maitland's inno-
cence—he intended to send him up for trial, accused of the


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
251
murder of both men. It was for Cambier to find out the mo-
tives.
Pointer did not think that the case against him would
break down easily.
"His resignation from the Law Society will be made the
most of. This mysterious expedition will be made the most of.
He's in a tight place," Pointer said finally, as he and Mackay
walked back to their hotel together. "Unlike Tibbitts there will
be no escape for him. That sort of thing doesn't happen twice."
There was a silence.
"You don't think it was Maitland, do you?" Mackay asked.
"I don't. There's nae logic in sic a thought. He's in trouble,
probably owing to some affair wi' Mrs. Brownlow, an auld ad-
mirer verra likely; the wumman seems to hae an extraordinary
influence over men. That's the why I wadna meet her mair than
I could help. But you don't think it was Maitland, do you?"
Pointer refused to give an opinion.
"It's not my case. I haven't worked it up. It's like judging
a man from what you might read of the trial in a newspaper.
Half the facts which would guide you to a decision are not
given, and the other half are badly stated."
"But the clues so far?" Mackay wondered.
"There's no such thing as a clue. It all depends on who
finds it. To use the jargon of the day, it's the detective's reac-
tions to what he finds that turns things into clues."
"Aye, that's what Miss Young canna seem to get intae her
head. It's no use asking me what I think o' this or that. This
case doesna worrk oot according' to reason. I juist wait for
the next think frae the bran pie to come to hand." He said as
much to Vivian herself when she met him later on.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
253
"Hoo's Mrs. Brownlow?" he asked after a pause.
"She's still delirious. Say, Mr. Mackay, I'm coming down
with brain fever next!"
There followed another silence full of thought. Vivian
broke it.
"You know that umbrella of mine that got mixed?" she
asked somewhat incoherently. Mackay said that he recollected
the incident. "Well, this morning I was driven to have another
look at the museum, and there sat this same man I spoke of,
drawing a piece of cast-iron work, and drawing it real well
too. But he pressed too hard on his pencil and broke the lead,
then he sharpened it to* a needle's point, and then he dropped
it and broke the point again and—my!"
"Ye shudna have stayed within earshot!" said Mackay vir-
tuously.
"Oh, I was prepared for some swear words—I should have
used a few myself! But it wasn't what he said, it was the voice,
Mr. Mackay. It was Tibbitts's voice!"
Mackay's jaw actually dropped.
"But—but—why he's a Swedish art critic they told me at
the hotel!" "No, na, Miss Young. There's naething so mis-
leading as a voice or even a likeness. Remember hoo you
thocht that Mr. Lascelles"
"Look here, my braw laddie," Vivian said tartly; "would
a Swedish art critic say 'Now I've broken the bloody point
again'?"
Mackay could not maintain that he would.
"You heard those actual words?" he asked.
"I shall never be the same again," she said, nodding her
head.
Mackay stood as though rooted to the spot.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
"Look here," he said swiftly, "you've often told me that
my chance was in this case. Well, it's come!"
"It's been banging you on the head for days," she said
huffily.
"Na, na; I mean the money. Mr. Davidson's thousand that
I want to get back. Now, then, Miss Young, ye havna spoken
o' this recognition, if one cud ca' it that?"
"You can. Even by the light of reason," she said shortly,
then she softened at the worried, anxious look on his freckled
face. "No, I haven't spoken of it to any one but you. You're
the most trying young man I ever met, but if I have at last
wound you up to go, thanks be!"
"Then not a worrd. I ha'e a plan. Ooch aye! But leave it
tae me. And not a hint to any one mind, or it fails."
Mackay was really on the jump. Vivian promised absolute
silence, and handed him over Tibbitts, the Swedish art critic,
for his sole and only use. Though she had her doubts as to
what the outcome would be.


CHAPTER XIII
ambier dropped in for a chat with the chief inspector.
V-'Mackay happened to be out. When he returned, Pointer
passed on to him the gist of the talk.
"He's hunting around for something to link the three men
together, Sir Anthony, Brownlow, and Maitland. Tibbitts is
considered to be merely Maitland's tool. Cambier, or rather
the magistrate, thinks they will find the tie between the three
men in some diamond-tufa proposition, that that was the busi-
ness in which Brownlow was helping Sir Anthony, and the rea-
son for which Maitland murdered both men. As to the key
found in the garden, they think it's the key of a safe contain-
ing papers bearing on the proposition which Maitland took
from Brownlow's dead body and then lost as he rushed away
to his car. The safe is probably in London, they think. Mait-
land, according to what the police are going to try to prove,
came back to the villa unseen, at dawn, to hunt for the key,
and then had to give up. They think he has been in hiding near-
by all along. As you know, they are certain that it was he who
helped Tibbitts to escape—probably because the key was lost."
"Eh?" Mackay peered with knitted brows.
"The idea is that Tibbitts was to make him another as the
price of rescue."
There was a short silence. Finally Mackay said:
"Of a' the preplaixing affairs. Ratiocination seems nae
help at a'."
"The French may not be far out in the idea that there


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
257
be. Had any motive, other than jealousy, been found, nothing
could have saved Brownlow from the gallows."
"But what's yon auld affair to do wi' Sir Anthony's mur-
der?" Mackay spoke in the tone of a man who had no room
for spare cargo.
"Cambier is hunting for a chain between the three men,"
the chief inspector explained. "I think its end is young Jack-
son. For Sir Anthony is the man who was briefed to defend
Brownlow in the trial that never came off! He was attached to
the British Supreme Court for China at Shanghai for a couple
of years, as we learned in Who's Who"
"Losh!" muttered Mackay; "but surely they wadna, I
mean Brownlow wadna, ha'e shot Anthony Cross because he
had tried to get him off in an auld trial?" Mackay spoke in
bewildered tones. "He did want to get him off, didn't he? If
he was his counsel?"
"Oh, I think so. I'm told that Sir Anthony, like Abraham
Lincoln, would never take on a case in which he didn't feel
sure of his client's innocence. That really was one of the rea-
sons why Brownlow was not absolutely done for, socially. A
great many people argued that if Anthony Cross, who was as
straight as he was brilliant, believed in him, Brownlow could
only have acted hastily, not criminally."
"But the wife "Mackay dropped his voice. "The wid-
ow, as she is the noo, talked to us as though she had nae
doots"
"Perhaps she hadn't," Pointer said a little dryly. "And
also, just then, you were throwing so much doubt—justified
doubt—on the idea of a duel having been fought over her, that
she wanted to convince you of Brownlow's passionate nature."


258
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
"But hoo do you link up Mr. Maitland wi' a' this?" Mac-
kay asked after another silence full of thought.
"Thomas Maitland was the consulate solicitor at that time.
I shouldn't wonder if that was where he and Sir Anthony met.
He seems to've been offered the post of solicitor to the Dia-
mond Combine by the latter when he left to join the board of
that big affair."
"Consulate solicitor—then he, too, wad ha'e been for the
Brownlows "murmured Mackay.
"Very much for them, I gathered, especially for Mrs.
Brownlow."
"And a' this means?" pursued Mackay.
"That's to find out," Pointer said equably. He had a guess
or two as to what would be found, but only guesses as yet.
"Cambier and Rondeau are good hunting dogs. Once they
strike the Touva—not tufa—trail, we shall have some quick
developments; and Maitland will be past praying for. Cambier
told me just now that they believed that Maitland aimed at Sir
Anthony first as the latter entered the room, and then got him
with the second bullet. He would know where Sir Anthony kept
his revolver, and, so they think, had frightened Mrs. Brown-
low into telling him where Brownlow kept his."
"And the revolver we did find by the body they think was
put there by Mrs. Brownlow," Mackay went on, half to himself.
"Quite so," Pointer agreed; "according to him, the juge,
too, thinks that Maitland terrorized Mrs. Brownlow. Either that,
or that he was in some way an apparent friend to Sir Anthony,
and, therefore, accepted by her as a friend of her husband's
too. They're doubtful of the means he used, but they seem
certain that it was under pressure exerted by Maitland during
that preliminary interview with her that Mrs. Brownlow sup-


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
259
ported next morning the idea of a duel. Or, rather, helped to
create it. They think, as I say, that she had been told to put that
revolver down as soon as the room was opened. Their notion
now is that Maitland wanted to be sure there were no finger-
prints on the one found, and that it should only show one
bullet fired.
"Rondeau has routed out a leather case of Brownlows,
which shows that he had a brace of automatics, duplicates
of each other, probably. They are too usual a make to be able
to trace easily."
"And what do they think happened to the revolver that
Brownlow used?" Mackay asked.
"They're going to look for it. It won't be difficult to find,
probably."
"Think not?" Mackay wrinkled his forehead.
"I know where / should drop a revolver under those cir-
cumstances, supposing I wanted to drop it anywhere," Pointer
said briskly.
"Ye mean—in the Grosne?" Mackay asked; and nodding
at Pointer's assent, they went off to watch the work of salvage.
From the cornfields around came the yellow-hammer's
notes, without which August would not know itself in the coun-
try. Down by the river the little sedge warblers were silent at
last, their long season of song over. One missed their cheery
chatter, heard on so many a summer's day, that it seems to be-
long by right to the murmur of every stream, like the splash of
fish or the plop of voles.
In the trees around the ring-doves kept up their throaty
notes of full content. The drone of insects sounded an under-
tone to the harvest noises. A peacock butterfly dipped and
floated among the knap-weeds. It, too, belonged to that sound.


260
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
Disturbed by the dozen from the nut-brown ears of wheat, its
plainer cousins, the meadow browns, and whites, and blues,
and coppers floated past, making the most of their short sum-
mers. That fair-weather sailor, the Red Admiral, was a splen-
did sight as, wings fluttering open and shut, he swung on a
teasel.
Hardly lighter than they, thistledown was everywhere, and
the tiny silk shuttlecocks of the rose bays. You could even
catch the quick firing of the yellow gorse, as the pods cracked
in the hot sun. Among the not yet cut oats, shimmering in sil-
ver-green as the air stirred them, danced gatekeeper butterflies,
and tall as the oats themselves showed the blue-mauve heads of
scabious in its prime. Black as their own shadows were most of
the trees, except for the tufting green on the oaks ends, but the
leaves of willows and poplars and ash, tossing over in the
breeze, rippled among the dark green like wave crests at sea.
Beauty was everywhere—the beauty of the country-side, in
the full tide of summer. Only the warm, delicious scent of
stocks from cottage gardens that spice the air of every English
harvest scene was absent—as were the cottage gardens.
They found Rondeau directing his men in waders and
armed with a net. The Grosne is swift, and its deepest pool
well known. After half an hour's work a revolver was fished
up, to the great surprise of a fat and stately old trout who lived
there.
The weapon was the mate to that found beside Brownlow,
but two shots had been fired from this, and it bore the mark
of a silencer.
Rondeau hurried off well content. Mackay looked frown-
ingly after him.
"We're juist dancing dervishes, that's what we a' are," he


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
261
said disgustedly; "juist turning roond and roond oorseles wi'
the murder in the cedar room in the center." He looked at his
watch. Maitland was to be questioned anew within a few min-
utes, and the two men hurried away.
Rondeau had collected a good deal of fresh information in
tiny bits. But like that wonderful Chinese enameling that is
done on crushed egg shells, each little dot of information was
added skilfully to another dot, until a pattern was formed. And
the pattern, as composed by Cambier, showed that Maitland
had certainly left the villa by the side door as he had said. But
much earlier in the evening. The men thought that Mrs. Brown-
low had let him out. After that he had not been seen until
much later on; a dancer had noticed him step out of a cedar
room window. Some one had shut the window after him and
rolled down the steel shutter. Who, the dancer had not noticed,
for inside the room the long curtains were drawn. Nor could
he be sure of the time, except that it was past the wassail drink-
ing. He thought some long time past, but as the juge extracted
from him that he was waiting for a girl—his girl—to arrive
with her people, it was highly probable that, like the poet, he
had counted time "by heart-throbs not by figures on a dial."
Of the fact, however, he was quite sure. He added details of the
man's general appearance that confirmed those of other wit-
nesses. He thought he saw the man in question toss something
into the bushes as he passed out the gate. A cigarette stub he
had fancied then. The police thought differently now. They
thought the little key. Though why he had flung it away still
eluded them.
Maitland refused to answer yea or nay, press him how they
might. As for Mrs. Brownlow, she was still babbling of her
husband, apparently back in some English home. Maitland was


262
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
once returned to his rooms, and the French police worked on.
Vivian meanwhile had gone into Lyons. She seemed to be
free from surveillance for the time being. Knowing that for-
eigners must show their passports to register at any hotel of
repute overnight, and having given notice of the names of "all
the inmates of the villa at the frontier as "not to be allowed
through," the French police were concentrating on Mr. Mait-
land's past and present. She was puzzling over the problem,
which still was as impenetrable as ever to her eyes. And she
could see as far into a brick wall as the next, she told herself.
As to Mackay—well, the boy sure had bad luck to have this
sort of a case drop on his head. But she was convinced that
he would do his best, and perhaps win through after all with
Davidson's commission.
She herself was trying to divert her mind by some neces-
sary shopping. What Vivian thought of the average French
shops had better be left unsaid.
A man joggled her arm, and half-spun her round with
his heavy package, and standing so for a second, she found
herself looking down a corner street, along which two people
were passing just now. One was Mrs. Eastby, and the other—
it was Mr. Murgatroyd. Vivian started. He sure was right about
her being on the spot when things happened. She followed
close on their heels. What they said she could not catch, but
evidently it was not of a harmonious nature. Each of them, ac-
cording to her scrutiny, was as mad as they could be. Finally
Mrs. Eastby stopped so suddenly that Vivian only just had
time to spin towards a shop window, but neither of the two
were noticing her.
"I utterly refuse!" Mrs. Eastby was saying, firmly and yet


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
265
stayed in the house. Should she wake the butler? He and the
two footmen were stalwart fellows, and they slept on the floor
above her own. But Vivian was an intrepid soul. She deter-
mined to find out for herself who was inside the villa to-night.
She slipped down the outside stairs and turned towards the
cedar room wing. All the windows were shuttered. She climbed
the wooden stairs to Smith's room again. Entering, she locked
the door behind her and put the key in her pocket. Then, for
the first time, she looked about her in both bedroom and sit-
ting-room. Here, too, the shutters were down, all the furniture
was sheeted and covered, but on a chair lay a man's soft felt
hat. Inside it was still warm to the touch. It was the kind of
hat that nine men out of ten were wearing just now. Mr. Murga-
troyd had been wearing one like it, she thought. She tucked it
under her arm and laid it in a drawer in her room, locking the
drawer. Vivian intended to disarrange as many of the plans of
the person or persons in the house as possible.
In her room, too, she paused long enough to put on a
black traveling coat, wind a scarf of thin silky stuff, also black,
around her head and face, and finally draw on a pair of black
gloves. That swiftly done, and with nothing light about her to
catch the eye, she slipped down the stairs. Listening with her
ear against the library hinges she heard the stealthy move-
ments continue for some time longer. Then came the click of
the lights turned out, and she flattened herself back into the
shadow of a cabinet.
Cautiously the door opened, slowly the figure that had
been in the room seemed to ooze out through it. It passed her
and made for the stairs. It was a woman. Vivian crept up the
stairs too. The figure turned down a passage leading in the di-
rection of Mrs. Brownlow's room. Vivian slipped after her. She


268
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
door. It was standing open. At that she did draw back. That
open door stopped her far more effectually than a barred one
would have done. To what did it invite? It cost her an effort to
enter. Listening again, if possible harder than ever, she felt
sure that the room was empty. Then where had that figure
gone? Mrs. Brownlow's rooms and a servant's staircase alone
lay in the other direction. She turned now and all but ran to-
wards them. As she ran, a low, suppressed cry rang out, so
filled with almost unbearable fear that Vivian's very hair
crisped. In a second she had leaped to Mrs. Brownlow's sitting-
room and called out, "Sister! Is anything wrong?"
The door opened instantly. A very sleepy-eyed nun looked
out, her finger to her lip.
"Sh-sh! It was only delirium. A bad dream. She is fast
asleep."
Vivian came in. She saw in the farther room a white face
on the pillow; a very, very white face, but the eyes were closed
and she heard again that deep, softly hissing sound of breath
drawn in and given out in profound slumber. The sound that
she had heard a few minutes before while Mrs. Brownlow was
sitting up in bed and eyeing the sitting-room attentively.
Vivian said something apologetic to the nun and left the
room. Mrs. Brownlow's game—whatever it was—was not her
business to-night. She wanted to search the villa.
She did. She found no one. But that proved nothing, as
she told herself, with something of Mackay's baffled weariness
in her thoughts. She did not know the cupboards nor the cellars
of Villa Porte Bonheur. Smith and his friend, Lascelles, or his
accomplice, Tibbitts, aye, or even Mr. Murgatroyd, might all
be on the premises.
At long last she went to bed and fell fast asleep, thorough-
f


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
269
ly worn out, to find herself continuing in her dreams her ar-
ticle on the Hotel de ville's treasures. She was searching for
the right words with which to describe Mrs. Brownlow's cry
that was shut up in one of the glass cases along with her own
umbrella, when sounds coming from down the corridor awoke
her. The shrill tones of the head-housemaid, the butler's au-
thoritative, but quiet voice. Then the steps of a man hurrying
to her door, a tap, and the butler's voice asking:
“Is mademoiselle within? No, do not disturb yourself-I
only wanted to be sure.”
Vivian slipped into something and flung her door open.
Pointer was out fishing before breakfast, when he saw
Mackay making towards him. It was then about half-past eight
in the morning.
"Something's happened at the villa. The commissaire
won't say what. But his car's on the road above. I told him we
would both come along."
Pointer unjointed his rod with precision but with speed.
He left his catch to look after themselves under a bush.
"I canna think what's happened the noo,” muttered Mac-
kay. "Can you?” he asked, wheeling suddenly.
“I can hazard a guess, but whether it's right or wrong
“A guess? What wad it be? I canna guess onything. But
then I never could.”
“That Mrs. Brownlow is missing,” Pointer said quietly,
as they hurried off. “I should expect that to be the next step.”
Mackay stared at him. “Wow!” he muttered; "ye beat
me! I canna see by what reasoning "
“I wasn't talking of reasoning, but of guessing," was all


270
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
that Pointer would say. He was right in his guess, whatever
his grounds for it. Mrs. Brownlow was missing. The nun, on
waking about eight, had found her patient's bedroom in wild
disorder.
Cambier, fiery-eyed this time, was moving quickly about,
darting here and there, rather like a tom-cat with whose pre-
serves the mice have been taking liberties.
"C'est tropl" he muttered fiercely to Pointer. "Too much
indeed. They mock us, these miscreants. But we shall see. And
they shall see. . . ." His moustache bristled.
"What miscreants?" Pointer asked.
"Those who staged this scene. Bah, it belongs to the the-
ater, not to the police. Rondeau is always asking himself ques-
tions, but I would like to tell him to look instead at one thing
—one thing only!"
"And that is, mon chef?" Rondeau demanded eagerly.
Cambier pointed dramatically. "Tossed sheets, twisted
mattress, bolster and pillow on the floor," he recapitulated,
"chair overturned, window curtain half-torn off its hooks,
creepers below the window half-torn down—bah! Look, Ron-
deau! No, do not think! Do not ask yourself anything at all!
Just look! Merely look!"
Rondeau looked. But as always under such conditions did
not see what he was expected to see.
"The stand lamp is overturned," he said slowly; "but
the electric bulb itself is not"
"I mean you to look at this!" hissed Cambier, waggling
the flex leading from the lamp to the wall-plug. "See this
wild confusion? Yet the wall-plug is still in the prise, and it
comes out at a touch. Could this particular lamp have been
overturned and it be still in the wall? It could not. The stage


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
271
was set, Rondeau. Mrs. Brownlow left; she was not taken by
force. It was a wet night. There are no footprints of any out-
sider in here. . . ."
"Overshoes, woolen socks . . ." murmured Rondeau
doubtfully.
"... Would leave marks on this rather stickily pol-
ished floor. Look at the tracks we ourselves have made, and
we rubbed our feet well. There was no stranger in this room.
There are no finger-prints but those of madam herself, or
of the sister nursing her. Here is one of Mrs. Brownlow's far
back in the room on this white wood which shows a faint mark
of soil and green stain as well. From the creepers that she had
just pulled loose. Oh, yes, my friends, this is all the doing
of Madam Brownlow. That poor madam, who was too ill to be
questioned. Who raved—bah, the doctor is one of her admirers
—I should have remembered that. He would be easy to hood-
wink"
"But the nurses, the sister, mon chef"
"The sisters? Rondeau do not exasperate me! The intelli-
gence of a religieusel I see by the chart here that madam's
temperature was taken twice a day, mornings at eleven and af-
ternoons around five. I learn from these notes at the side that
she always has a cup of hot bouillon at eleven, and that the
tea things are brought in before five. Well, it explains itself.
A dip of the thermometer into bouillon or tea, and behold
a high temperature. There are other ways of course. A hot-
water bottle—there is even a way of rubbing it along a blanket
—enfin, the thing was easy. And this poor invalid is laugh-
ing at us—at me!" He finished with a snap, "But have a care,
madam!" He apostrophized the air in a way that made Point-


272
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
er's face grow firmly wooden, while Mackay leaned far out
of the window. It would not do to grin at the commissaire.
"We shall see who laughs in the end. Now, then, Rondeau,
I think we are all agreed on noticing that Monsieur Tibbitts
is at liberty. Oh, yes, we are fools compared with madam, but
that much we do notice. Also, we know that at midnight last
night a man was seen walking away from the Villa Porte Bon-
heur in a most secretive way, more suitable to a hunter after
game than to a man leaving a friend's house. The hour was
just on one in the morning. And the man was Monsieur Smith,
we are nearly sure, though he got away before my men could
close in on him. They gave him a good chase as it was. Which
was what he wanted. Which was what madam wanted. It had
been arranged between the three of them, her and Smith and
Tibbitts, that Smith was to call my men off from the benevo-
lent guard they were keeping on the villa, while Tibbitts
helped madam to get out of her room by means of a ladder
held for her to descend comfortably, and then drove her off
to some place of safety. Oh, it was all quite simple and quite
easy. But we shall see; Monsieur Smith will see; Tibbitts will
see; Madame Brownlow will in good time see, too! This flight
of her's throws a most lurid light on the tragedy." And with
that, the commissaire transformed himself into a whirlwind
engine and zoomed off amid his men to meet the juge, who had
been hastily summoned to the Hotel de ville.
The magistrate did not agree with the commissaire.
"You think there is nothing of Maitland in all this?" he
asked sceptically. "I do not agree. I think madam escaped, fled
if you like"
"If I like!" snorted Cambier.
"In order to avoid having to give her evidence against


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
273
Maitland. Which can only mean that she knows it would be
damning. It is quite possible that she slipped away to avoid
the last, the inevitably terrible end of our inquiry—the accusa-
tion, and in due time the trial and condemnation of Maitland.
In my opinion, Maitland made her some proposal—to pass
on to her husband. I think he tried to blackmail him, or did
blackmail him, through her, in that interview before he killed
the husband—and his other victim, Sir Anthony Cross."
Something like that was Cambier's idea. That in the well-
born and well-connected Mr. Maitland they had a secret black-
mailer battening on the mistakes of the past.
He said as much now, but nothing would induce him to
pardon that semblance of force which had been staged in the
supposedly sick woman's room upstairs. He said that too.
The juge only pursed his lips and repeated:
"Madam was very timid. She is a woman who needs a
man to look after her. A man of gentle manners, but iron prin-
ciples." He shook off some thought and went on briskly,
"As to how she escaped, I am on the whole inclined to think
that Monsieur Smith actually helped her away, not merely as-
sisted by serving as a decoy for our men. Oh, I do not pre-
tend to have solved this difficult problem"—he eyed Cambier
a little maliciously—"but that is how things look to me for
the present. For the time being, I think we should suspend
judgment on that sorely-tried woman, Madam Brownlow."
Cambier left him with a look, as though he could not
trust himself to speak.
Mackay said that the juge, on the whole, was right. At
least in thinking that Tibbitts had no share in the happenings.
"I was watching his hotel all last night," he confided to
Vivian; "and he didna stir. I couldna tell the police that."


274
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
"Unless you put it down to second sight," she agreed. "In
my belief, Mrs. Brownlow has gone off to rout out something.
I think she's on some one's track. She was hunting for proofs
in the library last night. I'm sure of that. But I can't get that
suppressed scream of hers that I told you of out of my head.
But for it, I shouldn't be worried. It was an awful little cry,
Mr. Mackay. It haunts me. Suppose she had come on some-
thing and has been spirited away because of that? By some
enemy? By whoever murdered her husband and Sir An-
thony?"
"The French think she went off of her own free will," he
reminded her doubtfully.
"Just like them!" was Vivian's compliment. "Say, Mr.
Mackay, there's such a thing as going of your own free will,
and yet absolutely against the grain. You can be terrified into
doing something you would give a great deal not to do. If
Mrs. Brownlow isn't gone for the sake of getting some evi-
dence, then I sure do feel worried about her. It was Smith's
voice that asked me 'Is that you, Lascelles?' in a queer, strange
sort of tone. And look "She held out a hat. "Do have
some second sight for me, too, Mr. Mackay, and tell me who
wore this and when?"
"I ha'e surprised people wi' the correctness o' ma de-
scriptions before noo," he muttered, taking it from her and
holding it tightly pressed against his breast, while he fixed his
eyes straight ahead of him as he said slowly:
"It's nicht. A's dark. I see a big young man. Wi' a face
that says creation did a fine piece of warrk the day it made
him."
"Mr. Smith?" Vivian was half-laughing, half-impressed.
"It's moonlight—na, na, it's raining, but I see him dimly


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
275
slipping to this hoose and climbing the door to the balcony
up yonder."
He handed her back the hat and rubbed his eyes.
"Am I richt?"
"I don't know." She told him where and how she had
found the hat.
"It's Smith's," he assured her.
"You're certain?" she asked, a little doubtfully.
"Aye. I recognized it by a mark on the band when you
handed it to me. He a' but burned a hole in it wi' his cigar
when it was on a chair beside him the evening I watched him
and Lascelles on the grass. The evening you met me."
He hurried off, leaving Vivian as before, half-angry, half-
amused.
In about two hours she was called to the telephone. She
heard a man's steps pelting down the basement stairs as she
went. Some policeman was racing for the extension below, she
rightly guessed.
"Vivian—it's me," came the voice of Mrs. Brownlow.
"I'm quite safe. I went away, just as I pretended to be so ill,
because I couldn't face all the questions. I couldn't bear to be
the one to get people into trouble, and quite the wrong people
probably. I must stop at once; but I couldn't let you worry
over me "The voice ceased on that.
Below Vivian heard excited French voices. The agents
did some swift work. They located the call within five min-
utes. It came from a patisserie in Lyons. But nothing was
known of who had sent it. Vivian was relieved, and yet—she
could not forget that strange, low cry that she had heard Mrs.
Brownlow give just after Smith had gone on up the stairs. She
went to her own room, trying to think things out "according


276
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
to the light of reason," as Mackay would have said. She had
just started a reply to a most incoherent, excited letter of con-
dolence which she had received from Edith Montdore demand-
ing, rather than asking, a full account from the inside of the
extraordinary double murder at the villa, or supposing her
dearest Vi could not bear to write of that, then at least an
analysis of Mrs. Brownlow. Edith Montdore still called her
"the vamp." Vivian had twice tried to begin a letter, and
twice given it up. Her own thoughts were too vague, changing
as cloud shapes change. What did she really think of Mrs.
Brownlow?
She got up from the writing-table impatiently. Edith must
wait for a clear summing-up of the widow's character. Wait,
perhaps, for days, perhaps—as far as Vivian was concerned
—for ever, and she again tore up the sheet of paper on which
she had begun to write.


CHAPTER XIV
BY next day the French police were on the track of Mait-
land's connection with both Brownlow and Sir Anthony
Cross in Shanghai. An association in a non-proven murder sus-
picion. The juge made the most of it. And Cambier promised
to make more when fuller information was to hand.
Maitland did not break his silence. No taunt, no cajolery,
got a word out of him.
"The typical blackmailer of the haute monde," Cambier
thought, and so thought the juge. That idea explained so much,
fitted so many of the cogs and promised to fit all with a little
patience.
At noon the chief inspector sat smoking his pipe in his
sitting-room and thinking over the far as it had gone,
when the door opened and, without any announcement, Mrs.
Eastby stepped in. She was staying at the same hotel, watched
more or less carefully, chiefly less nowadays. For suspicion
had shifted entirely away from her and her son.
She closed the door now very carefully behind her. Then
she came up to the chief inspector. She was very pale. Even
her lips were white. She had certainly gone through some
ageing process here in Cluny.
"I've come to make a confession," she spoke almost in
the voice of the confessional.
Pointer stopped her at once.
"I'd much rather you didn't." He spoke gravely but very
kindly. "You're turning to me because I'm a man of your


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
279
without speaking, and when she began again it was in a quiet,
weary tone.
"As I think every one who knew us at the time guessed,
Sir Anthony and I loved each other very dearly—long ago,"
she said finally. "Long, long ago. I was never in love with
the man I married. Though I thought I was at the time. After
he had an accident to his head, I fell ill myself. It was while
I was getting well that I met Anthony Cross." There was a long
pause. "I didn't run away with him," she went on dreamily,
"because of Reggie. Even as a child he was so straight. But I
very nearly did. Very, very nearly. And I think Sir Anthony
never forgave me, and never forgave Reggie. You see, I had
let him make all his arrangements, and then at the last mo-
ment, when I stepped into Reggie's room to say good-bye to
him asleep, I couldn't go—he was only ten "There fol-
lowed a long pause.
"I'm telling you this because it alone explains why Sir
Anthony never did justice to Reggie's abilities or character.
He didn't want to give him a post really, but I—well, I re-
minded him of what we had once felt for each other. . . . Oh,
this was years later, after Reggie had just scraped through
his pass. He gave him a post, and a good one, but in some
way he grudged him every little success." Again there was a
pause. "And now, chief inspector," Mrs. Eastby went on in a
very faint voice, "comes the dreadful part. I—I—we were
very hard up this last year," came in a rush, as though to get
the telling over. "Harder up than usual. Living has gone up
frightfully in South Africa too. And I'm not a very good man-
ager. There were the heavy expenses for my husband's re-
moval from one nursing home and settling him in another—
and Reggie needed a holiday badly. And one evening one of


280
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
the men from the combine's counting-house where Reggie
worked talked to me a lot about how little red-tape there was
in their house. He said he often wondered money wasn't
taken by some of the smaller employees, and pretended to
think that it would never be missed if it were taken. Or small
stones either. Oh, he chattered a lot about it all." She spoke
wearily. "I believed it, though I didn't know that I particu-
larly listened. But two days later I went to fetch Reggie for
a tennis party to which we were going together. I was shown
into a waiting-room in quite a different part of the building.
After a while, I got tired of waiting, and strolled off to find
his room. The names were put up on cards by the doors. There
was one room that had no name on it, and I opened it, really
to ask how Reggie's room could be reached. As I said, I was
in a wing that I didn't know. The room was empty, but on
the table were some packets of one-pound notes. There were
three packets in all." Again she paused, then came a low,
"I took them. Almost before I meant to do it it was done, and
I was out of the room and down the corridor and out of the
building. There were dozens of people coming and going. I
felt sure that no one could ever know—ever guess even. Be-
sides, what Mr. Barclay had said about how careless they were
in checking-up came back to me. I thought I was quite safe."
There came another pause but not so long. "Chief inspector,
it was Reggie's own room! He had moved into a newer, larger
room, and I think—/ think—that the money was put there as a
test. At any rate, he seemed to know nothing of it when he told
me that night about his new quarters. I was horrified. And ter-
rified. But next day came a note saying that he was to take his
month's leave at once. Reggie was delighted. He thought it
meant a promise of the post in London, of which he told me


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
285
was restoring it to the combine on his return. That there was
no question whatever of Mrs. Eastby's good faith in the mat-
ter, and the letter added that Reginald Eastby, neither at the
time of the mistake nor of its return and acceptance by Sir
Anthony, knew anything of the money.
This was the paper that Murgatroyd and Smith had
signed.
"After everything was over, I sat on—alone—in the writ-
ing-room, getting myself in hand again. It seemed too good
to be true. That was when I heard the voices in the next
room arguing about tufa. And then I went back to the dancers,
met my son, who had found out that Jane wasn't there, and
was furious with me, and rushed off. He thought it was some
kind of silly joke between Jane and me to find out whether
he could mistake another girl for her or not. I had to tell him
something. But I didn't care what he thought, as long as I now
knew that it would never be the truth. Or at least, I thought
so then. Though that Miss Young rather worried me. She's
desperately sharp. However, I thought I was safely beyond
the reach of harm that night at supper." She sighed. Her face
lost its momentary look of vivacity. She held out her hand.
"I can't let even you keep that paper," she said a little
tremulously; "but if need be, I can produce it. But I only
lend you my story. Only if it must be told. Only if absolutely
necessary," she repeated imploringly. She went on to say that
when Sir Anthony was killed, and the money seemed to be
lost, she was desperate again. Again Mr. Murgatroyd had
come to her help, for before he left for Cluny in his hurried
flight from questions whose answers he was afraid might
drag in her story, he had sent her his address and told her


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
287
the shadow. "Thank you for listening so patiently," she said,
with something very gentle and sweet in her face, some-
thing that gave a glimpse of the girl that once had captured
Anthony Cross's by no means susceptible heart; "but I beg
of you to remember that my confession is only for use in the
last resort."
Pointer promised her. He did not think—now—that it
would be needed. He expected a very quick wind-up to the
Cluny problem.
As there seemed to him nothing of any interest going
on for the moment, he motored over to Lyons at once, changed
into a tram, and then took a taxi to the big, bare building
on the hill. Mr. Murgatroyd was in, and came down into the
parlor at once.
He confirmed Mrs. Eastby's story as far as the night of
the dance went. As to his part in it, he was as brief as he
could well be.
"It was an awful thing to see her despair that night," he
said gravely; "I've never seen anything so poignant. You see,
she thought that she had ruined her son's career, and as well
as broken to pieces his ideal of her. When she told me that
Sir Anthony refused to let her speak to him any more on the
subject, well"—he gave a faint smile—"I really think I saw
red. That one fellow mortal should refuse to let another fel-
low mortal make restitution when restitution was possible."
Murgatroyd smacked his open palm on the table between
them, again stirred by the mere thought. His eyes flashed as
they must have done the night that he talked to the distracted
woman.
"I went into that cedar room as a man goes to a fight.
But no sooner had I closed the door behind me than that feel-


288
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
ing went. Have you ever felt confident before you did a thing
that you could do it? I knew, as I stood there, that I should
succeed. I did. And seeing what was to happen to him, I won-
der now if both of us had an inner knowledge hidden from
our conscious selves. My appeal was based simply on what
would be his fate—my fate—the fate of any one of us—if our
God were to deal with us at our death in steely justice. I think
Mrs. Eastby's appeals to him were really working in him,
though she thought that she had failed. Or else that wisdom of
which I spoke—at any rate, he met me more than half-way.
He admitted that he had been too harsh, that every man needs
mercy shown him. He would show it to the boy. Let him make
restitution and he should have another chance.
"That wouldn't do either. I told him her story as I had
heard it—though only haltingly and not nearly so well or so
pitifully. But his ears were opened. Not by me. By some pow-
er greater than either of us. He said that he had not under-
stood, that he would like to speak to Mrs. Eastby again for
a moment. He did, and then he drafted the receipt, read it
over to me, and I got Smith to sign as my co-witness."
Pointer returned to Cluny and there had a brief talk with
Heimbrot at the station, for that good man was leaving. The
combine's business did not delay for such a trifle as the mur-
der of a director.
"Easiest thing in the world to have happened," Heimbrot
said earnestly as they walked up and down beside the train.
"Of course, Mrs. Eastby thought it was her son's advance pay,
seeing that she felt sure that he was as good as appointed to
the post in London. We know what ladies are in money mat-
ters. I've told her that it's quite clear, and that her mistake
can be put right in the office without any one knowing any-


290
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
now, he drew his baton and stepped on tiptoe towards the
safe-breaker.
The club was actually lifting, when the door of the room
was flung wide, and a man with a jet black face and hands
sprang across the room in a lithe leap, and landed almost on
the agent's back. There was a sense of distance and a suffi-
ciency of movement in that leap that in itself would have told
of a first-class boxer. If there had been any doubt, the pun-
ishing right hook as the policeman span around would have
dispelled it. The club merely tapped Tibbitts and then dropped
to the floor. The policeman's whistle went in a wide curve into
a distant corner.
Now, as it happened, the agent was an admirer and imi-
tator of Carpentier too. One of the best in the region. He
avoided the well-meant punch and got in a long range thrust
to the stomach that should have ended matters. But somehow
it seemed to miss the desired effect. The black man got in a
really brilliant left and right instead.
The policeman settled down to work. The man facing him
was only about half his size. Pestel He went all out for a
knock-down blow, but it was not to be had for the asking.
Some of his efforts got home splendidly, yet in weight and sub-
stance he took more than he gave. And the funny thing was,
that the blows which he received turned him black, just as
those which he landed turned the black man fawn color or
scarlet.
The agent was bursting with rage. His fury was almost
comic. He was faster than the smaller man, but the other was
as cool as a cucumber; his eyes, what could be seen of them,
were steady and confident. At last he got in a blow that ended
it as far as the agent was concerned.


292
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
light from under the shutters reflected on the holly clump,"
the chief inspector reminded them. "I was just there"
"It was very fortunate, and now "Cambier swung the
safe door open with the air of a man not expecting much ex-
cept disappointment.
There came a gasp from his men, an exclamation from
Rondeau, and a start from himself.
A heap of glittering stones lay on the floor of the little
safe, sparkling and blinking. A pocket-book of dark green
morocco lay to one side. On top of all lay an envelope with
something written on it.
"Your arrival evidently prevented the thieves looting the
safe," Cambier said joyfully to the chief inspector; "but this
is most fortunate! And surely these are the jewels of Madam
Brownlow so often described to us. Yes, these certainly look
like them, including that necklace of black pearls she valued so
highly. And here are her sapphires! And this "he opened
the pocket-book and looked at its contents—"this is the pocket-
book of Monsieur Davidson with the missing bearer bonds in-
tact. All of them."
Only now did Cambier pick up—officially—the most in-
teresting article in the safe. And that was the letter lying on
top of all.
"A letter for Madam Brownlow—in Monsieur Brownlow's
handwriting," he said solemnly. »
There were no comments this time. Every eye had been
fixed on that square of paper for the past minutes.
Cambier slowly opened it with great neatness. He read
aloud the date. It was the date of the dance. In a still deeper
hush if possible he read on:


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
299
"I think there is no doubt as to the genuineness of this letter.
And—yes, I agree, it explains everything. Yes—everything.
Well, well, I was afraid we were getting too much embroidery
into it! A simple case after all. A sequel to an old scandal in
China. Mixed up with other problems that do not concern us,
but which were very perplexing. You agree with me, I know,
monsieur I'inspecteur en chef. So the private investigator is
right! Brownlow was the only criminal, though the reason for
the crime will surprise Monsieur Mackay. And here is his
client's money. Untouched. But we were on the track of Brown-
low. But decidedly!"
"There is one thing," Rondeau was helping his chef put
seals on the safe; "it was not Smith who boxed with Simon
here. There is no reference to Smith throughout these papers."
"Nor who helped Tibbitts to escape," finished Cambier.
"Some confederate of Tibbitts evidently. As to Tibbitts him-
self—well, it would have been a very difficult matter to bring
any share in the crime home to him after Monsieur Maitland's
arrival. So Maitland burned the papers, for Mrs. Brownlow's
sake, that would have helped Sir Cross to convict her husband
on that old affair in China! And refused to speak out—espe-
cially when he thought she was ill with inflammation of the
brain. . . . He looks like a man of feeling. And to think that
she knew all along that her husband was guilty. And did her
best to deceive us."
"Did deceive us," Rondeau said with a youthful grin. "I
do not think that the juge, for one, will find it in his heart to
be hard on her."
Cambier's gesture recalled the younger man to official
decorum. Pointer now took his leave for a short time, and the


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
301
"You won't mind the uncertainties ahead of us?" he asked
finally, for he was selling his business, such as it was, and in-
tended to start a new life elsewhere—with her.
"That's life. Uncertainty, and never knowing what's around
the corners," she finished, with her eyes shining.
Mackay looked at her delightedly. This was a helpmate
such as he wanted and needed.


CHAPTER XV
iOINTER flew from Lyons to London, where some really im-
portant matters were waiting for him. His leg was quite
well now, and he was eager to be a worker again, not an ob-
server merely. On his arrival, he had a long talk with the as-
sistant commissioner, who, after the usual warm greetings, for
he and Pointer were good friends, showed him a bulky pile of
papers on a table near by.
"The digest of the Cluny problem. Fairly complete." The
assistant commissioner moved over to them. "I know how im-
patient you are to be at work, and you can be as brief as you
like in your replies. But there are just a few questions I want
to put. I've jotted them down in what seems to me the order
of their importance, and if we keep to that we shall soon be
done. First of all"—he seated himself and pushed his tobacco
jar across the table—"have you any idea how Anthony Cross
got on the track that possibly young Jackson's valuable mineral
claim might have been the real reason for his murder in Shang-
hai ten years ago? How could he learn of the existence of such
a claim in the first place?"
"Very simply. I think, sir. Peter Jackson had a Chinese
*boy' called Cheng." Pointer was lighting up, "so they 'beamed'
me from Shanghai. He was his employer's friend as well as
servant. This Chens had a relative Cheng, who had a remote
connection Cheng—you know how these Tongs still ran as one
family—who regularly traded into die Soviet State of Central
Asia."


304
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
plied to the Brownlow-Jackson affair. I think Sir Anthony only
wanted to make sure that he would not have to introduce the
Brownlows to her—in case they could not clear themselves."
"I see. Very likely indeed. At any rate, he went down to
clear the matter up by a talk with the accused on the spot. Talk
lasts a long time that first evening." The assistant commis-
sioner had the tale at his fingers' ends. "Cross is not satisfied
—that's how I read the lines, or between them—and wires for
Maitland and the old papers. Maitland got there a little earlier
than was expected, found all the doors open, walked in, met
Mrs. Brownlow, who throws herself on his mercy. She gets him
to burn the papers he has brought and to leave the villa with-
out seeing Sir Anthony. Maitland yields to her begging, but
once away his brain clears. He decided to return and tell An-
thony Cross what he has done, and at once resign from the Law
Society. He comes back. Has the stormy interview, bits of
which were overheard. You think, too, don't you, that the 'thief
and the 'money' and the 'tufa' all referred to Brownlow?"
Pointer did.
"Maitland leaves after that. When he is dragged into the
affair, he cannot tell the truth because of Mrs. Brownlow. She
probably told him that she was innocent, but her husband
guilty, and that she cannot prove her own innocence. Eh?"
"Probably," Pointer thought.
"Now, why did Anthony Cross leave the hotel and put
up at the villa for the remainder of the night of the dance?"
Major Pelham wanted to know.
"To avoid Mrs. Eastby, I think," Pointer suggested. "I
fancy that Mrs. Brownlow had very nearly satisfied him that
there was no question of deliberate murder, of murder for gain,
during her talk the early part of the night of the dance."


306
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
"I think it was a careful account and fitted every point
most neatly," Pointer said with a smile.
"And written by Brownlow, of course?" Pelham asked
quickly.
"Written by the man who shot Brownlow," Pointer cor-
rected quietly.
"Shot Brownlow?" the assistant commissioner wheeled on
him. "What on earth do you mean, Pointer? Didn't Brownlow
shoot himself? What on earth"
"Mackay shot Brownlow, sir. Mackay Jackson, the young-
er brother of the murdered Peter Jackson."
"Mackay? You mean—you don't mean the man who was
investigating Davidson's lost money at Cluny?"
"I do, sir."
"Then why the devil didn't you tell me so before?"
"But I was to answer your questions as you put them, sir,
in the order of their importance," Pointer said politely.
Major Pelham burst out laughing. "Scored off me there.
And you had this up your sleeve all the time? Come now, the
story. The story that isn't written in, eh, the Third Book of
Kings." And Pelham pushed the whole table away and wheeled
up an arm-chair for himself.
"The tale runs like this, sir," Pointer began swiftly;
"when his brother Peter was killed, Mackay Jackson had no
money and no influence. He was just a poor little Canadian
boy. But he never wavered in his certainty that his brother had
been murdered by Brownlow and for something quite different
from jealousy. He argued, rather shrewdly for a lad of sixteen,
that his brother's murder would not remain Brownlow's only
crime. He entered Pinkerton's and worked well. He was not
considered brilliant, but absolutely fearless, and a quite re-


308
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
"And when the last of the string of Chengs sent him word
of the Jackson-Tibbitts sale of the claimed land in Touva, Mac-
kay added the name of Tibbitts to the other two. This theft of
Mrs. Brownlow's jewels and Davidson's money on the rapide
came as a gift to Mackay. He was at once informed by several
agencies that both the names that he was after had cropped
tip, the old and the new. Mackay Jackson came over to Paris
at once, and offered his services to Davidson on the 'no success,
no pay' understanding. By the way, sir, it was he who had him-
self offered his services as soon as he bought his business
some years before to the diamond combine in which Sir An-
thony Cross was a director, and he did some good work for
them on the same understanding. As far as this my tale is
vouched for by known facts, but from now on I'm only guess-
ing"
"Quite good enough for me," murmured Pelham; "guess
on."
"I think that he immediately wrote to Sir Anthony, not
as to the combine director this time, but as to the man who
would have been counsel for the defence in that murder trial
that never came off. He gave him—this is how I see it—the
facts of his brother's claim having evidently been in existence
at the time his brother was murdered, of the absolute absence
of all papers relating to any such claim on the dead body,
of the name of Tibbitts as the present owner, who appears to be
a friend of the man who killed his brother, whether in hot
jealousy by a hasty shove, as was thought by those who were
on his side, or in cold-blooded treachery. I imagine that Sir
Anthony was better than Mackay Jackson hoped, and wrote to
him to meet him in Cluny. Mackay does so, apparently while
out fishing, the day after Cross's arrival. I take it that Mac-


310
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
Sir Anthony. He lays down the revolver with which he has
just shot Brownlow—the revolver that is Sir Anthony's own
—and tries to see if anything can be done. But Sir Anthony is
dead. All this, as I say, sir, is purely guesswork, but I fancy
it's fairly near what happened."
It was exactly what had happened.
"Then Mackay drags Brownlow over to the corner where
there is a light—the opposite corner—searches him, and finds
what looks like the key of another safe. He had heard from
Miss Young about seeing Tibbitts in that very room with some
black pearls, like the lost one of Mrs. Brownlow, in his hands.
Can there be a safe in here? That would explain the missing
papers. Mackay decided that he must hunt later on—during
the inquiry. He picks up a revolver lying near Sir Anthony, re-
membering that he had laid the one down that he had fired,
and hurries out when the coast is clear, locking the door from
the outside, but with the key on the inside. The key showed
double marks made by two uses of the ring nippers. As a mat-
ter of fact, the revolver with which Mackay had shot Brown-
low had probably got shoved under Sir Anthony while Mackay
raised him to see if he could do anything. That, at least, is
where it was found. It was supposed that, twisting as he died,
Sir Anthony had rolled over it a little. Mackay, of course,
dropped the one that he had taken away in the Grosne, the
river that runs beside the villa. And he also drops—most un-
intentionally, and in the garden—the key that looks like the
key of a safe which he has taken from Brownlow's waistcoat
pocket. For in order to look like a seedy debt collector at the
dance"
"A grim irony in his choice of that character," put in
Major Pelham appreciatively.


THE CLUNY PROBLEM
315
have pulled under the hedge of the orchard. As soon as they
were safely off the premises, I 'observed,' from the road where
I was standing, the light on the hollies behind the cedar room.
That told any one who saw it that the shutter was a least par-
tially up and a light in the room. I called for the police and
hurried to the window. And the rest of the doings of that night
is, as you say, sir, to be found in the Third Book of Kings."
"Mackay went to Lyons, I suppose?" Pelham asked.
"I think so. Luckily Tibbitts can drive, for Mackay him-
self had only one eye half-open, which couldn't have looked
around his cauliflower of a nose if it had tried. His face would
have needed some explaining. Rondeau would certainly have
asked himself a few questions if he had caught sight of it.
Which was why Mackay concentrated on Brownlow's trail in
Lyons, I fancy, and did that chiefly by telephoning, I'll wager.
Though he arrived with his head nicely bandaged. He got that
done at a convent hospital on the outskirts of the town as you
drive in. Told the night sister that he had had an accident while
motoring—a skid. She must have thought that he had skidded
chiefly on his face, but she seems to have swallowed the story,
and provided Mackay most obligingly with a head like a foot-
ball. Also she let him telephone for a room to the hotel and
again explain that he had had a slight accident and would ar-
rive looking slightly the worse for wear. From the hotel he
wrote and asked Miss Young to meet him there on her way to
Italy."
"Do you think he told her the whole truth?" Pelham won-
dered. "I hope so."
"I'm sure so. Mackay would. And also, Miss Young would
take it very quietly. The Texas ranger had accounted for some


320
THE CLUNY PROBLEM
ing to Miss Young's glowing descriptions of them.” Pointer
gave a reminiscent chuckle.
"I wonder if he guessed, or guesses, that you know..."
Major Pelham said half to himself.
“I wonder, too, sir. He may. He risked that. Incidentally,
I warned him that he had better hurry and get his final coup
in before the French linked up with Touva—which might mean
with him. Also I ventured on a wedding present of Copen-
hagen china. A couple of dogs.”
“Dogs?”
“They were asleep,” laughed the chief inspector as he
rose.
“So you solved the Cluny problem in your own way. You
would!”
Pointer shook his head.
“The real Cluny problem, sir, was and is Mrs. Brownlow.
She's beyond me. Was she innocent? Was she guilty? And
guilty all through? Who can say?"
“I wonder Mackay Jackson tried to shield her so com-
pletely in that final letter of his-the letter he signed as Brown-
low,” Pelham looked puzzled.
“I think he had promised her he would do as much when
he made her leave the villa and go into hiding. And I think he
wasn't sure—any more than I am—whether she were innocent
or guilty, and knew that, as he never would be sure, he must
give her the benefit of the doubt. And also, I shouldn't wonder
if he didn't consider that her husband's death at his hand had
settled the old score in full.
“She evidently knew what make of bullet killed Sir An-
thony, since she was able to put the right weapon beside her
husband—without that non-existent chit in her vanity-case to











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