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THE MARATHON MYSTERY


The Holladay Case
A MYSTERY OF NEW YORK AND ETRETAT
By BURTON E. STEVENSON
With Frontispiece by ELIOT KEEN. i2mo. $1.25

York banker stabbed to death in his office. Suspicon
falls on his daughter. A kidnapping and pursuit over seas
follow. The story contains a minimum of horror and a
maximum of ingenuity.
N. Y. Tribune: "The reader will not want to put the
book down until he has reached the last page. Well
written into the bargain."
Springfield Republican: "Unusually clever.1*
Critic: "Almost instantly commands the reader's
attention."
Boston Transcript: "Developed with novelty and
originality . . . may be heartily commended.**
Chicago Record-Herald: "Conan Doyle and Anna
Katharine Green have a worthy rival in Burton E. Steven-
son.*'
Buffalo Commercial: " Of rare interest and intricacy."
Washington Post; "Extremely clever."
Henry Holt and Company
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK


THE SEW YORK
PUBLIC LIBRARY



Outside the Marathon on the Night of the Storm.


THE NEW YORK
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The Marathon Mystery
A STORY OF MANHATTAN
BY
BURTON E. STEVENSON
Author of “The Holladay case,” “cADETs of Gascony,” etc.
With Five Scenes in Colour
By ELIOT KEEN
NEW YORK - - -
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
I 904
*-- - - -
* * * * *


THE NEW YORK
PUBLIC LIBRARY
688006
A8TOR, LENOX AND
TILDEN FOUNDATIONS
R 1916 L
COPYRIGHT, 1904
Bf
KENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
Published October, 11)04
THE MKRSHON COMPANY PRESS
RAHWAY, N. J.


CONTENTS
PART I
THE TRAGEDY IN SUITE FOURTEEN
CHAPTER PAGB
I. A CALL IN THE NIGHT 3
II. A TANGLED WEB 9
III. TRICKS OF THE TRADE 17
IV. THE JANITOR'S STORY 24
V. SIMMONDS SNARES A BIRD 34
VI. LIGHT FROM A NEW ANGLE 41
VII. A GLIMPSE AT A SKELETON 51
VIII. THE FOG THICKENS . ..... 60
PART II
CECILY
\. A CHANGE OF LODGINGS 77
II. A CRY FOR HELP 86
III. A BREAK IN A CIRCLE 95
IV. THE PROBLEM OF THE DIAMOND .... 102
V. A FLASH FROM THE DEPTHS . . . . . 1n
VI. A TRAP FOR TREMAINE 119
VII. SUCCESS AND FAILURE 128
PART III
THE AFFAIR OF THE NECKLACE
I. THE DELROYS 139
II. THE GAUNTLET . 147


vi Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
III. A CROSSING OF SWORDS 154
IV. CUT AND THRUST 163
V. THE BLOW FALLS 172
VI. THE MYSTERY AT THE PIER 182
VII. A TIGHTENING COIL 190
VIII. THE HAND OF THE LAW 197
PART IV
DAWN
I. A THREAD BREAKS 209
II. TREASURE TROVE! 217
III. A STUDY IN PROBABILITIES 225
IV. CECILY SAYS GOOD-BYE 238
V. COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE 251
VI. INNOCENT OR GUILTY? 260
VII. THE KEY TO THE MYSTERY 269
PART V
DAY!
I. WHAT HAPPENED IN SUITE FOURTEEN . . . 279
II. A GATHERING OF THREADS 291
III. GODFREY AND I ARE "DE TROP" .... 299
IV. THE STORY OF MONDAY NIGHT .... 304
V. A HORROR IN THE DARK 313
VI. VENGEANCE 319


SCENES IN COLOUR
BY ELIOT KEEN
OUTSIDE THE MARATHON ON THE NIGHT OF THE STORM
Frontispiece
IN THE PROMENADE DE LUXE OF THE NEW YORK THEATRE 77
THE PIER ON GREAT SOUTH BAY IN A STORM . . . 139
THE BEACH AT MARTINIQUE AT SUNSET .... 209
THE RIVER AT NIGHT 279


7-
.


PART I
THE TRAGEDY IN SUITE FOURTEEN


*Y


THE MARATHON MYSTERY
CHAPTER I
ft Call in tbe
A SUDDEN gust of wind wrenched the door from
Godfrey's grasp and slammed it with a bang
that echoed through the building.
"Anything doing?" he asked, as he flapped the rain
from his coat.
Simmonds, the grizzled veteran of the Central
Office, now temporarily in charge of the devious busi-
ness of the " Tenderloin," shook his head despondently.
"Not a thing. Only," he added, his eyes gleaming
suddenly with appreciation, "you were right about
that Delanne abduction case. It was all a faked-up
story on the mother's part. She confessed this even-
ing."
"I thought she would if you kept at her," said God-
frey, sitting down with a quick nod of satisfaction.
"She hasn't nerve enough to carry through a thing
like that — she's too pink-and-white. How does it hap-
pen you're alone?"
"Johnston's gone down to Philadelphia to bring back
Riggs, the forger. 'Fleming's got the grip. Bad
night, ain't it?"
"Horrible!" agreed Godfrey. "Listen to that,


4 A Call in the Night
A gust of extra violence howled down the street,
rattling the windows, shrieking around the corners,
tearing down signs, and doing such other damage as
lay in its power.
There was a certain similarity in the faces of the
two men, especially in the expression of the eyes and
mouth. Age, however, had given to Simmonds's fea-
tures a trace of stolidity which was wanting in those
of his companion. He had been connected with the
Central Office for many years—-was dean of the force,
in fact—and though he had developed no special genius
in his dealings with crime, he possessed a matter-of-
fact industry and personal courage which had fre-
quently achieved success. In the end, his chief had
come to trust him greatly, probably because the bril-
liant theorists of the force made so many unfortunate
mistakes.
Godfrey was a brilliant theorist and something more.
He was not so patient as Simmonds, but then he was
much younger. He had more imagination, and per-
haps his greatest weakness was that he preferred pic-
turesque solutions to commonplace ones. During his
three years' connection with the force he had won
four or five notable victories—so notable, indeed, that
they attracted the attention of the Record management.
The end of it was that Godfrey resigned his badge
and entered the Record office as criminal expert, climb-
ing gradually to the position of star reporter. Since
then, the Record had not waited on the police; indeed,
it had been rather the other way around.
It was with Simmonds that Godfrey had long since
concluded an alliance offensive and defensive. The


A Call in the Night 5
one supplemented the other—the eagle gave eyes to
the mole; the mole gave the eagle the power of work-
ing patiently in the dark. Simmonds kept Godfrey
in touch with police affairs; Godfrey enabled Sim-
monds to make a startling arrest now and then. God-
frey got the story, Simmonds got the glory, and both
were satisfied. It may be added that, without in the
least suspecting it, the mole was considerably under the
influence of the eagle. Brains naturally lead indus-
try; besides, the blind must have guidance.
They listened until the gust of wind died away down
the street, then Godfrey arose and began to button
up his coat.
"Nevertheless," he said, " I've got to be moving on.
I can't stay loafing here. I wouldn't have stopped at
all but for the chance of seeing you."
"Oh, don't go," protested Simmonds. "I was
mighty glad to see you come in. I was feeling a little
lonesome. Wait till this squall's over, anyway—and
have a smoke."
Godfrey took the proffered cigar and relapsed into
his chair.
"I'm only human," he said, as he struck a match,
"and, besides, there's a fascination about you, Sim-
monds—there's always a chance of getting a good
story out of you. You know more about the criminal
history of New York than any other man living, I
think."
Simmonds chuckled complacently.
"I have been in on most of the big cases," he
agreed.
"Come, now," continued the other persuasively,


A Call in the Night
"if I consent to stay, you've got to produce a story.
Take those big cases—which do you think was the
best of the lot?"
"The best?"
"The most intricate, I mean—the most puzzling—
the hardest to solve."
"Well," and Simmonds rolled his cigar reflectively,
"the hardest to solve, of course, were those that were
never solved at all. There was the shooting of old
Benjamin Nathan, in the summer of '70, at his house
on West Twenty-third Street, and there was the stab-
bing of Harvey Burdell. I never had the least doubt
that Burdell was killed by Mrs. Cunningham, the
woman he'd secretly married. The stabbing was done
by a left-handed person, and she was left-handed; but
we weren't able to convict her."
"Yes," nodded Godfrey; "and the Nathan case?"
"There wasn't anybody in the house, so far as
known, but the two sons," said Simmonds slowly,
"and both of them managed to prove/arv alibi. But
I've always thought Hello! What's this?"
The door flew back with a crash and a man rushed
(*'
in—a heavy-set man, with red cheeks, who stopped,
gasping, clutching at his throat.
Godfrey had a flask to his lips in an instant.
"Come, brace up!" he commanded sternly, slapping
the stranger on the back. "Take a swallow of this—
that's it."
"It seems to me I know him," remarked Simmonds,
looking at the flushed countenance with contemplative
eye.
"O' course you do!" gasped the stranger. "I'm


A Call in the Night 7
Higgins—th' Marathon/' and he jerked his head to-
ward the door.
"Oh, yes," said Simmonds. "You're the janitor
of the Marathon apartment house, just across the
street."
"Well, what's happened at the Marathon?" de-
manded Godfrey. "No ghosts over there, I hope?"
"There'll be one," answered Higgins, his eyes be-
ginning to pop again. "Oh, my God!"
"Come," repeated Godfrey sharply. "Out with it!
What is it?"
"It's murder, that's what it is!" cried Higgins
hoarsely. "I seed him, a-layin' on his back"
He stopped and covered his eyes with his hands.
Simmonds had quietly opened a drawer and slipped
a revolver into his pocket. Then he took down the
receiver from his desk 'phone.
"That you, sergeant?" he called. "This is Sim-
monds. Send three men over to the Marathon right
away."
He put back the receiver with a jerk. Godfrey
twirled the janitor sharply around in the direction of
the door.
"Go ahead," he commanded, and pushed rather
than led him out into the storm.
'They made a dash for it through the rain, which
was still pouring in torrents. Halfway across the
street, they descried a cab standing at the farther curb,
and veered to the right to avoid it.
"Here we are," said Higgins, running up a short
flight of steps into a lighted vestibule. "It's in soot
fourteen—second floor,"


8 A Call in the Night
They sprang up the stairs without thinking of the
elevator—one flight, two . . . Higgins began to choke
again.
A single door stood open, throwing a broad .glare
of light across the hallway.
"It's there," said Higgins, and stopped to gasp for
breath.
The others ran on. For an instant, they stood upon
the threshold, gazing into the room—at a huddled form
on the floor, with a red stain growing and growing
upon its breast—at a woman staring white-faced from
the farther corner—a woman, tall, with black hair and
black eyes.
Then Godfrey stepped toward her with a quick ex-
clamation of surprise, incredulity, horror.
"Why, it's Miss Croydon!" he said.


CHAPTER II
SIMMONDS had dropped on one knee beside the
body. He was up again in an instant.
"No need for an ambulance," he said tersely.
"He's dead."
The words seemed to rouse the girl from the ecstasy
of horror which possessed her, and she buried her face
in her hands, shuddering convulsively. Godfrey
caught her as she swayed forward, and led her gently
to a chair.
"Perhaps you don't remember me, Miss Croydon,"
he said. "Godfrey's my name — it was only the other
night at Mrs. Delroy's I met you. It was Jack Drys-
dale who introduced me — you know I'm an old friend
of his." *.
"Yes," she murmured indistinctly, "I remember
quite -"
An exclamation from Simmonds interrupted her.
He had picked up a small, pearl-handled revolver from
the floor in the corner.
"Is this yours, miss?" he asked.
She nodded faintly.
He snapped it open and looked at the chambers.
One had been discharged. He sniffed at the barrel,
then held it out to Godfrey. The odour of burnt
gunpowder was plainly discernible.
9


jo A Tangled Web
Godfrey's face hardened as he turned to the janitor,
who had regained his breath and stood staring on the
threshold.
"My friend," he said, "shut the door"
He stopped as he heard the tramp of heavy feet
approaching along the corridor.
"Wait," said Simmonds. "There come my men.
I'll be back in a minute."
Godfrey nodded curtly, and waited until Simmonds
closed the door after him.
"Now, Miss Croydon," he said, "tell me quickly
how it happened. I can't help you unless I know the
whole story, and I want to help you."
The gentleness of his voice, the quiet assurance of
his manner, the encouraging glance, combined to
calm and strengthen her. She sat up, with an effort
of self-control, and clasped her hands together in
her lap.
"There isn't much to tell," she began, striving to
speak steadily. "I came here to—to keep an appoint-
ment "She stopped, her voice dying away, unable
to go on.
"With this man? " asked Godfrey.' "Who is he?"
"I don't know," and she cast a horrified glance at
the huddled form. "I never saw him before."
"Then it wasn't he you came here to meet?"
"No—that is—it may have been "And again
she stopped.
"Miss Croydon," said Godfrey, gently yet clearly,
"I can't help you unless you're quite frank with me,
and I fear you are going to stand in need of help.
Did you kill this man?"


A Tangled Web 11
"No!" she cried. "Oh, no!"
Her face was in her hands again and she was trem-
bling; it was impossible to doubt that she spoke the
truth.
"Then who did?"
There was no answer; only a dry, convulsive sob-
bing.
As Godfrey paused to look at her, the door opened
and Simmonds came in. He closed it and snapped the
lock.
"There's a policeman outside and one at each land-
ing," he announced. "We'll look things over here, and
then search the building. First, let's look at the body."
It was lying partly on its back, partly on its right
side, with its legs doubled under it. The face was a
bearded one, rough, coarse, and a little bloated—not
a prepossessing face under any circumstances, and
actively repulsive now, with its gaping mouth and
widely staring eyes. It was tanned and seamed by
exposure to wind and rain and there was a deep scar
across the left temple.
"Between fifty and sixty years of age," remarked
Godfrey. "Pouf! smell the whiskey."
Then, looking into the staring eyes, he uttered a
sudden exclamation.
"See there, Simmonds, how the right pupil's dilated.
Do you know what that means?"
Simmonds shook his head.
"No, I can't say I do."
"It means," said Godfrey, "that somebody hit this
fellow a hard blow on the left side of the head and
produced a haemorrhage of the brain."


12 A Tangled Web
Simmonds gave a little low whistle.
“That could hardly have been her,” and he nodded
toward the girl, who had regained her self-control
and was leaning anxiously forward, eyes and ears
intent.
“No, of course not. Let's see if he was really
shot.”
They stripped back the shirt from the breast. A
little blood was still welling from a wound just over
the heart.
“That's what did the business,” observed Sim-
monds, “and at close range, too; see there,” and he
pointed to the red marks about the wound. “He
wasn't shot from the corner, that's sure. Let's see
what he's got in his pockets.”
The examination was soon made. There were only
a pipe, a knife, a package of cheap tobacco, a hand-
ful of loose coins, and an old pocket-book containing
a little roll of newspaper clippings and a receipt for a
month's rent for suite fourteen made out to “H.
Thompson.” -
“Thompson,” repeated Simmonds, “and a lot of
clippings. Can you read French, Godfrey?”
“A little,” answered Godfrey modestly. “Let me
see.” He took the clippings and looked at the first
one. “‘Suresnes, September 16, 1891,'” he read
haltingly. “I have to report an event the most in-
teresting which has just happened here, and which
proves again the futility of vows the most rigorous to
quiet the ardent desires of the human heart or to
change the ’” -
“Oh, well,” interrupted Simmonds, “we can't waste


A Tangled Web I 3
time reading any more of that rot; it sounds like a
French novel. The coroner can wrestle with it, if he
thinks it’s worth while.”
He replaced the clippings in the purse, which he
slipped back into the pocket from which he had taken
it. -
“Now,” he added, rising to his feet, “we’d better
get the girl’s story.”
“Do you know who she is?” asked Godfrey, in a
low voice. As he glanced at her, he was startled
to note her attitude of strained attention, which,
as he turned, lapsed instantly to one of seeming
apathy.
“I heard you call her Miss Croydon.”
“Yes—she’s the sister of Mrs. Richard Delroy.”
Again Simmonds whistled.
“The deuce you say! Dickie Delroy | Well, that
doesn't make any difference,” and he turned toward
her resolutely.
“Miss Croydon,” he began abruptly, though per-
haps in a gentler voice than he would have used to-
ward the average suspect, “were you in the room
when this man was killed?”
nly slightly,” she answered coolly, disregarding
rey's stare of amazement. “His name, I think,
Thompson.”
ou had an engagement with him here?”"
Yes, sir; on a private matter which cannot concern
' police.”
Simmonds passed that over for the moment.
–––


12 A Tangled Web
Simmonds gave a little low whistle.
"That could hardly have been her," and he nodded
toward the girl, who had regained her self-control
and was leaning anxiously forward, eyes and ears
intent.
"No, of course not. Let's see if he was really
shot."
They stripped back the shirt from the breast. A
little blood was still welling from a wound just over
the heart.
"That's what did the business," observed Sim-
monds, "and at close range, too; see there," and he
pointed to the red marks about the wound. "He
wasn't shot from the corner, that's sure. Let's see
what he's got in his pockets."
The examination was soon made. There were only
a pipe, a knife, a package of cheap tobacco, a hand-
ful of loose coins, and an old pocket-book containing
a little roll of newspaper clippings and a receipt for a
month's rent for suite fourteen made out to "H.
Thompson."
"Thompson," repeated Simmonds, "and a lot of
clippings. Can you read French, Godfrey?"
"A little," answered Godfrey modestly. "Let me
see." He took the clippings and looked at the first
one. "' Suresnes, September 16, 1891,'" he read
haltingly. "' I have to report an event the most in-
teresting which has just happened here, and which
proves again the futility of vows the most rigorous to
quiet the ardent desires of the human heart or to
change the '"
"Oh, well," interrupted Simmonds, " we can't waste


A Tangled Web 13
time reading any more of that rot; it sounds like a
French novel. The coroner can wrestle with it, if he
thinks it's worth while."
He replaced the clippings in the purse, which he
slipped back into the pocket from which he had taken
it.
"Now," he added, rising to his feet, "we'd better
get the girl's story."
"Do you know who she is?" asked Godfrey, in a
low voice. As he glanced at her, he was startled
to note her attitude of strained attention, which,
as he turned, lapsed instantly to one of seeming
apathy.
"I heard you call her Miss Croydon."
"Yes—she's the sister of Mrs. Richard Delroy."
Again Simmonds whistled.
"The deuce you say! Dickie Delroy! Well, that
doesn't make any difference," and he turned toward
her resolutely.
"Miss Croydon," he began abruptly, though per-
haps in a gentler voice than he would have used to-
ward the average suspect, "were you in the room
when this man was killed?"
"Yes, sir."
'Y/uknow him?"
?nly slightly," she answered coolly, disregarding
GoArey's stare of amazement. "His name, I think,
was | Thompson."
fou had an engagement with him here?"
[Yes, sir; on a private matter which cannot concern
thrf police."
'
4 *jf>immonds passed that over for the moment.


14 A Tangled Web
"Will you kindly tell us just what happened?"'he
asked.
"I drove here in a cab," she said, speaking rapidly,
"which I told to wait for me. In the vestibule, I met
the janitor, and asked to be conducted to suite fourteen, d
He brought me up here where Mr.—Mr. Thompson '«
was waiting. I entered and closed the door. We
were talking together, when the door of the inner
room opened and a man came out. Before I realised
what he was doing, he had raised a bar of iron he
held in his hand and struck Mr. Thompson upon the
head. Then, standing over him, he drew a revolver
and fired one shot at him. I had shrunk away into
the corner, but thinking him a madman, believing my
own life in danger, I drew my pocket-pistol and fired
at him. Without even glancing at me, he opened the
outer door and disappeared. The janitor rushed in a
moment later."
"Did your shot hit him?" asked Simmonds.
"I don't know; I think not; he showed no sign of
being wounded."
Simmonds stood looking at her; Godfrey turned to
an examination of the opposite wall.
"Miss Croydon's shot went wild," he said, curiously'
elated at this confirmation of her story. "Herd's th'B
bullet," and he pointed to it, embedded in the wor".a ^
work of the bedroom door. . vr_
Simmonds took a look at it, then he returned to, "' ^
inquiry. Us °
"Did you know this intruder?" he asked. T to
"No, sir; I'd never before seen him," she answe^
steadily. fste



A Tangled Web 15
"Will you describe him?"
She closed her eyes, seemingly in an effort at recol-
lection.
"He was a short, heavy-set man," she said, at last,
"with a dark face and dark moustache which turned
up at the ends. That is all I can remember."
"And dressed how?"
"In dark clothes; he wore a slouch hat, I think,
drawn down over the eyes. I didn't see the face
clearly."
The answer came without hesitation, but it seemed
to Godfrey that there was in the voice an accent of
forced sincerity.
"What did he do with the bar of iron?" asked
Simmonds.
"As soon as he struck the blow, I think he—he
threw it down. I remember hearing it fall"
"Yes—here it is," said Godfrey triumphantly, and
fished it out from under a chair which stood near
the wall. "But see, Simmonds—it's not a bar, it's a
pipe."
Simmonds examined it. It was an ordinary piece
of iron piping, about fifteen inches in length.
"Her story seems to be straight," he said, in an
undertone to Godfrey. "What do you think about
it?"
"I think she's perfectly innocent of any crime," an-
swered Godfrey, with conviction. He had his doubts
as to the absolute straightness of her story, but he
concluded to keep them to himself.
| "Well, there's nothing more to be learned out here,"
remarked Simmonds, after another glance around.


16 A Tangled Web
"Suppose we take a look at the other room," and he
led the way toward the inner door.
It was an ordinary bedroom of moderate size and
with a single closet, in which a few soiled clothes were
hanging. The bed had been lain upon, and evidently
by a person fully dressed, for there were marks of
muddy shoes upon the counterpane, fresh marks as
of one who had come in during the evening's storm.
An empty whiskey bottle lay on a little table near the
bed.
"I guess Thompson was a boozer," observed Sim-
monds.
"Yes," agreed Godfrey, "his face showed that
pretty plainly."
"Well, the man we're after ain't in here; we'll have
to search the house."
"Can't we let Miss Croydon go home? She won't
run away—I'll answer for that. Besides, there's
nothing against her."
Simmonds pondered a minute.
"Yes, I suppose so," he said, at last. "Of course,
she'll have to appear at the inquest. Do you know
her address?"
"Yes—twenty-one East Sixty-ninth Street."
Simmonds jotted it down in his note-book.
"All right," he said. "You'd better take her down
to her cab."


CHAPTER III
ttricfta of tbe CraDe
GODFREY turned aside to hide the smile of sat-
isfaction he could not wholly suppress; he had
been adroitly driving Simmonds toward that sugges-
tion.
For Godfrey wanted to be alone a few minutes with
Miss Croydon. He was acutely conscious that here
was a mystery much more puzzling than appeared on
the surface; much more picturesque than the ordinary
run of mysteries. Miss Croydon had said that her
errand to suite fourteen had been on a private matter
which did not concern the police, but Godfrey was not
so sure of that. Of course, he could not compel her
to explain it, and yet he felt that two or three well-
directed questions might give him the clew which he
was seeking now in vain.
"Very well," he agreed; " I'll see her down to her
cab. What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to quiz the janitor and then search the
house. Maybe the other fellow hasn't had a chance
to get away yet. I wonder what's going on out
there?" he added, as they returned together to the
other room.
They could hear a commotion of some sort in the
hall, the hum of many voices, the shuffling of many
feet . . .
17


18 Tricks of the Trade
The commotion swelled to an uproar as Simmonds
opened the door and closed it quickly behind him.
Godfrey heard his voice raised in angry expostula-
tion, and he chuckled grimly to himself as he turned
to Miss' Croydon.
He gazed at her with interest, searchingly, ponder-
ing how best to surprise her secret—at the bent head,
with its crown of dark hair, shadowed by a little velvet
hat; at the rounded arms, the graceful figure. The
remarkable resolution and self-control with which she
had answered the detective's inquiries seemed to have
deserted her. She was sitting huddled up in the chair,
with her head in her hands, in an attitude almost of
collapse. A convulsive shudder shook her from mo-
ment to moment. They had been thoughtless, God-
frey told himself, to leave her alone with the dead man
—that was enough to unnerve any woman.
He paused yet a moment, looking at her,—at the
slender hands, the little ear,—and he pictured to him-
self what her training had been, how she had been
fenced away from the rough places of the world, the
unpleasant things of life. Certainly, she could never
have committed such a crime as this, or even connived
at it.
Yet she had lied—deliberately and distinctly she had
lied. She had told him that she had never before seen
the dead man; she had told Simmonds just the opposite.
Which was the truth? Doubtless the first; her first
impulse would be to speak the truth; afterward, at
leisure for a moment, she had mastered her agitation,
had thought out the lie, and had uttered it with a sur-
prising calmness.


2o «* Tricks of the Trade
"I'm sure you know him. You could place him
in the hands of the police, if you wished."
She stared without answering into his steady eyes.
There was something compelling in their glance, a
power there was no resisting, urging her to speak.
She had been deeply shaken by the evening's tragedy;
her strength was almost gone. Godfrey saw her
yielding, yielding—a moment more, and he would have
the story. With a last sigh of resistance, she opened
her lips, closed them, opened them again . . .
The door opened and a man came in—a keen-faced
man of middle age, who nodded to Godfrey and threw
a quick, penetrating glance at his companion. Be-
hind him, the clamour burst out anew; various heads
appeared in the doorway, various eager faces sought
to peer into the room; but the newcomer calmly
closed the door and assured himself that it was locked.
He looked at Godfrey again, then expectantly at the
girl.
"Miss Croydon," said Godfrey, "this is Coroner
Goldberg, whose duty it is to investigate this affair,
and who may wish to ask you some questions."
Goldberg removed his hat and bowed. Miss Croy-
don met his gaze with an admirable composure. God-
frey sighed—that moment of weakness was past—
if Goldberg had only been a moment later!
"Only a few at present," began the coroner, in a
voice soft and deferential, as only he knew how to
make it. How often, with that voice, had he led a wit-
ness on and on to his own ruin!" You were the only
witness of this tragedy, I believe, Miss Croydon?"
"Yes, sir.-'
i_


Tricks of the Trade ^ 21
jpL
"Are you acquainted with the murderer?"
"No, sir."
"You never saw him before?"
"No, sir."
"But you could identify him, if the police succeed
in capturing him?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"You have already given Mr. Simmonds a descrip-
tion of him?"
"Yes, sir; as well as I could."
"And told him the whole story?"
"Yes, sir—the whole story."
"Except one detail, I believe—you did not explain
how you came to be in this room."
"No, sir; I did not tell him that," she answered, in
a low tone.
"Will you tell me?"
"I do not think it concerns the police, sir."
"You would better let me judge of that; if it does
not concern the police, I promise you it shall go no
farther."
She was looking at him anxiously; she moistened her
lips and glanced uncertainly at Godfrey.
"Do you object to Mr. Godfrey's presence? " asked
the coroner.
"Oh, not at all," she said"" quickly. "I'm very
glad that Mr. Godfrey is here."
"I persist," continued Goldberg, "because I think
that perhaps the story may help us to identify this
man."
"It won't," said Miss Croydon; " but I will tell you
—briefly, this man claimed to have certain—papers


22 Tricks of the Trade
which concerned—our family. We had never heard
—of him before. We knew nothing about him. But
I came here—to see."
"You did a very imprudent thing," commented the
coroner.
"I see it now," agreed Miss Croydon humbly. "I
came against the advice of my sister."
"Then your sister knew you were coming?"
"Oh, yes; and tried to dissuade me. But I am
sometimes—well—a little obstinate, I fear," she went
on, with just the ghost of a smile, and a humility which
seemed to Godfrey a trifle excessive. "I shall not
soon forget the lesson."
Goldberg nodded, still looking at her. Godfrey
wondered if he, too, suspected that there was some-
thing hidden behind this seeming candour. He had
seen more than one instance of Goldberg's acumen—
an acumen heightened by a certain Oriental vividness
of imagination. But, apparently, the coroner was
satisfied with Miss Croydon's answers.
"That is all, at present," he said. "Your story
shall go no farther. Mr. Godfrey, I am sure, promises
that, too."
"Certainly," assented Godfrey.
"Of course," the coroner added, "I shall have to
summon you as a witness at the inquest. It will prob-
ably be to-morrow afternoon."
She bowed without replying.
"One thing more," said Goldberg. "Did he have
the papers? Did he give them to you?"
"No," she answered quickly. "He had no papers.
He was lying."


Tricks of the Trade 23
"Then that is all," repeated the coroner. "You'd
better see her to her cab, Mr. Godfrey," he added,
with a little smile. "She'll need an escort."
She rose from her chair and dropped over her face
a heavy veil which she had raised about her hat.
Godfrey opened the door for her and followed her
through. She shrank back from the mob which
charged down upon her as soon as she appeared on
the threshold, but Godfrey sprang forward quickly to
her rescue.
"Keep close to me," he said, and elbowed a way
through the crowd with no great gentleness, despite
a chorus of angry protests.
"It's Godfrey of the Record."
"Of course; he scents a corpse like a vulture."
"Well, he's no right to freeze us out!"
"Madame, we beg of you"
But Godfrey merely smiled grimly and kept straight
on, holding his companion firmly by the arm. In a
moment, they were down the stairs and at the door
of the cab.
"Miss Croydon," he said, leaning toward her as she
took her seat, "do me the favour to deny yourself to
all callers to-night."
"I shall," she agreed instantly.
"Thank you," and he stepped back, smiling, as the
driver whipped up his horse.
He smiled more broadly still when he saw three
other cabs following the first one.
"Now I call that enterprise!" he said to himself.
Then he chuckled again.



CHAPTER IV
TObe Janitor's Store
GODFREY glanced at his watch. It was after
nine o'clock. The rain had almost ceased, but
the wind was still high. He_turned back to the build-
ing and found the janitor sitting just inside the door.
He had endured the ordeal of inquisition by police and
reporters and was rather limp.
"May I use your telephone a moment?" asked God-
frey.
The janitor waved his hand toward the booth. God-
frey called up his office and asked that a photographer
and an artist be sent up at once. The readers of the
Record demanded illustrations with every story, and the
paper always did its best to please them, at whatever
cost of labour, ingenuity, or money. That done, God-
frey went back to the janitor and sat down beside him.
After all, he told himself, he had as yet only half the
story; he must get every detail from this man, and he
saw that it would be necessary to proceed delicately, for
his companion's temper was evidently badly ruffled.
He was a thick-set, choleric man, with a shortness of
breath which perhaps argued some weakness of the
heart. Godfrey studied him now for a moment before
he ventured to open fire.
"Well," he began, at last, "you look as though
those fellows had about worn you out, Mr."
24


The Janitor's Story 25
"Higgins is my name," said the janitor. "Simon
Higgins."
"Oh, yes; I remember now. I suppose they asked
you about a million questions?"
"A million!" echoed Higgins, with scorn. "Ten
million 'd be more like it! But it wasn't so much that,
as that they wouldn't believe me when I told 'em a
thing. They seemed t' think I was lyin'!"
Godfrey nodded sympathetically.
"That does get on a man's nerves," he agreed. "I
feel a little upset, myself—won't you try a smoke?"
Higgins took the cigar.
"It's agin th' rules," he said, "but I don't keer; I
need it," and he bit off the end.
They sat together for a moment in silence, listen-
ing to the tramp of feet in the halls overhead, the
opening and closing of doors, the subdued murmur
of voices. At the stair-foot, beyond the elevator, they
caught a glimpse, now and then, of a policeman pacing
back and forth.
"They're searchin' th' house," observed Higgins,
at last, with a grimace of disdain. "I turned th' keys
over t' them. Much they'll find!"
"Nobody there, eh?" It was not really a question;
it seemed more a sign of polite interest on Godfrey's
part.
"I ought t' know. I told 'em they wasn't nobody
there. Ain't I been here all evenin' 'cept fer that
minute I run acrost th' street? Nobody in nor out,
'cept th' girl—not since seven o'clock. That was about
th' time that there blamed Thompson come in, too
drunk t' stand. He'd never 'a' got home in th' world


26 The Janitor's Story
by hisself, but they was a feller with him, a-holdin' him
up."
Godfrey was listening with strained attention.
There were many questions he wished to ask, but he
dared not interrupt.
"Well, we got him upstairs atween us. An' then,
when I went through his pockets, I couldn't find his
key, an' I had t' come down an' git mine afore I could
git his door open. We laid him on his bed an' left
him there, a-snorin' like a hog. That feller who was
with him was certainly a good sort. He set down
here t' talk t' me a while—it was rainin' so hard he
couldn't go—an' he said he'd run acrost Thompson
down at Pete Magraw's place on Sixth Avenoo.
Thompson was treatin' everybody an' actin' like a
fool ginerally; then he got bad an' started t' clean out
th' saloon, an' Pete was goin' t' call a cop, but this fel-
ler said he'd bring him home—an' so he did."
Higgins stopped to take breath, and Godfrey ven-
tured to put a question.
"Did you know him?"
"No; I never seed him afore."
"What sort of a looking fellow was he?"
"A good-lookin' feller, well-dressed—no bum, I kin
tell y' that. He was short an' heavy-set, with a little
black moustache that turned up at th' ends."
Godfrey's heart gave a sudden leap—so Miss Croy-
don had told the truth, after all! 'She was not trying
to protect anybody. And the case was going to prove a
simple one—he had been reading a mystery into it that
it did not possess; that was always the danger with
your theorist, he told himself, a little bitterly—he was


The Janitor's Story 27
forever looking for hidden meanings, for abstruse
clews, for picturesque solutions, instead of following
the plainly evident, of accepting facts at their face
value. Well, Simmonds certainly would not make
that mistake; he would have little difficulty in finding
his man.
"And then what happened?" he asked. "I sup-
pose this fellow went away?"
"Oh, yes; he stayed here talkin' quite a while—
he started t' go onct or twice, but th' rain was too
bad. But about eight o'clock he said he couldn't stay
no longer, rain 'r no rain, an' was jest buttonin' up
his coat, when a cab drove up an' a woman got out.
She had a thick veil on, so's I couldn't see her face,
but from her style I judged she was a high-flyer. She
come up t' me an' she says, ' I want t' go t' apartment
fourteen—Mr. Thompson.' 'Madam,' says I, 'I
wouldn't if I was you.' 'Why?' she asked, quick-
like, 'ain't he there?' 'He's there,' says I, 'but he
ain't in no condition t' see a lady.' 'Never mind,'
says she, 'I'll go up.' 'All right,' says I. 'I'll be
back in a minute,' I added t' my friend. 'No,' he says,
'I can't wait; I must be goin',' an' he started toward th'
door. 'Well, good-night,' I says, an' stepped into th'
car an' started it.
"I showed her th' door o' fourteen, an' she knocked.
I was waitin' at th' elevator, fer I knowed Thompson
was too dead drunk t' hear her an' I'd have t' take her
down ag'in; when blessed if th' door didn't open an'
in she walked. Well, sir, I was so dumbfoundered I
couldn't believe my own eyes! But in she went, an' I
come on down, tryin' t' figger it out. It was mebbe ten


28 The Janitor's Story
minutes later that I heard a pistol-shot an' I knowed in
a minute what 'd happened. That drunken brute had
got too familiar, an' she'd put a bullet in him.
Though," he added, reflectively, "why, if she's
straight, she'd go t' his room at all is more'n I kin
see."
"Was there only one shot? " asked Godfrey.
"Only one," answered the janitor; " but it sounded
like a small cannon. It didn't come from no sech
little pop-gun as that which Mr. Simmonds picked up
in th' corner. I rushed up th' stairs an' threw open
th' door"
"Wasn't it locked?"
"No; an' that's funny, too," he added, "fer I re-
member hearin' the lock snap after th' girl went in.
Somebody must 'a' throwed it back ag'in. Mebbe th'
girl did it, tryin' t' git out, an' Thompson got a-hold
of her an' then she let him have it."
Godfrey nodded, with an appreciation seemingly
very deep.
"That's it, no doubt," he said. "I see you're a
close reasoner, Mr. Higgins."
"Why," said Higgins, with a smile of self-satisfac-
tion, "I allers have been able t' put two an' two
t'gether. They's one thing, though, I can't explain.
As I was rushin' up th' steps, I heard th' openin' an7
shuttin' of a door."
"Ah," said Godfrey thoughtfully. "And there was
no one in the hall?"
"Not a soul; not a soul in sight."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Sure! O' course I am. There's a light in th'


The Janitor's Story ±9
hall—an', anyway, they ain't no place anybody could
hide."
"He might have gone into one of the other rooms,
mightn't he?"
"They was all locked—I'm certain o' that."
Godfrey took a thoughtful puff or two.
"It was th' girl shot him—y' kin bank on that,"
added Higgins, with emphasis.
"But then," objected Godfrey, "you said the
report you heard couldn't have come from her pis-
tol."
Higgins gasped and choked, staring wide-eyed.
"Why, that's so!" he cried. "That's so! I never
thought o' that! Mebbe there is a damn scoundrel
hidin' 'round here some'rs," and he glanced excitedly
up and down the hall.
"The police will find him if there is," said Godfrey
reassuringly. "What happened after you reached the
room?"
"Well," continued Higgins, quieting down a little,
but still keeping one eye over his shoulder, "as I
was sayin', I throwed open th' door, an' there was th'
girl leanin' agin th' wall an' Thompson on th' floor
with a big blood-spot on his shirt-front. I jest give
one look at 'em an' then t went down th' steps three
at a time an' over t' th' station. I tell you, it purty
nigh done me up."
He was interrupted by a tramp of feet that came
down the stairs. It was Simmonds and the coroner,
closely attended by the crowd of reporters, who im-
mediately surrounded Godfrey, in threatening admira-
tion.


30 The Janitor's Story
"How did you happen to be here?" demanded
Rankin of the Planet.
"Just luck," explained Godfrey, looking around the
group with a pleasant smile.
"Does it mean another scoop?"
"Oh, no; not at all! I dare say you fellows know
more about it now than I do."
"Oh, of course we do!" assented Rankin drily,
amid derisive laughter.
"At least," Godfrey added, "Mr. Goldberg has
all the facts and is probably willing to help you
out."
"Yes," agreed the coroner; "but it's getting late,
and I'm in a hurry—I'll give you ten minutes at my
office," and he started toward the door.
"All right," said Rankin; "come on, boys," and
they trooped out of the building together.
Simmonds waited until the last of them had dis-
appeared.
"Well, we searched the house," he began.
"Nobody there?" asked Godfrey.
"Not a living soul. I didn't really expect to find any-
body; but we went through every room—even to the
suites which are occupied."
Higgins opened his mouth suddenly; then as sud-
denly closed it.
"Did you find the doors all locked?"
"Every one; the hall windows bolted on the inside
and the trap in the roof hooked in place. There's only
one way our man could get out—that was by the front
door yonder," and Simmonds looked sharply at the
janitor.


r-
'•
—(.
_. -— >
The Janitor's Story 31
Iliggins grew red in the face.
"I ain't got nothin' more t' say!" he burst out
explosively. "You'll be sayin' I did it, next!"
"Oh, no," retorted Simmonds coolly, "you didn't
do it. But I'm not quite sure you've told us all you
know."
Higgins sprang from his chair, fairly foaming at
the mouth with rage, but Simmonds calmly disre-
garded him.
"I've left a man on guard in fourteen," he said.
"Goldberg wants to bring his jury around in the
morning to look at things. Here's your keys," and
he handed the jingling ring back to the janitor.
"There's a man coming up from the office to take
a flash-light of it," said Godfrey. "No objection to
that, I guess?"
"No; that's all right. Come around in the morn-
ing to talk it over. I think I'll have some news for
you," and he went on out into the street.
Higgins sat down again, still nursing his wrath.
"Did y' hear him?" he demanded. "Why, he as
good as called me a liar!"
"Oh, you mustn't mind him," said Godfrey sooth-
ingly. "It's his business to be suspicious. He doesn't
really suspect you."
"Well, they ain't no cause t' suspect me—I ain't
done nothin'," returned the janitor; then he looked
meditatively at his keys, which he still held in his
hand. "Funny," he murmured; "funny. I don't
know when they went out."
Godfrey said nothing, but contemplated him through
half-closed eyes.


32 The Janitor's Story
,
At that instant the street door opened and a man
and woman entered.
"There they come, now!" cried Higgins, spring-
ing to his feet. "Good-evenin', Mr. Tremaine."
"Good-evening,'' returned the stranger, in a voice
singularly rich and pleasant.
"I was jest a-sayin' t' my friend here," added the
janitor, "that I hadn't seen y' go out."
Godfrey, for an instant, found himself gazing into
a pair of the keenest eyes he had ever encountered.
"You wished to see me?" asked Tremaine.
"Oh, no, no," interrupted Higgins; "but th' p'lice
was goin' through th' buildin'"
"The police?"
"Oh, I fergot—you don't know—that man Thomp-
son's been murdered—he had th' soot right acrost th'
hall from you."
"Murdered!" echoed Tremaine. "Murdered!
Why, that's terrible! Who did it? How did it hap-
pen?"
Higgins retold the story with some unction, evi-
dently enjoying his listener's horror. But Godfrey
did not even glance at him. He was gazing—perhaps
a shade too intently for politeness—at Mrs. Tremaine.
And, indeed, she was a woman to hold any man's
eyes . . .
Tremaine drew a deep breath when the story was
finished.
"The house has been searched?" he asked. "The
scoundrel couldn't be hidden"
"Oh, no," Higgins assured him; "th' p'lice went
all through it—even through your rooms."


The Janitor's Story 33
"I'm glad of that—then we can sleep in peace."
Godfrey rather wondered that Mrs. Tremaine took
no part in the discussion. She stood listening
apathetically, not even noticing his stare.
"When they told me they'd gone through your
rooms," added Higgins, "I was kind o' surprised.
I thought you was at home t' night."
"And that we stayed in our rooms during all that
row?" queried Tremaine, smiling. "I suppose there
was a row?"
His eyes sought Godfrey's again; then he turned
back to Higgins, evidently disturbed.
"You mean we may have to prove an alibi?" he
went on quickly. "Oh, we can do that. We left
the house just after seven o'clock—that was the first
that I knew fourteen was occupied—I could see a
light through the transom. I didn't see you anywhere
about."
"Oh, now I understand," cried Higgins; " that was
while we was puttin' Thompson t' bed. You didn't
know him, I guess, sir?"
"No—as I said, I thought fourteen was empty."
"He's only been here three days," explained the
janitor, " an' he was out most o' th' time, tankin' up."
"Oh, he was that1 sort, was he?" and Tremaine
tossed away the end of his cigarette. "He got his
deserts, then,, no doubt. Come, Cecily," he added,
turning to his wife.
"Elevator, sir?" asked Higgins.
"No; we've been sitting all evening at the vaude-
ville," ynd they went on up the stair, leaving God-
frey staring after them.


CHAPTER V
StmmonOs Snares a .IBfrO
"TTTELL," said Godfrey, sinking back in his
\ chair, " who are they, anyway?"
"Mr. an' Mrs. Tremaine—that's all I know. But
they're mighty nice people—he is, anyway—I don't
see much o' her—'cept when she rings fer me t'
tell me they ain't enough heat."
"How long have they been here?"
"About three weeks—an' he's a gentleman. That
there Thompson, now—I was leery about lettin' him
have th' rooms in th' first place—I didn't like his looks.
But he offered t' pay in advance. I was goin' t' give
him notice in th' mornin'. -Th' agent won't stand fer
no sech goin's-on."
"Was he in the habit of getting drunk?"
"Oh, he's been comfortable tanked ever since he's
been here—I could smell it on him—but never so bad
as t'-night. We can't have that here—our other peo-
ple wouldn't stand it."
"Are all the apartments occupied?"
"No—y' see, they've been remodellin' th' house,
tearin' it all apart, turnin' it inside out. It used t'
be a hotel an' a damn poor one. It wasn't makin' any
money, so th' guy that owns it thought he'd turn it int'
an apartment house. Th' men that was a-workin'
on it got three soots done, an' then around come a
34


Simmonds Snares a Bird 35
walkin' delegate with a red nose an' a big black mous-
tache, an' ordered 'em out on a strike. Them three
that's done are all full, though. Thompson had one;
Tremaine an' his wife's got another, an' two young
sports what 're lettin' on t' study art 's got th' third
—away up at th' top with a skylight."
Godfrey smoked on placidly. He suspected thatt
Higgins had something more to tell, and he saw that
the only way to get it was to wait with what patience
he could. He was in no hurry; besides, he wanted
time to think. He had not yet recovered from that
shock of realising how he had gone wandering after
a will-o'-the-wisp of his own creation. He had fancied
himself astute . . .
The door opened; he heard Higgins utter a sharp
cry of amazement. He looked up to see Simmonds
—and with him another man, short, heavy-set, with
a dark moustache; He caught the gleam of steel at
his wrists.
Higgins was on his feet, staring.
"So you recognize him, do you?" asked Simmonds,
his face shining with triumph. "I thought I couldn't
be wrong. I got him quicker 'n I expected, Godfrey;
I didn't even have to hunt for him. Of course, you
know him?"
"How do you do, Mr. Godfrey?" said the prisoner
politely. "Oh, yes, Mr. Godfrey knows me—he
knows me too well to think I'd be mixed up in any-
thing like this!"
"How are you, Jimmy?" returned Godfrey. "No,
,1 didn't suppose"
"Of course not!" said Jimmy, with scorn. "I
.;>.:*•'


36 Simmonds Snares a Bird
wouldn't put a man out—that ain't my line." And,
indeed, it wasn't, for Jimmy the Dude had gained his
reputation as an expert manipulator of combination
locks.
The detective had listened with a satisfied smile.
"Higgins," he said, " this is the fellow who brought
Thompson home, ain't it?"
"Yes, sir," responded the janitor inarticulately.
"This," observed Jimmy, with fine indignation, "is
what a man gets for doing a good action. I found
that cove over at Magraw's just spoilin' for trouble,
and I took him in tow and brought him home. Now
you say I put him out! I'd better have kept my hands
off!"
"We all know you've got a kind heart, Jimmy,"
retorted Simmonds. "Did he have anything in his
pockets besides that key?"
"What key?"
"The key to his room; of course you took that."
"Of course I did!" said Jimmy, with deep irony.
"Why, of course I did! You'll find it on me."
"Oh, no, we won't," returned Simmonds, still smil-
ing. "I've a much better opinion of you than that,
Jimmy."
"Why, look here," cried Jimmy, seemingly deeply
exasperated, "what 'd I want t' put him out for?
Did he have any dough?"
"You probably know more about that than we doj"
answered Simmonds, with meaning.
"You mean I went through him? Well, I didn't!
But if I did, what 'd I want t' come back and kill him
for?"


Simmonds Snares a Bird 37
"Of course," murmured Simmonds, gazing medi-
tatively at the ceiling, "it's quite impossible that he'd
drop a word about the pile he had salted down in his
room."
"Oh, hell! "said Jimmy. "A bum like that! But
come; let's see how far you'll go—of course you've
got it figgered out! How did I work it? Mr. Hig-
gins, here, saw me leave the building"
"No, he didn't, Jimmy," corrected Simmonds
gently. "He only saw you start for the street door.
But as soon as the elevator started, you took to the
stairs."
Jimmy threw up his hands with a fine gesture of
despair.
"Oh, you've got it all fixed," he cried. "You'll
railroad me to the chair, if you can. I suppose you've
got somebody that'll swear they saw me do it?"
"Yes," agreed Simmonds quietly, "we have."
Jimmy paused to look at him and turned a little
pale when he saw he was in earnest. He began to
realise that perhaps he was really in a tight place.
"Come, Mr. Simmonds," he said, at last, " you don't
mean that!"
"You ought to'know. I'll have you identified to-
morrow."
"Identified?"
"Yes—by the woman who saw you kill Thomp-
son."
"A woman is it?" asked Jimmy helplessly.
"Mebbe she's already been so obligin' as to give you
my name?"
"No; but she gave us a description of you—a


38 Simmonds Snares a Bird
mighty good one. I spotted you as soon as I heard
Higgins's story."
"So Mr. Higgins had a tale to tell, too, did he?"
asked the cracksman, with a somewhat venomous
glance at the janitor. "Was he also on the scene?
Or mebbe he was lookin' through the transom?"
"No cause to get funny, Jimmy. You won't feel
that way after I get through with you."
"Oh, won't I? We all know you're a bright man,
Mr. Simmonds!"
"Bright or not," said Simmonds complacently, " I've
got you. Your record's against you, Jimmy."
"That's it—giye a dog a bad name. See here, Mr.
Godfrey, you don't believe I'd be such a damned fool
as to put a man out with a woman watchin' me do
it?"
"1 don't know what to think," answered Godfrey
slowly. "It doesn't seem quite like you, Jimmy."
"Like me! I should say not! And if I was crazy
enough to do a thing like that, would I go back to
Pete Magraw's and hang around there, waitin' for
the police to come after me? If you think I'd do a
thing like that, you'd better send me to Bellevue and
be done with it!"
"I was expecting that argument, Jimmy," said Sim-
monds, still smiling. "You're a deep one!"
Jimmy threw up his hands again.
"Of course!" he cried. "You win; I lose! If
I'd run away, it 'd be a confession of guilt; if I stay, it's
because I'm a deep un! Oh, it's lots of justice I'll
get! Well, go ahead. Go ahead and prove it! I'll
prove an alibi."
:


Simmonds Snares a Bird 39
"Oh, I know you've got that all' fixed, Jimmy," re-
torted Simmonds. "I expected that—I knew you'd
think of that, right away. Who'll swear to it?
Magraw?"
Jimmy's face was growing flushed; his temper was
getting the better of him, which, perhaps, was just
what Simmonds wanted.
"Magraw got a share of that last deal, didn't he?"
he continued imperturbably. "Naturally, he's grate-
ful. But you ought to have waited a little, Jimmy—
you really ought. When was it you got back?"
"Yesterday," answered Jimmy sullenly. He evi-
dently realised the danger of losing his temper and
managed to control himself.
"And after an absence of two years! Come,
Jimmy," pursued Simmonds persuasively, "what did
you do it for? Was it a plant?"
Jimmy relieved his feelings by some vigorous swear-
ing.
"I didn't do it, and you know it!" he shouted.
"You know it! Only you've got t' do somethin'—
you've got t' make a showin' so's th' people '11 think
they're gittin' somethin' fer their money when th'
papers puff you. I know th' game! Oh, come," and
he stopped himself abruptly. "What's th' use? Are
you goin' t' lock me up?"
"I'm afraid I'll have to," said Simmonds regret-
fully.
"Then, for God's sake, do it. When's this identifica-
tion-long-lost-orphan scene goin' t' take place?"
"To-morrow afternoon at two o'clock. Don't you
feel a little nervous about it, Jimmy?"


40 Simmonds Snares a Bird
r
"Not a damn bit!" retorted Jimmy. "But say
—you might tell me her name—I'd like t' know who
this posy is that says I did it. While she was about
it, I don't see why she didn't give you my address."
"I don't think she has the honour of your acquaint-
ance, Jimmy. You see, she doesn't move in just your
circle. I warn you her word will count more with a
jury than yours and Magraw's together."
"Well, who is she?" repeated Jimmy impatiently.
"She's Miss Croydon—sister-in-law of Dickie Del-
roy."
The prisoner's mouth fell open, his colour
changed . . .
"What!" he gasped. "What!"
Then his jaws snapped shut.
"Well," inquired Simmonds, "what 've you got to
say?"
"Nothin'," answered Jimmy sullenly. "Not a
damn word. Lock me up, if you're goin' to."
Simmonds laughed.
"All right; I thought I could take some of the
ginger out of you."
"Lock me up, will you?" repeated Jimmy fiercely.
"Come, now; lock me up."
Simmonds shrugged his shoulders and turned to-
ward the door.
Godfrey, looking at the prisoner, noted his ruffled
brow and troubled eyes. Plainly, Jimmy wanted an
opportunity to arrange his thoughts—but what was
there in the mere mention of Miss Croydon's name
that should so disturb him? What connection could
there be between them?


CHAPTER VI
from a IWew angle
IT was long past midnight when Godfrey dropped
from the top of the Record building in the ex-
press elevator and walked over to the station of the
Elevated for the trip uptown. The story was written
— it would be the feature of the morning's paper, and
it would be illustrated " exclusively "— but he was not
wholly satisfied with it. He had accepted the explana-
tion given by Miss Cray don, yet he felt instinctively
that it did not explain — that there was much below the
surface of which he had caught only the faintest
glimpse and which he was utterly unable to decipher.
He did not at all believe — and he took care that the
readers of the Record should have no cause to believe —
that Miss Croydon was in any way directly connected
with the crime. Indeed, there was every evidence that
she had, in that particular, spoken the truth.
And in the other particulars? Well, it was hard to
separate the wheat from the chaff; hard to tell where
truth left off and invention began. Some founda-
tion of truth the story must have had, or it would
not have been told so glibly nor appear so plausible.
Indeed, in two details, it had been confirmed by other
evidence — they had found the pipe with which the
blow was struck and the bullet from her pistol em-
bedded in the door.
Below it all, underlying it all, the foundation upon
41


42 Light from a New Angle
which the mystery rested was Miss Croydon's motive
in making such an appointment, and, above all, in
keeping it. That was a thing utterly opposed to her
social training, to her maidenly instinct—it was wild,
foolish, questionable. She would feel this more
acutely than a man could, and yet it had not been suffi-
cient to deter her, to hold her back. What resist-
less motive was it that had urged her on? What was
the secret contained in the papers she had hoped to
get from Thompson? Godfrey caught a dim glimpse
of something dark, repulsive, terrible. What was the
secret? Ah, he would have known, if Goldberg had
only been a moment later!
As to Jimmy the Dude, Godfrey had maintained a
careful reticence, while commending Simmonds's
promptness in arresting him. Simmonds, no doubt,
believed him guilty; but then Simmonds lacked imagi-
nation. It might be, Godfrey thought a little savagely,
that he himself possessed too much of it, but the
theory which that grizzled veteran had built up so
adroitly did riot in the least satisfy him. It was too
prosaic, too matter-of-fact; reasonable, perhaps, but
not convincing. It reduced the mystery to a mere
sordid crime. Godfrey wanted colour in his mysteries
—and right there, he reminded himself again, was his
great weakness. Yet Jimmy's manner had not been
that of a guilty man; to be sure, it had changed at
the last moment, at the mention of Miss Croydon's
name. Why? What was this wide-stretching net of
intrigue, woven in the dark, involving alike Fifth
Avenue and the "Tenderloin "-—the Delroy mansion,
the Marathon, Magraw's gilded saloon?


Light from a New Angle 43
Pondering this puzzle, with an intensity that had
something poignant and personal in it, he would have
been carried past his station but for the guard, who
knew him, and who touched him on the arm. He went
mechanically down the stair and turned up toward
the avenue. Still mechanically, he mounted to his
rooms and opened the door. A man who had been
sitting in a chair before the fire sprang up as he en-
tered.
"Why, Jack !" cried Godfrey, waking suddenly, and
he held out his hand with that fine heartiness of greet-
ing which is sometimes seen between men. Then,
as he caught the other's eyes, his face changed. "Sit
down," he said gently, "till I get out of these damp
togs. Then we'll have a talk."
He disappeared into the inner room, while the
younger man sank back into his chair and gazed
gloomily into the fire. Even strained by emotion as
it was at this moment, his face was worth looking at
—clear-cut, square-jawed, alert—such as one has come,
of late years, to associate with the typical college-bred
American. But the face was more than merely hand-
some—it was open, ingenuous, winning—and look-
ing at it, one could understand without further ex-
planation how it happened that Jonn Tolbert Drys-
dale had so many friends and so few enemies.
Godfrey was back in a moment, drew up another
chair, and got out tobacco and pipes—for Drysdale a
glossy briar, consecrated to his service; for himself,
a meerschaum of a deep and tender brown, bespeaking
yerirs of loving usage. Not until the pipes were going
nicely did Godfrey speak.


44 Light from a New Angle
"You've heard about it, then?" he asked.
"I know that something terrible has happened,"
said Drysdale, a little hoarsely. "I don't know what—
it's beyond imagining, even—at least, beyond my poor
brain. Miss Croydon told me to come to you"
"Ah!" commented Godfrey. "Did she do that?"
"Yes—she said you could tell me all I wished to
know."
"Where did you see her?"
"At Mrs. Delroy's. I came straight here from there."
"So you were at Mrs. Delroy's?" and Godfrey
mused for a moment, with eyes intent on the fire.
"But come, we'll never get the thing straightened
out this way. Let's begin at the beginning. Tell
me what happened at Mrs. Delroy's and then I'll
fill out the story, if I can. Let me have every detail
you can remember."
Drysdale waited a moment to be sure of his self-
control.
"I called at Mrs. Delroy's about nine o'clock," he
began, "and asked for Miss Croydon"
"Wait a minute," Godfrey interrupted. "I want
to ask you a question, which you mustn't be offended
at. I'm asking because I'll have to know if I'm really
to help you. Are you and Miss Croydon engaged to
be married?"
Again a minute passed before the answer came.
"Yes," said Drysdale huskily, at last.
Godfrey silently held out his hand and gave his
companion's fingers a warm pressure.
"Now go on," he said.
"I was shown into the library," continued the other,


Light from a New Angle 45
"while the maid took up my card. The room was in
darkness, save for the light of the fire. The win-
dows, you know, look out upon the street. Instead
of sitting down, I wandered toward them and in a mo-
ment saw someone standing behind the curtains. My
first thought—don't laugh at me—was that it was
Miss Croydon looking for me, for she knew that I was
coming, and I strode to the curtains and threw them
back, uttering I know not what nonsense. You can
imagine how abashed I was when Mrs. Delroy wheeled
around upon me with a face so white and distorted
that I scarcely knew her.
"' Oh, I beg your pardon,' I cried, seeing how I
had startled her.
"For a moment she didn't seem to know me.
'"What is it?' she asked in a hoarse whisper.
'What has happened?'
"' My dear Mrs. Delroy, you really must pardon
me,' I repeated. 'I'm awfully sorry I frightened you.
I took you for your sister.'
"She stared at me a minute longer in a queer way;
then her face brightened and she smiled and held out
her hand.
"' Oh, how do you do, Mr. Drysdale?' she said, but
her voice was even yet a little tremulous. 'Yes, you
did startle me. Isn't it a fearful night?'
"' Indeed it is,' I agreed. 'I had quite a time
getting here.'
"' You came to see Grace?' she asked, with a glance
over her shoulder down into the street.
"' Yes,' I said; 'she's expecting me, I've sent up
my card. I told my man not to wait,' I added, think-


46 Light from a New Angle
ing it was for that she had looked out of the window.
'It's too bad a night to keep either man or beast out-
doors. He's to come back at eleven—I dare say Grace
will put up with me till then.'
"She hesitated an instant, looking at me in a way I
did not understand. Just then the maid came to the
door, but seeing me with Mrs. Delroy, went away
again.
"' I fear she'll not be able to see you to-night, Mr.
Drysdale,' she said, at last. 'She's not been feeling
well since dinner. She's lying down now, and I think
she's asleep.'
"' Oh, well, then,' I said,' I won't disturb her. It's
nothing serious, I hope?'
"' Not at all; merely a little indisposition. Shall
I let you out?'
"There was something in the last words—a little
too much eagerness, perhaps—which arrested my at-
tention. They didn't sound quite like Mrs. Delroy,
for you know, Godfrey, she's usually the sweetest,
gentlest, most hospitable woman in the world—the
very last person who would think of chasing a man
out into a storm. I don't know why it was, but some-
how the thought flashed through my head that she
was deceiving me, that she wasn't telling the truth,
that she wanted to get rid of me. I've got a streak of
obstinacy in me that took fire in a moment.
"' Isn't there a chance that Miss Croydon may get
better aftei*a while and come down?' I asked.
"Mrs. Delroy shook her head decidedly.
"'I'm afraid not. It's a nervous headache, you
see. It will last all night, probably.'


Light from a New Angle 47
"'Is she subject to nervous headaches?' I asked,
playing for time. 'I'm sorry to hear that. She
doesn't in the least look it.'
"' Oh, no,' she answered quickly, 'she's not at all
subject to them; but occasionally, when she's over-
worked herself'
"The sentence trailed off into nothingness. I saw
that she wasn't thinking of what she was saying, and
when she glanced down into the street again, I began
to get an inkling of the real state of affairs. I was
a little ashamed of the part I was playing, but I de-
termined to brazen it out. If Miss Croydon had gone
out alone on a night like this, I had a right to know
it. Why should she make a mystery of it? What was
.there in her errand that needed to be concealed from
me?
"Mrs. Delroy was looking at me anxiously. Finally
she took the bull by the horns.
"' I really must t be going upstairs,' she said.
'You'll excuse me?'
"' Certainly. Is Mr. Delroy here?'
"' No; he's out of town to-day,' and she made an-
other movement toward the door.
"I didn't see how I was going to hang on any
longer without being absolutely rude; I gave it up in
despair. After all, I could wait outside the house.
Then, suddenly, I realised that I was acting like a cad
—I had no right to play the spy—but there was some-
thing back of it all—some mystery—which worried
and puzzled me. But perhaps it was only my fancy—
why should Mrs. Delroy deceive me? I was playing
the fool—I had no right to suspect ...


48 Light from a New Angle
"And just then, Godfrey, as I glanced out of the
window, I saw a cab dash up to the house and a
woman get out of it. I knew her on the instant, and
I shouldn't care to go through another such moment
of doubt and suspicion and agony. For it was worse
than I had thought. She had not used her sister's
carriage—then, at least, she would have been in the
care of a trusted coachman—she had hired a cab"
"Yes," said Godfrey drily. "The Delroy carriage
would have been too conspicuous; besides, she wanted
to keep her errand a secret, even from the servants."
"Do you mean"
"No matter; go ahead with your story, then I'll
tell you mine."
Drysdale was shaking convulsively, but he managed
to go on.
"As I said, I saw a cab drive up and a woman get
out. She ran up the steps, the door opened, and Miss
Croydon came into the room. Even in the dim light,
I could see how white her face was.
"' Grace!' cried Mrs. Delroy, stepping forward at
sight of her. 'Grace!'
"Miss Croydon turned to her and held out her arms.
"' Yes, I've seen him, Edith,' she said, in a voice
that I shall never forget. 'I should have taken your
advice. I should not have gone.'
"' You shall not go again, dear!'
"' No,' agreed the other, 'not again!'
"There was something in her tone that caught her
sister's ear.
"' What is it, Grace?' she demanded fiercely. 'Tell
me!'


Light from a New Angle 49
"' It's worse than either of us thought—he's dead,
Edith!'"
Drysdale paused a moment. His voice was shaking
so that he could not go on. He wiped his forehead
mechanically, with trembling hand.
"Godfrey," he said, at last, "I tell you my own
heart stood still at those words, uttered in such a tone
—there was no mistaking her meaning—and it was a
moment before I could see clearly enough to discern
Mrs. Delroy's look of horror as she stared up at her
sister.
"' Not that!' she cried. 'Not on your hands! Oh,
why did you go ?, Why did you go? What have you
done?'
"She swayed, clutched blindly at the air, and would
have fallen had not her sister caught her in her arms.
That brought my senses back, and I sprang out from
the shadow of the curtains.
"' Let me help you, Grace,' I said, as calmly as I
could.
"She turned upon me a face dead but for the awful
horror of the eyes looking out from it.
"'You!' she whispered. 'You! You here!'
"' Certainly,' I said. 'Weren't you expecting me,
Grace?'
"She controlled herself by a mighty effort; I saw
how much stronger she was than her sister.
"' Oh, yes,' she said, more quietly. 'I'd forgotten.
You see, Edith is ill. Will you ring?'
"I rang the bell and in a moment Mrs. Delroy was
carried away. Miss Croydon lingered a moment.
"' I must go, John,' she said, with something like her


G
CHAPTER VII
B $limp0e at a Skeleton
ODFREY smoked for a moment in silence. The
story he had just heard needed digestion. It
shed a new light upon the problem—a light at the
same time illuminating and confusing—a light, in-
deed, which served only to disclose new depths of
mystery. So Miss Croydon's story had been true in
another particular. Her sister had been cognisant of
her errand; she had not approved of it; she had tried
to hold her back; but the stronger nature had over-
ridden the weaker one. The elder woman had tried
to shield the younger one, had even lied for her—
she had known, then, that the errand was one that
could not be explained; she, with her experience of
the world, had realised, perhaps more strongly than
her sister, its compromising nature. What was the
secret which those papers guarded?
Drysdale hitched impatiently in his chair.
"Out with it, Jim," he said. "Don't try to soften
it—I can stand it, I guess. The only thing I can't
stand is this suspense."
"I'm not going to soften it," Godfrey assured him,
and he rapidly outlined the tragedy of the evening,
while his companion listened with horrified attention.
Godfrey watched him as he sat staring into the fire
with haggard face.
;
51


52 A Glimpse at a Skeleton
"Don't make it blacker than it is, Jack," he said,
at last. "Personally, I don't believe they've got the
right man, but I'm sure of one thing—Miss Croydon
had no hand in it."
"Oh, I know she didn't!" Drysdale burst out. "It
isn't that. Don't you see—it isn't that! But what
took her to that house? Why should she go there
alone, at night, to meet a drunken brute? Answer
me that, Jim Godfrey. I don't care a hang for all the
rest."
Godfrey's face hardened as he turned back to the
fire. That was the very question to which he himself
had been striving vainly all the evening to find an
answer.
"Of course, Jack," he said slowly, " I can't tell you
just what her whole, purpose was. I don't know the
secret of the papers she hoped to get—it's a family
secret—and none of our business. But one thing's cer-
tain—whatever it is, there's no cause for you to worry
about it."
"And why not?"
"Why, don't you see, Jack? If Mrs. Delroy knew
her sister's errand, it could have been no questionable
one—no vulgar intrigue—nothing that would touch
her in any degrading way—probably nothing that
would touch her personally at all. One doesn't con-
fide things of that sort to one's sister, nor ask advice
about them. To be sure, she didn't heed the advice;
but at the very worst, all she's been guilty of is an in-
discretion. That, I think, any man would be glad to
forgive."
Drysdale drew a deep breath of relief.


A Glimpse at a Skeleton 53
"Of course," he assented quickly.
"And that," continued Godfrey earnestly, "is all
you need to know. I believe she tedls the exact truth
when she says she tried to save Thompson's life.
Therefore, you may go back to her to-morrow with-
out the need of asking a single question. Depend
upon it, she'll explain it all in time. Show her now
that you trust her—that's the least you can do—yes,
and the most you can do to help her."
"I will," agreed Drysdale instantly. "You've taken
a great load off my heart, old man."
"You hadn't faith enough. Why, one needs only
to look at her to see that she's above suspicion.
I don't think you quite appreciate her. Most men
would be glad to get a woman like that on any
terms."
Drysdale sat for a moment staring into the fire.
"I do appreciate her," he said slowly, " through and
through. I'm appalled at the wonder of it, sometimes,
that she should really care for a fellow like me. I'm
not worthy"
Godfrey was walking nervously about the room.
"No, you're not," he broke in abruptly. "Mighty
few men would be. Luckily, women don't stop to look
at that side of it. Besides, she'll help you, if you really
try to live up to her"
"I intend to," said Drysdale humbly.
Godfrey started to say something more, then shook
himself impatiently.
"Her appearance will help her," he added in another
tone, "when she's called before the coroner—she'll
impress the jury in just the right way."


54 A Glimpse at a Skeleton
Drysdale got up quickly.
"She'll have to appear before the coroner?"
"Of course—she's practically the only witness.
Your place is with her—more especially since you say
Delroy himself is out of town."
"Thank you," and Drysdale took up his hat.
"You've helped me a lot," and with another warm
hand-clasp, he was gone.
Godfrey turned back into the room and sat down
again before the fire. Drysdale's story had, indeed,
furnished him with new food for thought. So it was
a family secret that Grace Croydon was guarding.
She had spoken the truth—she had scorned to lie. A
secret that affected the family honour. That was con-
ceivable—it furnished the only possible solution of the
mystery. He felt that he could reconstruct the drama
with some degree of plausibility. He smiled grimly
as he drew a pad of paper toward him and got out his
pencil. Like all good tragedies, it should be in five
acts.
ACT I.
"»
The Croydon family possesses a skeleton, and one
Thompson holds the key to the closet in the shape of
certain papers. He threatens to use them, to display
the skeleton to the world. He writes to Miss Croydon,
or perhaps to Mrs. Delroy, demanding a price for his
papers. Mrs. Delroy is for letting him do his worst;
Miss Croydon, less sensible (also perhaps more sensi-
tive), is for trying to buy him off. She overrides her
sister, makes an appointment with Thompson, disre-


A Glimpse at a Skeleton 55
garding the risk she runs of compromising herself.
(The skeleton, then, must be a particularly grisly
one!)
ACT II.
Miss Croydon goes to the appointment alone, but
with the precaution of taking a pistol with her.
(Query—Was she accustomed to using a pistol ?) She
is admitted by Thompson, who has barely awakened
from a drunken sleep: A ten-minute parley follows,
during which he states his demands. She, perhaps,
finds them excessive, impossible to comply with, and
tells him so. He grows angry, abusive, perhaps at-
tempts some violence. She produces her pistol, and
at that moment a man steals behind him from the
inner room and strikes him down. Then, standing
over him, he deliberately shoots him through the heart.
Miss Croydon, perceiving his intention, instinctively
raises her own pistol and fires at him. The shots
are simultaneous, which explains the single loud re-
port heard by the janitor. The murderer calmly opens
the door and escapes.
ACT III.
Mrs. Delroy is at her library window, anxiously
awaiting her sister's return. She has been absent
much longer than she expected to be, and Mrs. Del-
roy is growing alarmed. Enter Jack Drysdale, the
sister's affianced. Mrs. Delroy tries desperately to
get rid of him, even lies to do so, in the effort to pre-


56 A Glimpse at a Skeleton
vent the discovery of her sister's absence. As he is
about to go, Miss Croydon returns, sees her sister,
and tells her that the interview has led to Thompson's
death. Mrs. Delroy jumps to the conclusion that her
sister has herself committed the crime and collapses.
Miss Croydon then, for the first time, seeing Drys-
dale, warns him that she is compromised. Exit.
Drysdale rushes off in search of an explanation.
(That Mrs. Delroy should for an instant believe her
sister guilty of such a crime argues that the skeleton
is so horridly repulsive that only Thompson's death
could bury it effectually—which, of course, is plausible,
since he doubtless knew the contents of the papers.)
"There," said Godfrey, laying down his pencil,
"after the recognised fashion, three acts are devoted
to deepening the complications: two must now be de-
voted to clearing them away. That's the work for the
future. Let us see what we have to do."
He took up the pencil again and turned to a new
sheet.
I.—To establish the identity of the murdered man.
This may be done by a more careful examination of
his belongings. The callosities on his hands, his
weather-beaten face, the cut of his clothes all indicate
that he was a sailor. I should say that he had seen
better days, but had been brought down in the world
by drink. (Note—In the morning, send a man along
the water-front with his photograph.)
2.—To disinter the skeleton. This, of course, will
render necessary an examination of the history of the


A Glimpse at a Skeleton 57
Croydons, and should not be difficult. (Note—Ask
Delaney to look up the family.)
3.—To discover the murderer.
"This last," continued Godfrey, gazing contem-
platively at his paper, "is, of course, the most
important; indeed, it is the object of the other two.
Now, let us see what we know about this mysterious
individual," and he turned another page.
I.—He must have been in apartment fourteen before
Miss Croydon's arrival, otherwise he could not have
gained access to the bedroom unseen. (This shuts
out Jimmy the Dude.)
2.—Therefore he was a friend or at least an ac-
quaintance of Thompson's, since it is impossible that
he could have been there without Thompson's knowl-
edge.
3.—But if Thompson consented to his overhearing
the interview, he must have expected some help from
him.
4.—Yet he was not in the apartment at seven o'clock
when Higgins put Thompson to bed.
5.—But Higgins says that no one entered after that
except Miss Croydon. (Higgins may, of course, be
mistaken.)
6.—Something which occurs during the interview
arouses the unknown's anger. He picks up a piece of
pipe (we must discover where he got it) and steals
out upon Thompson and knocks him down. If it was
merely to protect Miss Croydon, that would have
sufficed, but instead he coolly draws a pistol and kills


58 A Glimpse at a Skeleton
his victim. Then, knowing that the noise would
attract the janitor, he steps into the hall, hides some-
where, and, as Higgins rushes into the room, walks
down the stair and escapes.
7.—We have Miss Croydon's description of him.
Godfrey looked at his notes musingly.
"It's a tangled web," he said, at last. "A tangled
web—there's lots of threads that need straightening
out. But, except for that first point, it's not to be denied
that Jimmy the Dude fits in with all the particulars.
He was an acquaintance of Thompson, perhaps a
friend; if he stole the key, he could have entered the
rooms at any time; he's certainly capable of killing a
man, upon provocation. But the mystery is—what
could the provocation have been? To protect Miss
Croydon? But then, why kill Thompson? That
shooting of an unconscious man argues a ferocity
scarcely human. Robbery? But Jimmy nor any
other sane person would deliberately murder a man
under the eyes of a witness. Well, to-morrow will tell
the story—to-day, rather. If Miss Croydon identifies
him, that settles it—but I've a feeling that it will be
a long time before I can fill in the rest of the drama.
However, I'll keep these notes."
He was whistling softly to himself as he tore the
sheets from the pad. Somehow, the case no longer
harried and perplexed him as it had from the moment
he recognised Miss Croydon, cowering against the
wall in suite fourteen; a curious load was lifted from
him; she was not guilty, she had committed at most
only an indiscretion; she was free from stain. The


A Glimpse at a Skeleton 59
thought pleased him, elated him. He would lead the
pack far away from her—the papers, the suspicious
public. She should emerge unsmirched, even in the
least degree.
He folded the sheets and docketed them:
THE MARATHON MYSTERY,
A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.
Then he placed them carefully in a file case. They
were to confront him, before long, as an evidence of
his own insufficiency—so far from having witnessed
three acts of the tragedy, it was merely the prologue
which had been enacted before him.


CHAPTER VIII
Hbc ffoQ i&bfcftena
THE coroner's court was crowded, as it always
is at any hearing presenting features of morbid
or sensational interest, and Goldberg, with an inborn
love of the theatric, arranged his witnesses so as to
lead gradually to the climax, the denouement. He
put the janitor on the stand first, and then had Sim-
monds tell his story. Some medical testimony fol-
lowed as to the exact nature of Thompson's injuries,
and the bullet, which had been extracted, was put in
evidence — it was plainly much too large to have come
from Miss Croydon's pistol. Finally, Miss Croydon
herself was called. A little gasp of delicious excite-
ment ran through the crowd as she appeared at the
door of the witness room. Here was a titbit to touch
the palates of even the jaded police reporters.
Godfrey, looking at her as she came steadily for-
ward to the stand, felt his heart warm with admira-
tion. She seemed perfectly composed, and if not per-
fectly at ease, at least as nearly so as any woman of
her position could be in such a place. Godfrey was
pleased to see Drysdale in close attendance, and he
nodded to him encouragingly.
Miss Croydon told her story clearly and with an
accent of sincerity there was no doubting. It differed
in one detail from the story she had told the night be-
fore. Thompson, she said, had perceived the intruder
60


The Fog Thickens 61
and there had been a short, fierce struggle before he
fell under the blow of the pipe. He was not uncon-
scious, but was struggling to his feet again, when his
assailant shot him.
Jury, coroner, reporters listened with close atten-
tion. Godfrey watched her with a grim little smile
at her superb assurance, her perfect poise. Then he
glanced at the jury and smiled again as he noted their
seriously respectful faces. When she had finished,
Goldberg began a brief examination.
"That is not precisely the story you told last night,
Miss Croydon," he suggested.
"No," she said; "no—I was too startled, then, too
over-wrought to think quite clearly. This morning I
endeavoured to recall exactly what occurred."
"And you believe that you have succeeded?"
"Yes, sir; I am sure of it."
"You would say, then, I suppose, that the deceased
had been killed in self-defence."
"I am not familiar with the niceties of the law, sir,"
she answered steadily.
"But there was a struggle?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the deceased was endeavouring to inflict some
injury upon his adversary?"
"He was doing his best to do so, I should say, sir."
The coroner paused for a moment and glanced at
the jury, but none of them seemed disposed to ask
any questions. Then Goldberg made a sign to Sim-
monds. He left the room, but reappeared in a mo-
ment, leading in Jimmy the Dude.
Not until they were quite near did Miss Croydon


62 The Fog Thickens
perceive them; then, as her eyes met the prisoner's,
she half started from her chair, her face like marble.
As for Jimmy, Godfrey was astonished to perceive the
fascinated gaze he bent upon Miss Croydon. What
was the connection between them? Where could they
possibly have met? Was Jimmy guilty, after all?
Certainly Simmonds had no longer any doubt of it, to
judge by his beatific expression of countenance.
It was over in an instant—Miss Croydon gripped
back her self-control and the prisoner managed to re-
move his eyes from her; but Goldberg had perceived
their agitation, and the gaze he bent upon the witness
grew perceptibly more stern.
"Miss Croydon," he began, " you have described the
guilty man as short and heavy-set with a dark mous-
tache turning up at the ends. Look at the prisoner
before you—is he the man?"
"He is not," replied the witness in a firm voice and
without an instant's hesitation.
Jimmy was again watching her with expressive
eyes.
"You are sure?"
"Perfectly sure; there is little or no resemblance."
"You do not know the prisoner?"
"No, sir; I have never before seen him."
"He was talking with the janitor last night when
you entered the Marathon."
"I had on a heavy veil at the time and could not see
distinctly."
The answers came promptly, calmly. Goldberg
hesitated and glanced at Simmonds's crestfallen face.
Was he justified in pushing her further? He glanced


The Fog Thickens 63
at her again from under half-closed lashes, and her
imperious beauty did its work.
"That is all," he said abruptly. "You may go, Miss
Croydon."
Godfrey watched her as she lowered her veil, rose,
stepped down, and took Drysdale's arm. She had
carried it off well, exceedingly well. Her attitude had
been so frank, so candid, so openly sincere that he
himself was almost convinced by it. But for that in-
stant's agitation when she first t >rceived the prisoner,
he would have been quite convinced. She had told
her story and answered Goldberg's questions with
clear cheek and steady eye—with a directness which
had plainly carried great weight with the jury. Won-
derful was the adjective which Godfrey used in
describing her to himself.
But what had that instant's agitation meant? Was
Jimmy really guilty? Was she trying to shield him,
out of gratitude, perhaps, for defending her? Had
Jimmy risen to that height of chivalry? See with what
a fascinated gaze he was watching her now!
She passed from sight, the door closed, and he
leaned back in his chair to hear Jimmy tell a smooth
story of his doings the night before. Magraw and
half a dozen others confirmed the tale; it was a really
good alibi, carefully arranged; there was nothing to
disprove it, and at the end, the jury, without retiring,
handed in the usual verdict of death at the hands of
a person unknown.
When it was over, Simmonds crooked at Godfrey an
inviting finger, and together they went down to the
detective's private office.


64 The Fog Thickens
"Sit down," said Simmonds; "I want to talk to
you. We're up against a tough proposition."
Godfrey sat down and looked at him.
"Yes, we are," he agreed.
"What do you think of it?"
"I'm more inclined to think Jimmy guilty than I
was last night."
"You saw, then, that she was trying to protect
him?" asked Simmonds eagerly.
"I saw there was some understanding between them.
Don't let your theory of Jimmy's guilt carry you away.
Besides, there's a good deal to say on the other side.
There wasn't enough finish about it to look like Jimmy.
He'd think a long time before he killed a man with
a third person looking on."
"But if it was self-defence?"
Godfrey raised his eyebrows expressively.
"I think she was drawing the long bow myself,"
agreed Simmonds, quickly; "and there can be only
one reason for it—she's trying to protect Jimmy, or
whoever it was killed Thompson. It was Jimmy, I
tell you—he was jealous of her"
"Oh, nonsense!" interrupted Godfrey impatiently.
"A love affair between those two! You've been read-
ing French romances, Simmonds!"
"Maybe I have; but I've run across stranger things
than that right here in New York. This is a bad
snarl, any way you look at it. Here's a point, now
—how could Thompson, who was dead drunk at seven
o'clock, be wide awake at eight? How could he have
heard Miss Croydon's knock?"
"Maybe it wasn't Thompson who opened the door."


The Fog Thickens 65
"But Miss Croydon entered without hesitation.
The man who opened the door must 've been the one
she expected to see. You'll remember, she asked for
Thompson."
"Well, whoever it was," Godfrey pointed out, "it
wasn't Jimmy. He couldn't have beaten the elevator
upstairs."
"No," admitted Simmonds helplessly, " he couldn't.
But let me point out one thing—whoever got into
Thompson's rooms had his key. There was nobody
there when Higgins put Thompson to bed; Higgins
locked the door when he came out; Thompson's win-
dows were all locked on the inside and the transom was
bolted. Now if Jimmy didn't have the key, who did?"
"I don't know," said Godfrey. "But we'll never
arrive anywhere if we keep tangling ourselves up this
way. Who is Thompson? The first thing we've got
to do is to establish his identity. Then, maybe, we
can make a guess at the rest of the story."
"Of course; I saw that at once. But a queer thing
is that we can't find out a thing about Thompson.
Last night was the first time he'd ever been seen at
Magraw's—nobody there 'd ever seen him before. He
spent three or four dollars treating the crowd. Then
he got noisy and Magraw was going to call the police,
but Jimmy spoke up and said he'd look after him.
His story was straight that far."
"Have you gone through Thompson's belongings?"
"Here they are," and Simmonds brought out a can-
vas bag and opened it. "Look at them."
Godfrey turned out the contents and examined them
piece by piece. It was merely a lot of ordinary cloth-


66 The Fog Thickens
ing-, most of it much the worse for wear and all of it
strongly impregnated with the odour of tobacco.
"Anything in the pockets?" asked Godfrey.
"Not a thing except some loose smoking tobacco.
There's one thing about the clothing, though—have
you noticed? It's all summer clothing; see these linen
trousers, now."
Godfrey nodded, with drawn brows.
"What's this?" he asked suddenly, holding up a
swart object, shaped like a clam-shell and halving in
the same way along the sharp edge.
"I don't know. A curio picked up at sea some-
wheres, perhaps. I have a theory that Thompson was
a sailor."
"Why?"
"Well, the bag, in the first place—only a sailor
would carry his clothes that way. Then, put your
head down in it and, under the tobacco, you'll smell
the salt."
Godfrey sniffed and nodded again. Then he got
out his knife.
"Let's take a look at the inside of Mr. Thompson's
curio," he said, and inserted the blade.
A twist and the sides unclosed. Simmonds sprang
back with a sharp cry of surprise as he saw what lay
within, and even Godfrey's heart gave a sudden
leap.
For there, coiled thrice upon itself, lay a little viper,
with venomous, triangular head.
Then, in an instant, Godfrey smiled.
"It's not alive," he said. "Don't you see, it's some
marvellous kind of nut."


The Fog Thickens 67
Simmonds approached cautiously and took another
look.
"A nut? " he repeated. "A nut? Well, that beats
me!"
And well it might, for in every detail the form was
perfect. Godfrey looked at it musingly.
"This may give us a clew," he said. "I shouldn't
imagine a nut like this grows in many parts of the
world. Though, of course, a sailor might pick it up
anywhere—from another sailor, in a slop-shop, even
here in New York, perhaps."
He closed the shell together again and placed
it in the bag, stuffing the rest of the clothing in
after it.
"Thompson had no very exalted idea of cleanliness,"
he remarked. "His clothing needs a visit to the laun-
dry. And this is all?"
"Yes—he'd rented his furniture from a store down
the street. He had to pay his rent in advance because
he had so little baggage. That receipt's the only
thing that's got his name on it—oh, yes; there's a
letter tattooed on his left arm, but it's not a T—it's
aj."
"Which goes to show that his name wasn't Thomp-
son. I think you're right, Simmonds, in putting him
down as a sailor. I thought so last night—in fact,
I've already got two men making a tour of the docks
trying to find somebody who knew him."
"Have you?" said Simmonds, smiling. "That's
like you. There's another curious thing, though, about
the clothing he had on."
"What is that?"


68 , The Fog Thickens
"Some of it's marked with one initial, some with
another. Not one piece is marked with his."
"That is queer," commented Godfrey; "but it isn't
half so queer as another thing. Why should a sailor,
a drunkard, without a decent suit of clothes, rent an
apartment that costs him forty dollars a month, when
he could get a room for a dollar a week down on the
Bowery, his natural stamping ground?"
Simmonds nodded helplessly.
"That's so," he said.
"Unless," added Godfrey, "he thought he had to
have some such place to work from. He could hardly
have asked Miss Croydon to meet him in a Bowery
lodging house."
"No," agreed Simmonds; "but he needn't have
blown in forty dollars, either. He could 'a' got
a nice room 'most anywhere uptown for five a
week"
A tap at the door interrupted him.
"Come in," he called.
The door opened and the coroner's clerk entered.
"Mr. Goldberg sent the exhibits back to you," he
said, holding out a parcel to Simmonds.
Simmonds opened it and took out a pocket-book, a
pipe, a knife, and some silver money.
"All right," he said, and signed a receipt.
Godfrey waited until the door closed, then he rose
and came over to Simmonds's side.
"There's something here that might help us," he
said, picking up the pocket-book. "Those clippings—
why, they're not here!"
Simmonds smiled drily.


The Fog Thickens 69
"That's another thing I wanted to tell you. The
clippings have been removed."
"Removed? By whom?"
"That's a question. They were removed some time
between the moment we looked at them and the mo-
ment the coroner took charge."
Godfrey stared at him with startled eyes.
"You remember," Simmonds continued, " that after
we looked at the pocket-book, I put it back in Thomp-
son's pocket."
"Yes—I saw you do that."
"We then went into the bedroom, and had a look
around, leaving the body alone"
"With Miss Croydon," said Godfrey, completing
the sentence.
"Precisely. Goldberg arrived a minute or two later.
Then he and I searched the body again. When he
opened the pocket-book there was nothing in it except
the rent receipt."
Godfrey sat down again in his chair. The infer-
ence was obvious, irresistible. The clippings had been
removed by Miss .Croydon—they were the papers she
had risked so much to get possession of. Simmonds
and he had had the secret under their hands and had
missed it! It was not a pleasant reflection.
His thoughts flew back to Miss Croydon, and
he found himself again admiring her. To have taken
the clippings demanded a degree of bravery, of self-
control, amounting almost to callousness. It seemed
incredible that she should have dared approach the
body, open the coat . . .
Then he remembered her half-fainting attitude when


jo The Fog Thickens
he had returned from the inner room. At the time,
he had thought the collapse natural enough. Now,
it took on a new meaning.
"There's another thing," continued Simmonds, after
a moment. "Here's the piece of pipe we found on
the floor. Do you know where it came from?"
"No—I was going to look that up."
"It came from the radiator. The connections were
defective and a plumber was replacing them. This
is a piece of pipe he had removed and left lying be-
hind the radiator. He remembers it distinctly. Do
you recall the position of the radiator?"
"Yes; it's against the wall opposite the bedroom
door."
"Exactly. Then the person coming from that door
must have crossed the room to get it. More than that,
he must have hunted for it or known it was there,
because it was in the shadow behind the radiator. It
couldn't be seen unless one looked for it—I've tried
it."
Godfrey paused to consider.
"Did you give these points to Goldberg? " he asked.
"No; I didn't think it would help matters any; be-
sides, I didn't want to put Miss Croydon on her
guard."
"Of course—though all this doesn't actually impli-
cate her."
"No; but it shows she knows more than she's told
us," said Simmonds doggedly. "I don't think she's
been square with us."
Godfrey did not permit any trace of his inward per-
turbation to appear on his countenance; nevertheless


The Fog Thickens 71
he was seriously disturbed. He had hoped that no
one but himself would suspect Miss Croydon's lack
of frankness. He felt a certain irritation against her
—she should have been more careful; she should have
foreseen that the clippings would be traced to her.
She was relying too much on his forbearance. He
must do his best to control Simmonds.
"Well, perhaps she hasn't," he said slowly, after
a moment; "but maybe she's not so much to blame
for that, after all. Anyway, we've got to work at
the- case from the other end. We've got to identify
Thompson first."
"Yes," agreed Simmonds; "that's our best hold.
You'll let me know if you find out anything?"
"Of course," said Godfrey, rising, and with a curt
nod he went out and down the steps to the street.
At the office he found two reports awaiting him.
One was from the men he had sent along the docks—
they had found no one who could identify the photo-
graph of Thompson. The other was from Delaney,
the head of the Record's intelligence department. At
two o'clock th^J: morning, just before retiring, God-
frey had 'phoned a message to the office:
"Delaney—I want all the information obtainable
concerning the history of the Croydon family, to which
Mrs. Richard Delroy and Grace Croydon belong."
This was the result:
"Gustave Croydon, notary and money-lender, No.
17 Rue d'Antin, Paris, removed with wife and young


72 The Fog Thickens
daughter about 1878, to Beckenham, just south of Lon-
don, England. Why he removed from France not
known. Rue d'Antin has been completely rebuilt
within last thirty years and only person there now
who remembers Croydon is an old notary named
Fabre, who has an office at the corner of Rue St.
Augustin. He has vague memory that Croydon left
France to avoid criminal prosecution of some sort.
"Croydon bought small country place near Becken-
ham and lived there quietly in semi-retirement. For-
tune apparently not large. In 1891, mortgaged estate
for £2000; mortgage paid in 1897. Religion, Catholic.
Excellent reputation at Beckenham.
"Eldest daughter, Edith, born in France, August 26,
1874. Educated at school there, but broke down from
over-study and returned to Beckenham, where she be-
came interested in social settlement work. There met
Richard Delroy, New York, who was making investi-
gation of London chariti.es. Married him June 6,
1900, and went immediately to New York.
"Only other child, younger daughter Grace, born at
Beckenham, May 12, 1880. Educated at home. No
unusual incidents in life, so far as known.
"Croydon and wife died typhoid fever, 1901. Del-
roys came to England, and, after selling property and
settling estate, took Grace home with them. Estate,
left wholly to younger sister, paid inheritance tax on
£7500."
Godfrey read this through slowly, dwelling upon it
point by point.
"The skeleton," he said to himself, " is pretty plain


The Fog Thickens 73
—it lies concealed somewhere behind Croydon's de-
parture from France. There must have been some
unusual reasori for that—a reason even more serious,
perhaps, Ithan this threatened prosecution—the clip-
pings would tell the story.
"But is it worth while trying to dig it up? It
wouldn't be a difficult thing to do if the newspapers
handled it at the time; but I don't know," and he stared
out through his window with drawn brows. "If it's
buried again, I believe I'll let it rest—for the present,
anyway," and he whirled back to his desk.
He wrote the story of the day's developments and
turned it in.
"We've been lucky," said the city editor, with a
gleeful smile, as he took the copy. "We've got photo-
graphs of all the principals."
"Have we?"
"Yes—they cost $500, but they're worth it. No
other paper in town will have 'em."
"That's good," said Godfrey, but it was a half-
hearted commendation, and he left the office in a frame
of mind not wholly amiable. The methods of a popu-
lar newspaper are not always above reproach.
"Thank Heaven," he added to himself, his face clear-
ing a little, "there's nothing in my story to implicate
either Miss Croydon or Mrs. Delroy—there's no hint
of the skeleton! I took care of that—which," he con-
cluded, with a grim smile, "is mighty forbearing in
a yellow journalist!"
What further tests there were to be of his forbear-
ance not even he suspected!





PART II
CECILY


l


;

•
In the Promenade de Luxe of the New York Theatre.
V


. J


CHAPTER I
B Change of
a matter of course, the affair at the Marathon
created a great public sensation. The papers
overflowed with details, theories, suggestions to the
police, letters from interested readers. Many of the
latter were quite certain that they could quickly solve
the mystery, but unfortunately private business de-
manded their whole attention; meanwhile, the stupidity
of the detective force was a disgrace to the city; let
the guilty parties be arrested without further delay,
whatever their position! It was remarkable how few
accepted the simple theory which Simmonds had pro-
pounded; all of -them chose to discern something
deeper, more intricate, more mysterious, and Miss
Croydon incurred much oblique reference. This, for
the most part, took the form of scathing, even hysteri-
cal polemics against the degeneration of American
Society, the greatest peril threatening the health and
prosperity of the Republic. As it was with Rome, so
would it be with America; luxury, sensuality, a moral
code growing ever more lax, could have only one re-
sult!
No doubt these vigorous correspondents enjoyed
themselves and imagined that Society quivered in
consternation under the castigation. Certainly they
formed a source of exquisite amusement to the readers
of the papers,
77


78 A Change of Lodgings
It has long been a habit of mine, when any par-
ticularly abstruse criminal mystery is before the pub-
lic, to pin my faith to the Record. Its other features
I do not admire, but I knew that Jim Godfrey was its
expert in crime, and ever since my encounter with him
in the Holladay case, I have entertained the liveli-
est admiration of his acumen and audacity. If a mys-
tery was possible of solution, I believed that he would
solve it, so it was to the Record I turned now, and read
carefully every word he wrote about the tragedy.
It is difficult for me to explain, even to myself, the
interest with which I followed the case. I suppose
most of us have a fondness, more or less unrealised, for
the unique and mysterious, and we all of us revolt
sometimes against the commonplaceness of every-day
existence. We had been having a protracted siege
of unusually hard work at the office, and I was a little
run down in consequence; I felt that I needed a tonic,
a distraction, and I found it in " The Tragedy in Suite
Fourteen," as Godfrey had christened it.
I was sitting in my room on the evening of the sec-
ond day after the affair, smoking a post-prandial pipe
and reading the Record's stenographic report of the
coroner's inquest, when there came a knock at my door
and my landlady entered. She held in her hand a
paper which had a formidable legal appearance.
"Have you found another apartment yet, Mr. Les-
ter?" she asked.
"No, I haven't, Mrs.' Fitch," I said. "I'm afraid
I've not been as diligent in looking for one as I should
have been."
"Well, I've just got another notice," and she sighed


A Change of Lodgings 79
wearily. "They're going to begin tearing down the
house day after to-morrow. I can't find another house,
so I'm going to put my furniture in storage. I've
told the men to come for it to-morrow."
"All right," I said. "If I can't find an apartment
to suit, I'll put my stuff in storage, too, and stay at a
hotel for a while. I'll know by to-morrow noon, Mrs.
Fitch."
"Very well. It does seem hard, though," she added,
pausing on the threshold, " that we should be the ones
to suffer, when there's so many other blocks they might
have taken."
"The residents of any of the other blocks would
probably have said the same thing," I pointed out.
"After all, I suppose this block was better than the
others, or it wouldn't have been chosen."
She sniffed sceptically, and went on her way to
notify her other lodgers of the imminent eviction.
We were martyrs to the march of public improve-
ment. The block had been condemned by the usual
legal process, and an armory was to be erected on the
site. So there was nothing left for us to do but move.
I had hoped that Mrs. Fitch would find another house
somewhere in the neighbourhood and that I could stay
with her; now, it seemed, I must search for other
quarters, and at exceedingly short notice. To find
comfortable ones, conveniently situated, and at the
same time within reach of my modest income would, I
knew, be a problem not easy of solution.
I settled back in my chair and took up my paper
again, when a sudden thought brought me bolt upright.
Here was an apartment, two rooms and bath, just what


A Change of Lodgings 81
He hesitated yet a moment, then straightened up
with sudden resolution.
"You kin see it if you want to, sir," he said; "but
first, I must tell you that it's soot fourteen, where they
was a—a murder two days ago."
"A murder?" I repeated. "Oh, yes; I did see
something about it in the papers. Well, that doesn't
make any difference; I'm not afraid of ghosts."
"Then that's all right, sir," he said, with a sigh
of relief, and motioned toward the elevator. "I didn't
believe we'd find it so easy t' rent that soot ag'in," he
added, as we started upward, "though I see now that
I was foolish; fer really, it don't make no differ-
ence"
The car stopped and he led the way down the hall
without troubling to finish the sentence.
"Here we are," he added, pausing before a door
and producing a bunch of keys. "Which reminds
me that I'll have t' git a key fer you—the other
tenant lost his—leastways, it wasn't found on him.
Or mebbe you'd rather I'd change th' lock?"
"Oh, no," I assured him. "Another key will do,"
and we entered together.
I examined the room with keen interest. Evidently
everything had been left just as it was on the night
of the crime; only the body had been removed, and it,
I knew, was at the morgue, waiting identification.
Higgins was busy pointing out to me the advantages
of the apartment, but I confess I did not hear him.
I reconstructed the picture which had met Godfrey's
eye when he burst into the room; I tried in vain
to discern some point of evidence which he had


82 A Change of Lodgings
overlooked. The furniture was of the commonest
kind and consisted of only the most necessary ar-
ticles.
Higgins led the way into the bedroom and opened
the door of the bathroom beyond.
"I shall bring my own furniture," I said. "But
I haven't any carpets. Perhaps I can buy these.
They seem pretty good."
"They are, sir," agreed Higgins. "They're good
carpets and as good as th' day they was put down.
It '11 make it lots easier for us if we don't have t' take
'em up."
"All right," I agreed. "Find out what they're
worth. When can you have the rooms ready?"
He looked at me and scratched his head again; then,
remembering suddenly the nature of janitors, I took
out my purse and tipped him.
"Have them ready by to-morrow afternoon," I said.
"Get a man to help you, if necessary. I'll expect to
be at home here to-morrow night."
His face cleared instantly.
"I'll do it, sir," he agreed, as he pocketed the money.
"I'll see that everything gits in all right. You kin
sign th' rent agreement to-morrow—th' soot rents fer
forty a month."
"Very well," I said, and followed him into the outer
room, smiling to myself at the thought that I had for-
gotten to ask for this important detail. "Would you
mind if I sat down and took a smoke, while I decide
how I'll arrange my furniture?"
"That's all right, sir," he assured me instantly;
and just then the elevator bell rang. "There," he


A Change of Lodgings 83
added, "it's them confounded artists, too lazy t' walk
downstairs. I'll be back in a minute, sir."
It took me but an instant to light my cigar, then I
whirled my chair around to the table before which it
stood. The table had a single drawer. I opened it.
It was absolutely empty. I went quickly to the bed-
room and opened the closet, but not even a piece of
clothing hung there. Then I turned to the dresser,
but its three drawers, too, were empty. Evidently all
of Thompson's belongings had been removed by the
police. Of course they had searched through every
nook and cranny; it was foolish of me to expect to
find anything now.
I returned to my chair and looked again about the
room. There was the corner where Miss Croydon had
cowered, and from which she had shot at Thompson's
assailant; there was the spot where Thompson himself
had fallen; he had lain extended on the carpet, while
the . . . what was that? A tiny sparkle caught my
eye, a reflection of the light overhead. I sprang from
my chair and stooped above the place, but could see
nothing. I returned to my chair, and again caught
the reflection. This time, I marked it exactly in the
pattern of the carpet, went to it carefully; put down
my hand—nothing—yes, a little hard point pressed
into the carpet, so minute I could not pick it up. I
moistened my finger, and an instant later, under the
light, I saw that I had found a diamond!
I wrapped it carefully in a scrap of paper and
stowed it away safely in my pocket-book. Then I
went back to my chair. How came the diamond there?
A stone so minute must have been set in a piece of


84 A Change of Lodgings
jewelry; perhaps was only one of many such stones
forming a cluster, or a border to a larger jewel. If
one could only discover the piece from which it had
fallen, there would be a clew . . .
"Well, have y' got it all fixed, sir?" asked a voice
from the door, and I turned with a start to see Hig-
gins standing there.
"Yes," I answered, rousing myself with an effort;
and I gave him such directions as occurred to me.
"Has anyone else been in the rooms?" I asked.
"Not since yesterday mornin', sir, when th' coroner
brought his jury t' look 'em over. They've been
locked since then."
"I thought perhaps somebody might have wanted
to rent them,'' I explained.
"Say, that's funny!" he cried. "I'd purty nigh
fergot it. Early this mornin' they was somebody—
a woman." He came close to me and dropped his
voice to a hoarse whisper. "D' y' know who I think
it was? That Croydon woman!"
I stared at him in amazement.
"Weren't you sure?"
"No; she had a veil wrapped around her head an'
she was dressed different. But it was her—I know
it."
"And what did she want?" I asked, more and more
astonished.
"She wanted t' see th' rooms; but I told her they
was closed. I tell you, I was dead afeard t' come up
here with her. How'd I know but she'd take a shot
at me? Then she wanted t' rent 'em sight unseen,
an' offered a month's rent in advance—but I told her


A Change of Lodgings 85
we didn't rent soots t' single women, which is true.
Mebbe I was kind o' rough, but I was a-skeered t'
have her around, fer I kind o' believe she's crazy, so
purty soon, after some more talkin', she give it up an'
went away."
As we went down in the elevator, I pondered this
remarkable story. Could it really have been Miss
Croydon? But what possible reason could she have
for wishing to rent the rooms? How could she nerve
herself to enter them again? Was it the rooms and
not the man that had brought her to the Marathon?
Did they hold the key to the mystery? Did they con-
tain some secret . . .
The car stopped. A man and woman were waiting
to be taken up. At the man I did not even glance,
for his companion held my eyes. Such fierce, dark,
passionate beauty I had never seen before, and my
nerves were still tingling with the sight of it as I left
the building and turned westward toward my rooms.


CHAPTER II
a Cn? for Delp
FOR three days Thompson's body lay enthroned
on its couch at the morgue, but of the thousands
of people who filed past it, not one could give a single
clew to its identity. Godfrey's emissaries went from
end to end of the docks, loitered in sailors' saloons and
eating-places, provided innumerable drinks, but no-
where did they met anyone who recognized the rough,
bearded face which the camera had reproduced. The
officers of every ship that had arrived within a week
were interviewed, but none of them knew Thompson.
It would seem that he had dropped from the clouds and
that no one had witnessed his descent. It was an al-
together puzzling state of affairs, and made impossible
any further real progress in the investigation of the
crime.
The police worked in a desultory fashion along the
usual lines. Various theories were built up and ex-
ploded; various clews were laboriously followed and
found to lead nowhere; various suspects were arrested
and afterward released; a close and utterly futile watch
was kept on the movements of Jimmy the Dude. It
was plainly apparent that the authorities were all at
sea, and it seemed altogether likely that the affair
would soon be written down with New York's other
unsolved mysteries.
:
86


A Cry for Help 87
Public interest waned and dwindled, and passed on
to other things. Even with me, living at the very
scene of the crime, it faded in an astonishing way; it
no longer occupied my thoughts; over my evening
pipe, it was not the details of the mystery I conjured
up, but a vision of a dark face . . .
An inquiry of the janitor developed the fact that
it was my neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine, whom
I had met that evening as I left the elevator. They
had the apartment just across the hall from mine, and
I had thought, of course, that I must meet them fre-
quently; but three days had passed and I had caught
not a glimpse of them; their hours for coming and
going seemed radically different from mine.
So it was with a sense of disappointment somewhat
foolishly excessive that I sat in my room and watched
the smoke circle up around the chandelier and won-
dered at the whim which had brought me to this apart-
ment. Not but that it was comfortable enough; yet
I was vaguely restless, uneasy; I had not that home-
like sense of comfort and quiet which had marked my
sojourn with Mrs. Fitch. There was nothing to be
discovered here concerning the tragedy; the rooms
had been stripped bare of evidence before my arrival;
it was absurd to suppose . . .
I heard the sudden opening of a door; a scream,
shrill, full of terror . . .
Rarely have I been so startled as I was by that
voice. In an instant, I was in the hall. A red light
streamed through the open door of the apartment op-
posite, silhouetting a woman's figure, staring, with
clasped hands . . .


88 A Cry for Help
'
I sprang past her, pulled down the burning cur-
tains, and threw them into the hall, where Higgins,
who had run up the stairs, stamped out the flames.
The room was full of smoke, but it was evident that
the fire had spread no farther. I opened the window,
and the smoke was whirled away.
"That was lucky," was Higgins's comment, as
he stood panting in the doorway. "By cricky!
I'm all in a tremble. I thought it was another
murder!"
I couldn't help laughing as I looked at him gasp-
ing excitedly for breath.
"You've got murder on the brain," I said. "I
hope there won't be any more at the Marathon."
"So do I," he agreed, and gathering up the frag-
ments of the curtains, turned to go.
"Ah, bon die!" cried Mrs. Tremaine, in a queerly
broken but very charming mixture of French and
English. "What a chance! What good fortune that
you were in your room, missie!"
She had closed the window with a nervous shiver at
the cold, and then stepped back into the full light. I
fairly gasped as I looked at her. Charming she had
been gowned according to the New York fashion; now
she was radiant in a costume whose gorgeousness
seemed just the setting her beauty needed. At the
moment, it completely dazzled me, but I was able
afterwards, in a calmer mood, to analyse it—the crim-
son petticoat, the embroidered chemise with its fold
upon fold of lace, showing through the silken shoulder-
scarf; the necklace of gold beads, and bracelets, studs,
brooches—what not. The sight of Higgins standing


A Cry for Help 89
staring at this vision with open mouth brought me to
my senses.
"I am very happy to have been there, madame," I
said, and started toward the door.
"But you will not go," she protested. "Missie
Tremaine will be here in a moment. He will desire to
thank you."
The words were accompanied by a smile there was
no resisting. I faltered, stopped . . .
Higgins was still staring from the hall. Mrs. Tre-
maine stepped forward and calmly shut the door in his
face.
In that instant a quick shiver ran through me, as
though I had been suddenly imprisoned with a wild
beast—a shiver that had in it something fearfully de-
lightful. And let me add here that the emotion which
Cecily, for so I came to know her, raised in me was
not in the least admiration in the ordinary sense of
the term, but rather an overpowering fascination, such
as one sometimes feels in watching a magnificent
tigress pacing back and forth in her cage. Such, I be-
lieve, was the feeling she inspired in most men; even
in Tremaine himself.
She smiled at me again as she swept past me to a
couch in one corner, and sank upon it.
"Sit, missie," she said, and motioned me to a chair
close at hand. "I was very lonesome; I was weary
of talking to my own body."
I cannot reproduce the soft dialect she spoke; any
effort to do. so makes it appear grotesque, so I shall not
try. At first, it puzzled me occasionally, but I soon
came to understand her perfectly.


90 A Cry for Help
"So was I," I said, smiling at the quaint ex-
pression. "I was growing very sick of my own body.
Have you been in New York long?"
"Less than a month, missie; and I do not like it—
it is too cold—too grey."
"Ah, you have cpme in a bad time," I said, wonder-
ing at her almost childish expression of misery.
"Wait until June—then you will see!"
"June! Ah, we shall not remain so long—I, at
least! I have promised to stay one month longer,
but more than that—impossible!"
She reached out and took up a cigarette from a pile
which lay on a tabouret beside the couch.
"It was thus the curtains caught," she laughed,
and, after a whiff or two, flung the still-blazing taper
over her shoulder. "Pouf!—and they were all in
flame. A moment before, I was longing for ex-
citement—any excitement whatever—but that sud-
den burst of fire frightened me—I rushed out—
cried for help—and," she finished with a charming
little gesture, "spoiled your smoke. Try one of
these."
There was no resisting her—it was like playing with
fire. I took a cigarette and lighted it.
"At Fond-Corre there was much to do," she con-
tinued, with a little sigh. "Here there is nothing but
to smoke, smoke!"
"Fond-Corre?" I queried.
"Just beyond St. Pierre," she explained, closing her
eyes with delight at the memory. "There was our
home—J can see it again, in its grove of cocoa trees
running down to the grey sand, with the waves lap-
.


A Cry for Help 91
ping gently over it. Tambou! how I sigh for it!"
and she stretched her arms above her head with a
gesture of infinite longing.
Looking at her, I began to believe that I was dream-
ing all this; that I had fallen asleep in my chair and
been transported to the land of Haroun-el-Raschid.
I had never seen a woman like her—so full of colour,
of passion, of ...
A key rattled in the lock, the door opened and a
man came in. It was quite in keeping with the dream
—the enraged husband with naked cimeter—even here
in New York it was hardly the proper thing to be
discovered thus, though not till that instant had I
thought of it.
"Ah, now," I said to myself, "stilettos and pis-
tols! you're in a ticklish place, my friend."
But before I could rise, Cecily had sprung from the
couch and thrown her arms about his neck.
"Oh, coument ou ye, doudoux?" she asked, in a
voice like—well, I have never heard anything to com-
pare with it.
"Toutt douce, die—et ou?" he answered, and
kissed her; then he perceived me, seemingly for the
first time, though this I somehow doubted. "Good-
evening, sir," he said, standing with his arm still about
his wife and gazing at me with a look so sharp that I
found myself for an instant unable to meet it, as though
I had really been guilty of some fault.
His wife uttered in his ear a sentence so rapid that
I was utterly unable to catch the words, but I suppose
it explained the reason of my presence, for he turned
to me instantly with outstretched hand.


92 A Cry for Help
"Cecily tells me that your presence of mind pre-
vented a general conflagration, Mr."
"Lester," I said. "I am your neighbour across the
hall."
"My name is Tremaine, and I'm exceedingly glad
to meet you," he continued, with a courtesy which
charmed me from the first moment. "We must pour
a libation to honour the escape."
Cecily, who had been hanging on his lips, flew to the
next room and was back in a moment with decanter
and glasses—three of them—and she joined us with
an imperturbable matter-of-course air which somewhat
surprised me. Only I noticed she left a little wine
in her glass, and with it she approached a square cage
of fine gilt mesh hanging over the radiator in the
warmest corner of the room.
I happened to look at Tremaine and was astonished
at the intensity of the glance he sent after her. So
absorbed was he that for the first time I had the
opportunity to examine him closely. It was impossible
to tell his age, thtre was about him such an air of ex-
haustless youth—he might have been anywhere from
thirty to forty-five. He was a handsome man, with a
dark, fascinating face which somehow matched his
wife's. The power of his eye I had already experi-
enced, and the square jaw and clear-cut lips bespoke
an extraordinary power of will to match. He per-
haps felt my scrutiny, for he turned to me, shaking
off with an effort the spell that held him.
"She's a most extraordinary woman," he said, with
a smile that seemed a little forced. "She's about
to do what no other woman in the world would


A Cry for Help 93
dare do, and she thinks nothing of it. Come and
see."
Cecily had already reached the cage, and was bend-
ing over it, humming a weird little refrain that rose
and fell and turned upon itself, reminding me faintly
of the negro spirituals I had once heard at a camp-
meeting in the Jersey woods. After a moment, I saw a
movement within the cage, and a head erected itself,
a broad, triangular head, deep orange barred with
black, with eyes like coals of fire. It swayed to and
fro, to and fro, as Cecily fitted words to the refrain—
queer, chopped-off Creole words.
"Oh, ou jojolli, oui! Oh, thou art pretty, pretty,
Fe-Fe! Pa ka fai moin pe! I do not fear her, not
at all! Fe-Fe is the work of the good God. Tra-
vaill Bon-Die joli? Is she not pretty?"
Gradually we had drawn nearer, Tremaine and I,
and I felt myself yielding to the fascination of the
song, even as the serpent did. It was not very large,
nor seemingly very formidable, so I did not even
think of fear when Cecily opened the little door of the
cage and drew it forth. She held it between thumb
and finger just behind the head, and by a slight pres-
sure she forced its jaws apart. Then she poured the
wine down its throat, drop by drop. Finally she re-
turned it to its cage and shut the door.
When it was over and she was lying again on the
couch, panting with a kind of fearful exhaustion, I
turned to Tremaine, who was mopping his forehead
feverishly.
"I've got a kind of superstitious horror of that
snake," he said apologetically, as he met my eyes.


94 A Cry for Help
"I've seen a lot of them, but none ever affected me
just as this one does."
"What is it?" I asked, astonished by his pallor,
by the trembling of his hand as he put away his hand-
kerchief and reached for a cigarette. He lighted it
before he answered, inviting me by a gesture to help
myself.
"It's a fer-de-lance," he said, at last; "one of the
deadliest serpents in the world—and this particular
variety is said to be especially deadly—a sort of creme
de la creme, as it were. Its bite kills a man in three
minutes, if it happens to strike an artery—it does
more than that—it turns him to a swollen, rotten piece
of carrion—I've seen it," and he leaned back to blow
a ring toward the ceiling.
I sat, petrified, with my cigarette half-way to my
mouth.
"A fer-de-lance!" I faltered, at last, with a hor-
rified glance at the figure on the couch.
"Oh, it's safe enough, I guess," he added. "She's
had it for years and it has never attempted to harm
her. Perhaps it has lost its poison."
"Still," I said, " it's a risk. I shouldn't think you'd
permit it."
"Permit it?" he repeated. "Oh!" and he
shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of impotence
impossible to describe.


CHAPTER III
a JBreaft in a Circle
MY acquaintance with the Tremaines, in the
weeks that followed, grew by imperceptible
degrees into an intimacy which was one of the most
pleasant of my life. Of Cecily I have already at-
tempted to give some idea, although I realise how
cold and inadequate it is. As I began to know her
better, I came to wonder more and more at her com-
plexity, her simplicity, her swift change of mood, her
utter ignorance of social convention. Another thing
I saw, and that was her absolute worship of Tremaine.
I question if he fully understood its strength; he had
grown, in a way, accustomed to it; but to a stranger,
an outsider, it was startlingly apparent. I say
startlingly, because one was vaguely conscious of un-
sounded, threatening depths beneath that sweet ex-
terior, which promised I know not what of passion and
tragedy, should they be rudely stirred.
As for Tremaine, I hesitate to say how utterly I
fell under his spell. Yet this was not in the least
to be wondered at. My life had been, on the whole,
so narrow, and his had been so broad; my experi-
ence of the world had been cast in the usual grooves,
while his had so evidently overleaped them, had struck
out a path for itself into all sorts of unexpected places.
Why he so exerted himself to charm and conquer me
95


96 A Break in a Circle
I do not yet fully understand—perhaps it was the mere
delight in power, in the exercise of his dazzling facul-
ties; or perhaps it was that he had leisure, that his
mind was not yet engrossed in the game on which he
staked so much.
I have said that his life had been cast in many curi-
ous places. Martinique was only the last of these,
the most recent, and I gathered that the business which
brought him to New York was the forming of a syndi-
cate to build a railroad through the island. Through
is the right word, for it was evident that, owing to the
island's peculiar formation, there would have to be
much tunnelling. But he waved all such practical dif-
ficulties aside and discoursed of the great future before
such a road with an enthusiasm that was absolutely
convincing.
I remember one evening he got fairly started upon
this hobby of his and talked uninterruptedly for at
least an hour—facts, details, descriptions at his finger-
ends. Cecily, chin in hands, listened intent to every
word, and I, with the remembrance of that evening
still fresh upon me, can understand how he won the
ear of even Wall Street's suspicious denizens. And,
indeed, it was a wonderful prospectus which he
painted—broad sugar plantations with no market, the
whole traffic of the island carried upon the heads of
women; the great sand-heaps of the east coast ninety
per cent, pure steel, waiting only for development, but
worthless now because no ship can approach them—
and I know not what beside, but all of which, I have
no doubt, was substantially true.
Perhaps I am lingering unduly over this portrait


A Break in a Circle 99
in a tiny glass before an image of the Virgin, which
hung in a little chapelle against the wall. She made
a genuflection and turned back to me. "Now I am
ready," she said, and tucked her hand confidingly
under my arm.
"What is the light for, Cecily? " I asked, as we left
the room.
"Oh," she explained, " faut lime lampe ou pou fai
la Vierge passe dans caie-ou. Now the Virgin will
watch over me while I am away. But you are a
Protestant. You do not care for the Virgin."
She looked up at me reproachfully, with a little
sigh because I must be damned.
"But Tremaine—is he not also a Protestant?" I
asked.
"Oh, no," she answered, shaking her head. "Cer-
tainly not—not at all. He even at one time thought
of becoming a priest."
"A priest!" I repeated, astonished. Here was
news, indeed, and I was so absorbed in it that I did not
resent Higgins's stare of astonishment as we went
down together in the elevator. Tremaine a priest!
Yet, why not? No doubt he would have made a
most successful one—an ideal Jesuit, for example, ris-
ing to a high place.
"Then why did he not become one?" I questioned,
when we were seated in our cab and bowling along
toward Broadway. A sudden fever of eagerness to
probe into Tremaine's past took possession of me.
"I do not know," she answered; then she looked
at me with a sudden quizzical narrowing of the eyes,
"Perhaps he found the vows of a repugnance."


loo A Break in a Circle
iWe swung around into Broadway, ablaze with light,
and Cecily forgot me in the excitement of watching
the changing crowd, the brilliant shop-fronts.
"Here we are," I said, as the cab drew up at the
curb, and sprang out and helped her down.
As we entered the foyer, I heard that murmur of
surprise and admiration which I knew my companion
must inevitably call forth. As for her, she was inter-
ested in everything; the lights, the colour, the move-
ment of the crowd, the bustle of the great theatre
combined to form an excitant which brought the deep
blood surging to her cheeks. She looked around with
half-open lips, smiling, pleased as a child, seemingly
quite unconscious of the many curious eyes centred
upon her.
"Oh, it is glorious!" she cried. "I have to thank
you again, che."
"You have nothing like this at St. Pierre?" I
questioned, laughing at her eagerness.
"No," and she shook her head; "except perhaps
the Carnival."
"I'm enjoying it, too," I said; and, indeed, I was,
'for her happiness was contagious. She seemed
charged with electricity, overflowing, communicating
it by a look, a word, a smile.
We went up to the promenade after the first act,
and ate an ice together. The place was crowded,
and Cecily soon became again the centre of attraction.
Men strolled past merely to look at her, and from more
than one woman I caught a flash of the eye that said
unutterable things. The advent of a new, incom-
parable $iren could not pass unchallenged. At them


A Break in a Circle 101
all, Cecily glanced from time to time with admirable
nonchalance; one would have swo'rn she had been
reared in New York. She chatted gaily, eating her
ice, sipping her wine, looking at me with eyes that
glowed like stars. Tlien suddenly, as she looked up,
her face changed. I/glanced up, too, and caught Jim
Godfrey's astonished eyes fixed on mine. He bowed
and passed on.
",Who is that gentleman?" demanded Cecily
eagerly, leaning across the table toward me. "You
know him?"
"Oh, quite well," I answered, more and more sur-
prised. "His name is Godfrey."
"God-frey," she repeated slowly, after me, as though
fixing it indelibly in her memory. "And what is his
business?"
"He's a reporter by trade; he gathers news for a
paper," I added, seeing that she did not wholly under-
stand.
"Oh," she said, and breathed a deep sigh of relief.
"I see." Then, as she met my glance, she added, " I
fancied that I had met him somewhere; I was mis-
taken. In New York I have met no one except you,
missie."
But I scarcely heard her; my eyes had dropped to a
pin at her throat; as she leaned forward, I could see
it very clearly—an opal surrounded by a blazing ring
of diamonds. I looked at it mechanically—then with
a sudden, intent interest. For one link of that bril-
liant ring was missing; one of the diamonds had fallen
out.


CHAPTER IV
Gbe problem of tbe DiamonO
I WAS scarcely surprised when Godfrey's card was
brought in to me at the office next morning. Both
Mr. Graham and Mr. Royce happened to be out at
the time, so that I had the inner room to myself, and
I directed that Godfrey be shown in at once.
"I was expecting you," I said, rising to shake
hands with him. "That stare of yours last night
warned me that you'd be around to demand an ex-
planation."
"Demand is hardly the word," he corrected, as he
sat down. "Beseech would be nearer it. I confess
I was never more surprised in my life than when I saw
you sitting there calmly chatting away with Mrs. Tre-
maine."
"Then you have met her? She thought she was
mistaken."
"You mean she knew me?" he asked quickly.
"She asked who you were—she fancied she'd met
you somewhere."
Godfrey laughed a little dry laugh.
"She has," he said, "but it's strange she remem-
bers it, for I'll swear she never looked at me—or
perhaps," he added, knitting his brows, " she has some
special reason to remember. I happened to be in the
hall of the Marathon apartment house talking with
Higgins, the janitor, when she and her husband came
102


The Problem of the Diamond 103
in from dinner the night that man Thompson was
killed there—perhaps you remember about it?"
I nodded, smiling.
"Yes, I remember."
Something in my face caught his attention.
"You mean you know something about it?" he
asked quickly. But a movement of feet across the floor
outside interrupted him. "We can't talk here," he
said. "Will you be at home to-night?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll look you up," and he turned to go.
"Wait a minute," I said. "I'm not with Mrs.
Fitch any more."
"Aren't you?"
"No—I'm quartered at the Marathon."
"At the Marathon?"
"Yes—suite fourteen—Higgins will show you up."
He stared at me an instant with starting eyes.
Then the door opened and Mr. Royce came in, fol-
lowed by two clerks.
"I'll look for you this evening," I added, hugely
enjoying his stupefaction.
He nodded mechanically, and turned away, walking
like a man in a dream.
"Well," began Godfrey, as he settled back in his
chair and looked around the room, "this is about the
last place on earth I'd have expected to find you."
"And yet it's not so wonderful," I pointed out. "I
had to change my lodgings and found that these would
suit."
"It's in your blood," he went on, smiling. "It has


104 The Problem of the Diamond
been ever since that affair of Miss Holladay. You'll
never get it out. But I'm glad you're here. I've an
idea that we're just on the threshold of a very re-
markable mystery, and you can help a lot."
"Then the murder wasn't the end?"
"No; I fancy it was only the beginning. Now tell
me how you happened to be with Mrs. Tremaine last
night."
"Tremaine had an important business engage-
ment," I said, " which he couldn't break. He'd prom-
ised to take her to the theatre and had secured seats.
Rather than disappoint her, he asked me to take his
place."
"And she didn't object?"
"She made the best of it, I guess."
"She seemed to be getting a good deal of fun out
of it."
"She was. She's the most unconventional creature
I ever met. She'd interest you, Godfrey."
"I don't doubt it in the least. But Tremaine inter-
ests me, too. You don't happen to know what this
business engagement was?" and he looked at me with
a queer smile.
"No; I suppose that it had something to do with
his railroad."
"His railroad?"
I related briefly the project in which Tremaine was
engaged.
"Well, perhaps it was connected with that," God-
frey said, when I had finished, "but indirectly—very
indirectly. He spent the evening in Dickie Delroy's
box at the opera,"


The Problem of the Diamond 105
It was my turn to stare.
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure—I saw him there. Tremaine, I under-
stand, was taken up by Delroy some time ago and has
been cutting quite a swath in society—it's easy
enough to understand why. That's not the first time
he's been in the Delroy box."
"But," I asked, more and more astonished, "how
did he accomplish it?"
"I don't know. A polished fellow like that has an
open sesame, sometimes. More than likely, he's inter-
ested Delroy in his railroad scheme, and Delroy has
become fascinated with him, just as you've evidently
been."
"Yes," I admitted, candidly, " I have."
"I saw at a glance that he's a smooth one. I be-
lieve that railroad business is just a blind—he doesn't
look the man to waste his time building castles in the
air."
"Oh, if you could hear him!" I protested.
"I wish I could."
"I can introduce you—as a reporter looking for a
story, say."
"No, it won't do. I'll try to get at him some other
way."
"I don't believe it's a blind," I persisted. "His
heart's too deeply in it. Besides, I don't see that we
have any reason to suspect him of anything. If it's
a blind, what's his real game?"
"I give it up. That's just what we've got to find out."
"Godfrey," I said suddenly, "there's two points
I'd like to submit to you—both rather important ones,


106 The Problem of the Diamond
I fancy. But first I want you to tell me the story of
the crime, just as it occurred. I suspect there were
some details that didn't get into the Record. Start
a cigar first."
He took a cigar and struck a match.
"There were," he assented with a smile, "a num-
ber of details that didn't get before the public. Most
of them have an unfortunate tendency to implicate
Miss Croydon."
"Miss Croydon?"
"Yes; I don't mean implicate her in the actual
crime—I don't for an instant believe she had any hand
in that; but they seem to indicate that she wasn't frank
with us—that she's concealing something—protect-
ing somebody. Now there wasn't any use in telling
the fool public that; they'd jump at once to the con-
clusion—why," he broke off, abruptly, with some heat,
"even as it was"
"Yes," I said, somewhat surprised at his irritation,
"I noticed the shots at her."
"Some of them were outrageous! It's a shame
that such a woman as that—but you shall judge,"
and he told me the story substantially as I have set it
down in the first chapters of this history. "There
isn't the least doubt," he added, "that she took the
clippings from Thompson's pocket-book, and I think
it very improbable that she has told us the whole truth
concerning the minor details of the crime, but never-
theless she's innocent."
He got up and walked across the room and placed
his finger over a little hole in the woodwork of the bed-
room door.


The Problem of the Diamond 107
"There's where the bullet from her revolver
struck," he said. "There's no doubt about that—it
was taken out and found to fit. I'd give a good deal
to know who it was she fired at and why she fired. I
tell you, Lester, the more one thinks about that affair,
the more incomprehensible it becomes, there are so
many questions which seem unanswerable. Who was
Thompson? How did he get in condition to receive
her? Was the murderer a friend of Thompson's?
If not, how did he get into the rooms? Above all,
why, after he had knocked Thompson down, should
he stand over him and shoot him through the heart?
That savours more of a wild beast than of a human
being."
He paused a moment in a sort of helpless per-
plexity, then sat down abruptly and turned to me.
"What were your points?" he asked.
"The first," I said, looking at him, "will, I fear,
help to tip the scale against Miss Croydon. She came
here the morning after the inquest and tried to rent
this apartment."
He stared at me, astounded, his cigar in the air,
while I repeated the story Higgins had told me.
When I had finished, he sat gazing into vacancy, his
lips compressed.
"I see it puzzles you," I said, at last, enjoying his
perplexity. "I confess I couldn't make anything out
of it."
"Puzzles me!" he repeated, getting up again and
walking nervously about the room. "Why, it's the
most astounding thing I ever heard—it's the most un-
explainable feature of this whole unexplainable case. I


The Problem of the Diamond 109
at last; "though, of course, it may be only a coin-
cidence. Taken by itself, it isn't worth a cent; in
connection with other evidence, it would be worth a
great deal."
"And there isn't any other?"
"Just one little bit. You say Tremaine comes from
Martinique. Well, among Thompson's clothes I
found a peculiar nut, called a snake nut, which grows
only in the West Indies. When you add to this that
Thompson's clothing was all such as is worn in the
tropics, the presumption is pretty strong that he lived
for a while somewhere in Tremaine's neighbourhood."
I nodded; then my face fell.
"After all," I pointed out, "all that amounts to
nothing. Both Tremaine and his wife can prove an
alibi. They weren't in the building when the crime
was committed. You yourself saw them coming
back."
"Yes—but it's a significant fact that no one saw
them go out."
"Oh, well," I said, with a sudden revulsion of feel-
ing, " that doesn't prove anything, either. We mustn't
let our suspicions carry us away, Godfrey. If you
'knew the Tremaines, you'd see how ridiculous it is
to suspect them—on no better evidence than this,
anyway."
"I don't suspect them," corrected Godfrey, smiling.
"I'm simply seeking the truth. If the Tremaines are
innocent, as they very probably are, it will do them no
harm for us to investigate them a little."
"No," I agreed; " of course not."
"And that's just what I want you to do. You're


no The Problem of the Diamond
here on the inside. Keep your eyes and ears open.
In the meantime, I'll set our newspaper machinery at
work to look up Tremaine's career. Maybe, in that
way, we'll get enough foundation to start a theory
on."
"And the diamond?"
"The diamond may not have come from the pin, at
all. It's no uncommon thing to lose a stone like that.
Or if it did, she may have dropped it here at some
other time—perhaps she was in here the next day to
have a look at the body."
"I doubt that," I objected. "She's not a woman
who'd have a curiosity for that sort of thing."
"Well, we'll puzzle it out in time. If I only had a
chance to study Tremaine, to hear him talk, to watch
him without being seen. That would be worth more
to me than all this theorising. Then I'd have my
feet on solid ground; I could—sh!—who's that?"
A door opened and a step crossed the hall. There
came a tap at my door.
Godfrey shot me one electric glance; then, lightly
as a panther, he seized coat and hat and disappeared
into the bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar.


114 A Flash from the Depths
evening over a book. Your company is very wel-
come."
"That is good of you to say. I shall speak frankly,
then, as I had intended doing."
He paused and puffed at his cigarette. I saw that,
in spite of his superb assurance, the subject, what-
ever it was, presented a certain difficulty.
"I have been curious to see," he began, at last,
"how Cecily would affect New Yorkers. She is cer-
tainly well stared at."
"And no wonder!" I said. "She would make
St. Anthony turn his head."
"You really weren't bored last night?"
"I don't see how anybody could be bored with
Cecily," I answered with conviction.
"Ah, you think so?" and he shot me a quick glance.
"You admire her, then?"
"Admiration is hardly the word," I said slowly.
"It is too weak, too thin"
Evidently he misunderstood me, for he did not wait
for me to finish—to explain myself.
"That makes it easier for me," he interrupted.
"You have perhaps suspected that the union between
us is not a—ah—a legal one?"
"Yes," I said, "I had suspected that."
"Such unions are the rule in Martinique," he con-
tinued calmly, "and have been from time immemorial.
They are a part of the life there—they are a matter of
course—and frequently they are as permanent and
happy as any regular one could be. Cecily is what is
known as a fille-de-couleur; physically, I believe, the
most beautiful women in the world."


A Flash from the Depths 113
"Then she is not an exception?"
"Oh, no—she's a type—physically, at least. Men-
tally, I believe she does differ somewhat from the
typical capresse. For instance, I never knew another
attempt to tame a fer-de-lance."
"It seemed to me," I observed "that she had as
many possibilities as the snake."
He laughed lightly.
"For evil, you mean? That's merely the effect of
the first view. Really, the capresse girls have an ex-
cellent reputation for docility and all the rest. Not
that it would matter much in Martinique—the people
there are used to living over a volcano and don't
mind. Of course," he added, in another tone, "I
shall, before long, have to break it off. Society, here,
is differently organised—different climates, different
morals, you know; I feel that I must conform to it.
Indeed, I even wish to do so. It is time that I settled
down, ranged myself, became a man of family—I
have been a wanderer long enough. Cecily can't
endure this climate, anyway. I'll send her back to St.
Pierre."
"What will she say to that?" I asked, with a vivid
memory of the adoring way her eyes always dwelt
upon him.
"You think it sounds a little brutal ?" and he smiled
gaily. "It isn't, in the least. You've put Cecily on
too high a pedestal. They have an axiom down there,
'Nee de 1'amour, la fille-de-couleur nit d'amour, de
rires, et d'oublis '—her life is a thing of love, laughter,
and forgettings. I think it's essentially true. At the
same time," he added, more seriously, " I don't wish to


A Flash from the Depths 115
"Merely that it is a delicate trust. I'm not at all
unwilling to undertake it, only"
Again he misunderstood; again he did not wait for
me to finish. It was the only weakness I ever detected
in him—he made a false step that could never be re-
traced.
"Only you are flesh and blood, you would say?"
and he shot me a smile which illumined as a lightning
flash the depths of his character. "On that score,
do not worry, I beg of you; I am not of a jealous
disposition—I shall not"
A knock at the door interrupted him, or I might
have answered in a way that would have wrecked
Godfrey's plan forever. I flung the door open and
saw Higgins standing there.
"A call at th' telephone fer you, Mr. Lester," he
said.
"Excuse me, please," I called over my shoulder to
Tremaine, and strode down the hall after the janitor.
So heated was I with anger, so shaken by this sud-
den revelation, that not till we were in the elevator
dropping downward did I remember that Godfrey
was in my bedroom. A sudden chill struck through
me. Suppose Tremaine should take advantage of the
opportunity to examine my rooms; suppose he should
discover Godfrey . . .
It was too late now to avert it; I could not go back,
so I went on to the telephone. It was Mr. Royce who
wanted me; he had been called suddenly out of town
and wished to give me some instructions for the next
day. Our conversation lasted perhaps five minutes;
then I hung up the receiver and mounted to my rooms.


116 A Flash from the Depths
With a hand not wholly steady, I opened the door.
Tremaine was sitting in the chair where I had left him
and was just lighting another cigarette.
He arose with a smile as I came in.
"I must be going," he said. "And you will keep
an eye on Cecily?"
"Yes, I'll be glad to," I assented. Surely, I need
hesitate at no means to learn the truth about
him.
"And be as gay as you please," he added. "You're
doing me a great favour, which I shall take care to
repay some day. Good-night."
"Good-night," I answered and closed the door.
As I turned, Godfrey walked calmly out of the bed-
room. I waited till I heard Tremaine's door close.
Then I opened mine softly and looked up and down
the hall. It was empty.
"You're getting cautious," said Godfrey, as I closed
the door a second time.
"Yes—I'm beginning to fear him. You heard?"
"Every word."
"And what do you think of him?"
"I think," said Godfrey slowly, "that he's one of
the most consummate scoundrels I ever had to deal
with. However, we'll unmask him—he's letting us
into his citadel."
"Yes," I said, "and I hesitated"
"I saw you did; and I was trembling for fear you'd
refuse—your notions of honour are a little too finely
drawn."
"I think I should have refused," I said, " if I hadn't
been called away to the telephone, and so had time to


A Flash from the Depths 117
cool off a bit and think it over. I don't understand
yet how he came to strike such a false note."
"It's the Latin blood in him. They never can com-
prehend the Anglo-Saxon point of view."
"Perhaps that's it. By the way," I added suddenly,
"that was mighty lucky."
"It was uncommonly lucky," he agreed, with an
enigmatic smile.
"I mean his not looking through the rooms. I
almost had a nervous chill when I remembered you
were in there. But it was too late to come back."
"I'm glad you didn't come back—that would have
spoiled everything."
"You mean he didn't sit still?"
"Not for an instant. I was sure he wouldn't;
therefore as soon as I caught Higgins's errand, I dived
behind your rain-coat. Luckily, it's a long one."
"Yes—and then?"
"And then he took a quick look through the bed-
room—I heard him open the closet door and drop on
one knee to glance under the bed. Then he went
on into the bathroom, and finally came back again to
the sitting-room."
"Well?" I asked, for I saw that there was some-
thing yet untold.
"Well," continued Godfrey, " after a minute or two,
I thought it safe to venture out from under the rain-
coat, more especially as certain peculiar sounds from
the other room awakened my curiosity. The sounds
were a sort of slow, regular scraping."
He paused a moment to look at me; I could only
stare at him.


118 A Flash from the Depths
•" I crept to the door and peeped through. Guess
what I saw! You never could guess, though. Tre-
maine was crawling slowly about the room, running
his hands carefully over the carpet. He was search-
ing for the diamond."


120 A Trap for Tremaine
out. He examined the lock, tried it once or twice
with the key, which was in it; then he turned to
me.
"What time do you leave in the morning?" he
asked.
"About seven-thirty."
"Seven-thirty—very well. Now I must be going.
Look for me in the morning."
"In the morning?"
"Yes—I'll explain afterwards. Now let me out
softly."
"Wait," I said, for I too had a sudden idea. "You
have a photograph of Thompson, I suppose?"
"Yes, at the office."
"Bring it up in the morning with you. I should like
to look at it."
"All right," he said, and after I had made sure
that the coast was clear, he stole away upon tip-
toe.
For a long time after he had gone, I sat and thought
over the evening's events. In the first place, he had
given me a complete and succinct story of the crime;
I felt that I held in my hands all the details of the
tragedy—all the threads that led toward its solution.
As Godfrey had pointed out, the foundation was as yet
too weak to support a theory—we needed more facts
to build upon. The strands of circumstance we had
woven about Tremaine were really mere cobwebs—
any breath of wind might blow them away. Was
there really any connection between him and Thomp-
son? That they had both lived in the tropics proved
nothing; and they could hardly have come to New


A Trap for Tremaine 121
York together, since the Tremaines had arrived at the
Marathon fully three weeks before Thompson ap-
peared there.
At least, I told myself, I could find out on which'
boat the Tremaines had come, since I knew the approx-
imate date of their arrival. If Thompson proved to
be a fellow-passenger of theirs we had taken an im-
portant step forward; if not, some other bit of evi-
dence might possibly be stumbled upon. That should
be my task for the luncheon-hour to-morrow; till then,
I would permit myself to consider none of the other
details of the mystery—I knew how easy it was
to get inextricably tangled in a maze of conjecture—
and with this resolve I went to bed.
But, as it happened, my noon hour was to be dif-
ferently occupied. Scarcely was I out of bed next
morning, when there came a light tap on my door and
Godfrey slipped in the instant I opened it.
"I had a few properties to arrange," he explained,
smiling, "and so thought I'd best come early."
He went on into the bedroom and opened the closet
door. Then he took from his pocket a stout bolt,
with screws and a screw-driver, and proceeded to
affix it to the inside of the door.
"Now, my dear Lester," he said, rising when the
task was finished, " I'll have to ask you to run up this
noon and let me out."
"Let you out of where?"
"Out of the closet. You see, unfortunately, this
lock works only from the outside, so you'll have to
lock me in before you go. I've put on the bolt as an
extra precaution."


122 A Trap for Tremaine
"You mean you're going to spend the whole morn-
ing in that closet?"
"That's precisely what I mean."
"But you'll suffocate."
"No—you see I've cut a hole through. That will
let in the air; besides, through it one can get an ad-
mirable view of the outer room."
"Ah!" I said, beginning to understand. "It's a
trap!"
"Yes, a trap. Maybe we'll catch something and may-
be we won't. What time do you usually go to lunch?"
"About one o'clock."
"That ought to bring you here by one-thirty. Very
well; lock me in and take the key with you."
I did as he bade me, though hot without some re-
luctance, and I confess that I thought of little else
during the morning. How the hours dragged—and
I pictured to myself Godfrey standing in that narrow
space, cramped, half-suffocated, counting the minutes.
Yet perhaps he did not find the time so long; perhaps
before his eyes some drama was enacting . . .
One o'clock came at last, and I hurried out and
took the Elevated uptown as the quickest way of get-
ting there. It was just one-twenty when I opened
my door; with a little shiver of apprehension, I inserted
the key in the lock of the closet and threw back the
bolt. Godfrey walked out on the instant. He was
smiling, but pale with fatigue.
"If you've got such a thing as a nip of brandy any-
where about, Lester," he said, sinking into the near-
est chair, " I'd be infinitely obliged for it. I feel rather
shaky in the knees."


A Trap for Tremaine 123
I brimmed a glass for him, and he set it down
empty, with a sigh of satisfaction.
"That's better. Do you know, I thought for a
time, toward the last, that I was going to collapse.
One little crack is scarcely ventilation enough for an
active pair of lungs. However, I was repaid."
"You were?"
"Yes," and he smiled at my impatience. "I'll tell
you the story, and see what you make of it. First
came the chambermaid, who performed her duties with
neatness and despatch. Then a dreary half-hour
passed. I had about come to the conclusion that I
might have spared my pains, when I caught the sound
of a key in the lock of the outer door. I heard the
door open and close, and an instant later our friend
Tremaine appeared within my range of vision."
"Tremaine!" I exclaimed. "Then he had Thomp-
son's key!"
"So it seems. Stole it most probably."
"But why?"
"Ah, if we knew that, we should know everything.
I'm glad you didn't have the lock changed."
"So am I—it's added another link to the chain."
"Yes," agreed Godfrey, "and a strong one. But
my story's only begun. Tremaine took a look through
the rooms to assure himself that there was no one here.
He tried the closet door, but didn't seem surprised or
suspicious when he found it locked. Then he went
back to the outer room, dropped on his hands and
knees and began to search."
"For the diamond."
"So I thought, at first. I couldn't see him for a little


126 A Trap for Tremaine
"I don't know—nor how he came to believe they
were hidden here."
"Perhaps Miss Croydon told him," I suggested.
"Perhaps she asked him to get them for her."
"No, I don't think so; if she'd done that, she'd have
told him where she hid them. I think it much more
probable that they contain some secret of his, and he's
concluded she hasn't got them because she hasn't pro-
duced them against him. And he's reasoned correctly
in supposing that if she hasn't got them, she must
have hidden them here."
It was a good guess; an adroit one.
"The question is," added Godfrey, looking about
him, "where did she hide them?"
I looked about, too, but I could think of no place
which had escaped Tremaine's scrutiny.
"Perhaps it was in the table she sat before," said
Godfrey, at last. "It must have been some place near
at hand, instantly suggesting itself, for Simmonds and
I were in the inner room only a minute or two."
"The table had only a single drawer," I said, " and
I looked through it the night I engaged the rooms.
It was empty. I don't see why Miss Croydon should
have concealed the clippings at all; it seems to me that
the most natural thing for her to do would be to put
them in her pocket."
"No doubt," agreed Godfrey; "yet in a moment
of excitement like that, the natural thing might be
the very last thing she'd think of. Besides, she might
have feared that she was to be placed under arrest,
and of course she wouldn't want the clippings
to be found on her. But there's no use sitting here


A Trap for Tremaine 127
spinning theories. I feel in need of solid refresh-
ment."
"So do I," I said, and we went down to the street
together.
"By the way," he added, as we reached the door,
"here's that photograph you asked me for."
I looked at it, at the coarse, bearded face with its
closed eyes—the livid forehead, the full, sensual lips,
the heavy, bloated nose. It was not a pleasant sight,
but your police photographer does not aim at beauty
—he scorns retouching and the other tricks of the trade
—he strives only for truth.
"It's hard to imagine any connection between him
and Tremaine," I remarked.
"Not half so hard as to imagine his connection with
Miss Croydon," commented Godfrey; and I agreed
with him.


CHAPTER VII
Success anO ffailure
WHEN I left the office at noon next day, I took
a cross-town car which eventually landed me
at the foot of West Tenth Street, where the red
and black steamers of the Quebec line load and un-
load their West Indian cargoes. There were other
lines plying to Martinique, but none with arrivals
which approximated the date given me by Cecily, as
I had found by reference to a file of the Maritime
Gazette. Of the Quebec fleet, the Parima had arrived
on February 23d, and had sailed again on the 5th
of March. A reference to the paper of the day before
showed me that she had just arrived in port again.
There, sure enough, she was, dn»wn up beside the dock,
while two noisy donkey engines were puffing away at
the task of lifting great barrels of sugar from her hold.
I hunted up the purser without delay.'
"May I see your passenger list for your last trip
north?" I asked; "the trip before this one."
"Certainly," he responded, and produced it.
It was not a long one, and in a moment I had found
what I was looking for. Victor Treinaine and wife
were fifth on the list. But no "H. Thompson" ap-
peared there. However, I had a last resource—I had
scarcely expected to find him entered among the pas-
sengers.
128


Success and Failure 129
"Is the captain aboard?" I inquired.
"Captain Hake has gone over to his home on Long
Island for a day or two," answered the purser. "The
first officer, Mr. Grice, is forward, superintending the
unloading."
"Thank you," I said, and hurried up to the deck. I
found Mr. Grice without difficulty, a tall, blond young
man, with eyes of a cerulean blue. "Can you spare
me a moment?" I asked, after I had introduced my-
self.
"Why, I guess so. What is it?"
"Did you ever see this man before?" and I pro-
duced the photograph Godfrey had given me.
"Well, I should say so!" he cried, at the first glance.
"And I hope I'll never see him ag'in. Thompson his
name is, and we shipped him at Barbadoes, in place
of one of our men who deserted there. He didn't have
a decent rag to his back, so we fitted him up with some
old things out of the slop-chest."
I nodded; that explained the different initials marked
on his clothing.
"He only shipped as far as St. Pierre," continued
the mate; "but after we'd got there, he changed his
mind and come on to New York. What's he been
doin'? Gettin' into more trouble? He's not been
out of jail more'n three or four weeks."
"Out of jail?"
"Yes—he was a regular fiend for booze, though
we didn't find it out until after we left St. Pierre.
Where he got it I don't know—he didn't have any
money t' buy it, that's sure. I've kind o' thought one
of the passengers must 'a' give it to him, though I


130 Success and Failure
can't imagine why. But anyway, he was half-drunk
three-fourths of the time and dead drunk the other
fourth. We'd find him layin' in his berth and we'd
yank him out and drop him into a tub of water. He'd
sober up quicker 'n any man I ever see, but he was
never satisfied unless he had a pint or two inside him.
When we tied up at the wharf here, he got awful bad—
wanted t' go ashore right away—fought the captain
when he wouldn't let him. The captain handed him
over to a policeman, and he got twenty days on the
island."
I nodded again; so that was why he was so long
after Tremaine in putting in an appearance at the
Marathon.
"Let's see the picture," he added, and looked at it
more closely. "That's the very son-of-a-gun. What's
the matter with him, anyway? Asleep? Drunk more
likely."
"No," I said, "he's dead."
"Dead? Drank hisself to death, hey?"
"No; somebody murdered him."
"Oh, shucks! What'd anybody want to murder
him for? Most likely he was tryin' to kill somebody
else and got a dose of his own medicine."
"That may be," I assented; and indeed the sug-
gestion was not without its merits. "We've been try-
ing to find out something about him. Can you tell us
anything?"
"Not a thing more'n I've told you. He was on the
bum down there in Barbadoes for sure."
"Do you think the captain would know anything
more?"


Success and Failure 131
"No, I don't. Plant him in Potter's Field and good
riddance. I'll bet he didn't get any more'n was comin'
to him."
With which sage reflection, he turned back to his
work, while I sought the shore. On the way back
to the office, I turned the mate's story over in my mind.
It had, at least, served to establish one thing—a con-
nection, however slender, between Thompson and Tre-
maine. It was evident that Thompson had intended
joining Tremaine at St. Pierre, but when he found
him embarking on the Parima, stayed with the vessel
so that they might reach New York together. That
it was Tremaine who had supplied the other with
spirits on the voyage north I did not doubt; Thomp-
son, then, had some claim upon Tremaine—a claim,
perhaps, of friendship, of association in crime; a claim,
doubtless, to which those missing clippings gave the
clew. If I could only find them! But Tremaine had
searched for them with a thoroughness which had ex-
cited even Godfrey's admiration. No doubt Miss
Croydon had them at this moment in the pocket of
her gown; or perhaps she had destroyed them without
realising their importance. But she must have realised
it, or she would never have dared take them from that
repulsive body; she must have known exactly what
they contained, if they were the papers she had gone
to suite fourteen to get . . .
I felt that I was getting tangled in a snarl of my own
making, and I gave it up.
Godfrey came into the office that evening, just as
I was closing my desk.
"I want you to go to dinner with me," he said. "I


132
Success and Failure
have to run down to Washington to-night, and it may
be three or four days before I get back. I want to
talk things over."
We took a cab uptown and stopped at Riley's—the
Studio, alas! had closed its doors—and we were pres-
ently ensconced in a snug corner, where we could talk
without danger of being overheard.
"I've found out a few things about Tremaine,"
began Godfrey, as the waiter hurried away with our
order.
"And I about Thompson," I said.
"You have?" and he looked at me in surprise.
"How in the world did you do it?"
His astonishment was distinctly complimentary, and
I related with considerable gratification my conversa-
tion with the mate of the Parima.
"Well," observed Godfrey, when I had finished,
"that was a bright idea of yours—that establishes the
link between the two men. Our St. Pierre cor-
respondent wires us that Tremaine arrived there some
three years ago, presumably from South America. He
bought a little plantation just outside the town and
settled there. He seemed to have plenty of money
when he arrived, but he probably spent it all—on that
girl Cecily, perhaps—for before he sailed, he borrowed
thirty-five hundred francs with his plantation as
security."
"Seven hundred dollars—that wouldn't go far," I
commented.
"No—let's see just how far," and Godfrey drew
the menu card toward him and made the following
computation in one corner:


Success and Failure 133
Passage $130
Incidentals on voyage 20
Clothing for himself, 200
Clothing for Cecily, 200
One month's rent, 45
"" board, 120
"" incidentals, .... 150
Total, . . $865
"You see, he hadn't enough to run him a month
—and he's been here nearly twice that long. Besides,
that estimate is much too low—for it's evident that he's
an extravagant liver. He's been moving in expensive
company and has, of course, been keeping up his end.
Then, too, I don't doubt that he provided for Thomp-
son—gave him enough money, anyway, to keep drunk
on—that's the only way to explain Thompson's taking
an apartment like that. I should say that fifteen hun-
dred dollars would be a low estimate for the two
months. Of course, he had to get all his clothing new
—Martinique clothing wouldn't do for March New
York."
"All of which indicates," I said, " either that he had
other resources or that he's received some money—a
thousand dollars, at least—since he's been here."
"Precisely—and I incline to the latter theory. He's
working some sort of tremendous bunco game. He's
playing for big stakes. He's not the man to play for
little ones."
"No," I assented, "he's not," and we fell silent,
. while the waiter removed the dishes.
Over the cigars, afterwards, neither of us said much;
we were both, I think, trying to find some ray of light


134 Success and Failure
in the darkness. At last, Godfrey took out his watch
and glanced at it.
"I must be going," he said, as he tore into little
bits the menu card upon which he had made his com-
putation. "My train leaves at nine."
We put on our coats and went out together. On
the steps we paused.
"There's one thing, Lester," he said; " we're making
progress, and he doesn't suspect us. That's our great
advantage. Perhaps we may catch him off his guard.
During the next week, keep your eyes open and find
4, out how much Cecily knows. Another thing—keep a
clear head—don't let that siren"
"No danger," I interrupted, and half unconsciously
I touched a ring on my finger.
He smiled as he saw the gesture.
"Oh, yes; I'd forgotten about that. Where is she
now?"
"In Florida—she and her mother. They're com-
ing north next month."
"Well," he said, "I'm glad you've got the ring—
you'll need it this next week. I wish the chance was
mine—Cecily, I'm sure, knows a good many interest-
ing things about Tremaine. Besides, I haven't got
your high moral scruples—I believe in fighting fire
with fire. However, do your best. I'll look you up
as soon as I get back. Good-bye."
I watched him until the crowd hid him; then I
turned toward my rooms a little miserably. Without
Godfrey to back me, I felt singularly weak and help-
less. If Tremaine were really the finished scoun-
drel we supposed him, what chance had I against him?


Success and Failure 135
But perhaps he was not; perhaps we were wide of the
mark—looking for truth at the bottom of a well in-
stead of on the mountain-top.
The next day was Saturday. Tremaine was to leave
in the afternoon for his week's absence, and he came
in before I left in the morning to say good-bye. He
seemed strangely elated and triumphant; his eyes were
even brighter than usual, the colour came and went
in his cheeks—he presented, altogether, a most fasci-
nating appearance. He lingered only a moment to
shake hands and thank me again.
"Cecily is jealous of these last moments," he said,
with a laugh. "She's a spoilt child—and like a child,
her moods are only of the moment—she'll be gay as a
lark to-morrow. Well, au revoir, my friend," and he
waved his hand to me and closed the door behind
him.
With the vision of him yet in my eyes, I saw clearly
for the first time how weak and puny and ineffective
was the chain of evidence which we were endeavouring
to forge about him. He rose superior to it, shattered
it, cast it aside, trampled on it contemptuously—
emerged unstained. I had permitted myself to be
blinded by Godfrey's prejudices—no unbiassed person
would ever believe Tremaine guilty. Then I remem-
bered that sudden, infernal smile he had cast at me
two nights before, and some of the glory fell from
him.
At the office, I found awaiting me a note from God-
frey, scribbled hastily in the station of the Pennsyl-
vania road.


136 Success and Failure
"DEAR LESTER [it ran] : By the merest good luck,
I met Jack Drysdale just after I left you. Drysdale
is betrothed to Miss Croydon, and is to be one of a little
house party which Mrs. Delroy has arranged at her
country house near Babylon, Long Island. Tremaine
is to be a guest also! That is where he will spend the
week, and it's evident he's going there with a purpose.
I would give worlds to be there, but Drysdale has
promised to keep a journal of events—he's willing to
do a good deal for me—and to wire me if anything
unusual happens. So I hope for the best. Remem-
ber to keep your eyes open.
"GODFREY."
It is principally from Drysdale's journal that I have
drawn the story of those eventful days.


PART III
THE AFFAIR OF THE NECKLACE


−−−！==



The Pier on Great South Bay in a Storm.


—·：·—！！ =
- - - - - -�


CHAPTER I
tfbe Delrogs
A THOUGH Richard Delroy was known among
his more familiar associates as Dickie, he was
not, as that diminutive might seem to indicate, merely
a good fellow and man about town. It is true that his
wealth was great, and that he had never settled down
to that steady struggle for money which had marked
his father's career, and which many persons seem to
think the only fitting employment for a man in his posi-
tion. He had concluded, wisely perhaps, that he had
enough, and thereupon proceeded to an intelligent
enjoyment of it.
He had an office in the Wall Street district, where
he spent some hours daily in interested contemplation
of the world's markets and pregnant talks with inves-
tors, promoters, and beggars of various denomina-
tions. He had a fondness for books and art, finer and
deeper than a mere mania for purchasing rare editions
and unique masterpieces; he was a member of the
Citizens' Union and contributed freely to every effort
to suppress political graft and corruption; he was vice-
chairman of the University Settlement Society, and
belonged to many other politico-evangelical organisa-
tions. He had built two or three model tenements,
after that voyage of discovery among the slums of
London, which had also resulted, as we have seen,
in his meeting the woman who became his wife.
*39


140 The Delroys
Among these varied occupations, he managed to pass
his time pleasantly and at the same time not unprofit-
ably. In a word, if he did nothing very good, neither
did he do anything very bad—indeed, he averaged up
considerably better than most men of his class—and
it may be added, as a positive virtue, that he had mar-
ried for love and continued to regard his wife with
an affection somewhat unusual in its intensity.
A great many people wondered why he had married
Edith Croydon, but they were mostly those who had
never met her. She would be called attractive rather
than beautiful, with a quiet charm of manner which
was felt most intensely in the privacy of her own
home. She was quite the opposite of vivacious, yet
there was about her no appearance of sadness, and
her smile, when it came, was the sweeter and more
welcome because long delayed. She gave one a certain
sense of valuing it, of not wasting it. Certainly, she
succeeded in making her husband an entirely happy
man, which is, perhaps, the highest praise that can
be given a wife. It is almost needless to add that
she thoroughly sympathised with him in his experi-
ments for the betterment of the condition of the poor,
and that her marriage had not interfered with her own
active work in the same direction.
Her sister was cast in a different mould. Her
beauty won an instant appreciation. Six years
younger than Mrs. Delroy, Miss Croydon was of that
striking, decisive type of brunette which takes a man's
heart by storm. One would never think of her as
anything but daring and self-reliant—audacious, even
—ready for any emergency and willing to meet it


142 The Delroys
The words were spoken evenly, quietly, without any
indication of that deep burst of triumph which glowed
within him; for it was a triumph—a veritable one—
one for which many men and most women would have
made any sacrifice. He controlled himself admirably,
too, at the opera and it was not until the end of the
second act that he sought the box. He entered quietly
and the introductions were accomplished in a moment.
Besides Delroy and his wife, Miss Croydon and Drys-
dale were present. Their reception of him, it must be
added, was somewhat icy, but this he did not seem to
notice.
It was not to be denied that he added greatly to the
life of the party; his comment was so apt, so bril-
liant, so illuminating, yet not in the least self-assured.
Drysdale fell under the spell at once, and even the
women, who naturally looked somewhat askance at the
intruder—who, indeed, had greeted him with glances
almost of repugnance—in the end yielded to it.
During a pause in the conversation, Delroy's glance
happened to fall upon the superb necklace of pearls
which encircled his wife's throat.
"Why, see there, Edith," he cried, "how those pearls
have changed. They seem absolutely lifeless."
Mrs. Delroy picked up a strand with trembling
fingers and looked at it.
"So they do," she agreed, a little hoarsely. "That's
queer. They've changed since I put them on."
"There's a superstition, you know," remarked Drys-
dale, " that pearls somehow possess an acute sympathy
with their owner. When some disaster is about to
happen, they grow dull, just as these have done."


The Delroys 143
"Oh, nonsense, Jack!" protested Delroy. "Stop
your croaking. Do you want to frighten Edith?"
"I'm not so easily frightened," said Mrs. Delroy,
smiling at her husband, though Drysdale fancied she
had grown a little pale, and bit his tongue for his
thoughtless remark.
"Fortunately," said Tremaine suavely, "the defect
is one which is very easily remedied. A few days'
bath in salt water will restore their brilliancy."
"Well," asked Delroy, in some amusement, " where
did you run across that bit of information?"
Tremaine laughed.
"I'm almost ashamed to tell. I got it first in a
newspaper story about the Empress of Austria. She
had a necklace of pearls that turned dull, and she sent
them down to the Mediterranean to be immersed."
"What made them turn dull?" Drysdale inquired.
"No one knew/' answered Tremaine with seeming
carelessness. "It was just before the Empress was
assassinated."
A moment's painful silence followed the words.
"It may have been only a newspaper yarn," said
Delroy, at last. "We've outgrown the superstitions of
the Middle Ages."
"Very possibly," assented Tremaine ; " still it might
be worth asking some jeweller about. Mrs. Delroy's
necklace is worth saving," and he examined it with
the glance of a connoisseur.
It invited examination, for it was almost unique in
its perfection. It had been Delroy's one great ex-
travagance. He had spent many years collecting the
stones, which were of a beautiful iridescence and per-


144 The Delroys
fectly matched, and they had formed his wedding gift
to his wife. The value of the separate stones was
not less than a hundred thousand dollars; their value
combined in the necklace could be only a matter of
conjecture.
"Yes," agreed Drysdale, with a little laugh, "it
certainly is. You'd better take it down to Tiffany,
Dickie."
"I will," said Delroy. "And don't think anything
more about it, Edith."
"I won't," she answered, still smiling, her eyes un-
naturally bright. "But it's very close in here; I
should like a glass of water."
The water was procured in a moment. Drysdale,
blaming himself more and more, was relieved to see
her colour return. She soon seemed quite herself
again; the talk turned to other things. And once
again Tremaine showed his perfect self-control—he
did not linger unduly, he did not give them a chance
to grow accustomed to him, much less to grow tired of
him. He had not the faintest air of being an in-
truder; he seemed completely at home; and when he
left the box, the men, at least, were sorry he had
gone, and said so. He was that wholly admirable
thing—a guest whose departure one watches with
regret.
That box party was the wedge which enabled Tre-
maine to enter the Delroy circle; a privilege which he
cultivated with such consummate tact that he was soon
accepted everywhere at his face value. His success
was assured from the start, for he brought to palates
jaded by over-feeding a new and exquisite tang; he


The Delroys / 145
was fresh and unusual, amid a surfeit of -stale and
commonplace—he was relished to the uttermost.
It appeared, however, that the press of social duties
and the trying spring weather were proving too much
for Mrs. Delroy's strength, which was never great,
and which had been especially taxed, this season, by
the introduction of her sister to New York society.
Even the comparative quiet of the Lenten season failed
to restore her, and the resumption of the social whirl
after Easter moved Delroy to protest.
"You're going it too hard, Edith," he remarked.
"You need a rest and a change of air; so do I, though
perhaps I don't look it. Suppose we go down to
Edgemere for a week or two."
"Would you like to go?" she asked eagerly.
"Thank you, dear. I do feel the need of it."
"Then I'll wire at once to Thomas to get the house
ready. Shall we say next Saturday?"
"That will do nicely."
"I suppose we'd better have Jack down to look
after Grace?"
"By all means—and you'd better have a friend or
two—I don't want you to get bored."
"Oh, I shan't get bored—besides, I can run into
town occasionally. But perhaps I will invite two or
three of the fellows down for a few days. I'll think
about it," and he hurried away to set the preparations
astir.
It was not till the evening before their departure
that he referred to the matter again.
"Jack's coming with us," he said, " and, by the way,
Edith, I've asked Tremaine to come down to-morrow


146 The Delroys
and stay the week. I want to perfect our plans for that
railroad project; and, besides, he's about the most
fascinating fellow I ever met."
"Yes," she agreed, with a strained little laugh, " he's
very fascinating."


CHAPTER II
ttbe ©auntlct
EDGEMERE was a beautiful estate overlooking
Great South Bay, just east of Babylon. Across
the waters of the bay, the low dunes of Fire Island
were visible, with the lighthouse pointing upward its
white finger of warning. To east and west low,
wooded islets closed in the horizon, while to the north,
the tall trees of a broad stretch of woodland looked
down upon the house. A pretty boathouse and pier
adorned the beach and there was every other device of
bowling-alley, gymnasium, tennis-court, and what not
that could add to the amusement of summer sojourners.
There were many pretty walks among the trees, many
fragrant nooks where nature's sway had not been dis-
puted; but perhaps the most attractive corner of the
place was the walk beyond the bowling-alley, beneath
a graceful pergola, covered with vines in summer,
leading to a shady bower commanding a wide view
of the bay, from which a terraced walk descended to
the water.
It was essentially a summer play-house, and yet John
Drysdale, looking through the blurred glass of the
carriage that had brought him from the station through
the sudden April shower, saw in the light streaming
redly from the windows a warmth of welcome that
summer could not show. A pile of logs was blazing
147


The Gauntlet 149
sheer wonder of the thing. 'She is mine,' I said to
myself, 'She is mine,' and yet I couldn't quite be-
lieve it—it seemed too stupendous, too utterly absurd.
What have I done to deserve you?"
There was something very touching in the sincerity
of the frank, boyish face. She answered wath a pres-
sure of the hand which said more than many words.
"I feel a good deal as that page felt," he went on,
after a moment, "who looked up at Kate the Queen.
'She never could be wronged, be poor,' he sighed,
'need him to help her.'"
"And yet in the end she did need him, didn't she?
Perhaps," and her face changed and she looked away
into the fire again, "perhaps I may need you—may
have to ask a great sacrifice of you"
"Ask it," he said eagerly. "Ask anything but that
I give you up."
"I have already asked one thing," she said slowly,
looking at him with a face very gentle. "No little
thing—your trust—your confidence, your"
"You had no need to ask it," and he caught her
hands again. "It was yours already."
"And will be mine always?"
"Can you doubt it?"
"No—and I shall be glad to remember it."
"Not long ago," he said, looking at her, "a friend
of mine gave me some good advice."
"Which was?"
"That I be happy in having you, without con-
ditions; that I try to live up to you and be worthy
of you; that I try to do something worth while for
your sake.'''


150 The Gauntlet
She had listened with raised brows.
"I didn't know I was a subject of discussion"
"You're not—but you sent me to him"
"Oh—Mr. Godfrey!" A little cloud came upon
her face; she opened her lips to say something more,
but a step sounded on the stair and Tremaine came
slowly down. There was a look on his face not pleas-
ant to see, but he had banished all trace of it as he
came forward to greet them.
When the men joined the women after dinner,
they found Miss Croydon sitting at the piano idly
touching the keys. Tremaine went to her with a
directness that argued purpose. She looked up, ex-
pecting perhaps to see Drysdale; her eyes narrowed
and hardened as they met Tremaine's.
"I've been wanting to ask you to sing," he said,
apparently not noticing her change of expression,
"but feared you might think me bold. You see, I
am taking the bull by the horns. Some instinct told
me"
"The instinct is wrong," she interrupted, dropping
her eyes to the keyboard. "I do not sing."
"No? Then I shall miss a great pleasure which
I had promised myself. You have a singing voice."
There was a penetrating fascination about the man
which compelled her to lift her eyes to his. He was
smiling, radiant, triumphant, as a general, confident
of victory, just swinging into battle. She shivered
slightly, as he bent closer and added something in a
tone of voice too low to be heard by the others in the
room.
L_


The Gauntlet 151
She flushed and her fingers crashed out an indig-
nant chord of protest. Drysdale, drawn by some com-
pelling uneasiness, approached them. Tremaine had
been turning over the music as he talked; his ears,
sensitive as a cat's, caught the sound of Drysdale's
footsteps.
"Shall we try this one?" he asked aloud, and placed
a sheet on the rack before her.
Without answering, she swept into the prelude.
"' You'll love me yet!—and I can tarry
Your love's protracted growing;
June reared that bunch of flowers you carry
From seeds of April's sowing.'"...
His voice was an admirable tenor, and he sang the
lines with a meaning and expression that brought the
warm blood to her cheek. When it was done, he
acknowledged the applause with a little bow, casting at
Drysdale a glance at once triumphant and ironic.
And in that instant, Drysdale knew that the song had
not been chosen by chance—that Tremaine had paused
to listen at the stair-head. A sudden abyss yawned
before him—here was a rival who would pause at
nothing; who already had about him a certain air of
victory. Drysdale clenched his teeth with a quick
breath; well, he would make the fight of his life to
keep what he had won!
"More, more!" clamoured Delroy. "You could
make your fortune as a stage lover, Tremaine."
"Ah, there is a difference between the sham and the
true!" said Tremaine, in a tone full of meaning.
"You are an excellent accompanist, Miss Croydon;


152 The Gauntlet
you know how to humour the singer, and I need a
lot of humouring."
"Will you give them an encore?" she asked, dis-
regarding the compliment.
"Let me see." He was looking at her with eyes
wonderfully bright. "There is a simple little melody
they sing at St. Pierre at the time of the Carnival. I
think you could accompany it," and he hummed the
air. "Splendid! That is it. You will think the
words pretty. I'll sing them as they were written, not
as the Creoles have changed them.
"' Petits amoureux aux plumes,
Enfants d'un brillant sejour,
Vous ignorez 1'amertume,
Vous parlez souvent d'amour:
Vous mdprisez la dorure,
Les salons, et les bijoux;
Vous chdrissez la Nature,
Petits oiseaux, becquetez-vous!'"
"Go on, go on; don't stop!" cried Delroy. "There
must be another verse. It wouldn't be a French song
if there wasn't."
"There is," and Tremaine laughed; "as usual, one
that points a moral. I hadn't intended to sing it—but
—with your permission, Miss Croydon."
She nodded, as she ran lightly through a little im-
provised interlude. Drysdale, from the other end of
the piano, wondered how Delroy could suddenly de-
velop such poor taste. Tremaine glanced at him, as
he began the second verse; then he turned his eyes
upon Miss Croydon, smiling.


The Gauntlet 153
"' Voyez lii bas, dans cette eglise,
Aupres d'un confessional,
Le pretre, qui veut faire croire a Lise,
Qu'un baiser est un grand nial;
Pour prouver a la mignonne
Qu'un baiser bien fait, bieu doux,
N'a jamais damn6 personne,
Petits oiseaux, becquetez-vous!'"
"Capital!" cried Delroy. "What next? Come—the
third verse!"
But Miss Croydon rose abruptly from the piano.
"No," she said; "I protest. I've no doubt it goes
from bad to worse! I'm afraid to listen!"
"You are wrong, Miss Croydon," said Tremaine,
smiling full into her eyes. "You do me an injustice.
I assure you there is no third verse," and he joined
the Delroys where they sat before the fire.


CHAPTER III
B Croaahifl of SworJx?
WHEN Drysdale opened his window next morn-
ing, he found the sun shining from a sky
unclouded and the air warm with the promise of
spring. It called him in a way not to be resisted and
he stepped out on the little balcony which ran beneath
the window; then he caught the odour of a cigarette,
and turned to see Tremaine smiling at him.
"Good-morning!" cried Tremaine. "A beautiful
morning, isn't it? Won't you join me?"
It was impossible to refuse him; but Drysdale had
no thought of refusal—he rather welcomed the op-
portunity to cross swords with his rival, to test his
skill, to find out in how far that air of triumph was
justified by the strength behind it. So he took the
little cylinder of paper as he returned the greeting,
and sat down on the sill of his window.
"But how grey the sea is," continued Tremaine.
"It is not so in the tropics—it is blue—oh, such a
blue!"
"You seem to be an early riser," observed Drysdale,
who had thought to find himself the first astir.
"It is a habit one learns at St. Pierre. The dawn
is, there, the only pleasant portion of the day—one
rises to burn incense to it."
"You have lived long at St. Pierre?"


A Crossing of Swords 155
"Nearly four years."
"And before that?"
Drysdale felt the baldness of the question, and
knew that he was not proceeding as deftly as he should,
that he was fencing clumsily; but opposed to this was
a burning desire to know more about this man, to
probe into his past. Not by the quiver of a lash did
Tremaine indicate that he found the question either
strange or unwelcome.
"Ah, I have been a wanderer," he answered readily,
and with apparent frankness. "I have lived in many
countries and I have met many people—at Paris, at
St. Petersburg, at London, even at Stamboul. And
you, Mr. Drysdale?"
There was something subtly ironic in the tone—a
shade of veiled contempt—that brought a flush to the
other's face.
"Yes, you have guessed it," he said; "I've lived
only in New York."
The merest flicker of amusement flashed across Tre-
maine's lips and they finished their cigarettes in silence.
Tremaine's suavity seemed to have come suddenly to an
end. He no longer attempted to disregard the barrier
that had arisen between them, or explain away that
swift glance of the night before. They went down to-
gether to breakfast, presently; but only Delroy joined
them there, and it was not an especially pleasant meal,
despite the bright sun at the windows and Tremaine's
imperturbable good humour. As they arose from
table, that gentleman announced his intention of go-
ing for a walk about the grounds, and Drysdale carried
Delroy off to the library.


156 A Crossing of Swords
"Now, Dickie," he began resolutely, as soon as they
were seated, " I'm going to quarrel with you. You're
not careful enough of your family. Who is this Tre-
maine, anyway?"
Delroy regarded the questioner with a long stare
of astonishment.
"Why, he's a mighty pleasant fellow who's put-
ting through"
"I know all that," interrupted the other, a little
rudely. "But who is he? Where did he come
from?"
"He came from St. Pierre"
"Dickie," said Drysdale impressively, "you're too
easy. You think all men are honest. Have you seen
his credentials? Who stands for him?"
Delroy jumped up impatiently.
"See here, Jack," he demanded, "what is it you're
driving at?"
"I'm trying to point out to you that you've taken
Tremaine to your bosom a little too hastily," answered
Drysdale bluntly.
Delroy flushed with annoyance.
"Mr. Tremaine," he said with emphasis, " is one of
the most cultured and charming men I ever met. He
came to me on a matter of business; I found that
we had many tastes in common, and I have enjoyed
his society immensely."
"That's all right, Dickie. I've no objection to
your enjoying his society as much as you like. But
you oughtn't to bring him here."
"Why?" demanded Delroy.
"Because," answered Drysdale hotly, " he's making


A Crossing of Swords 157
love to Grace. Didn't you see him last night at the
piano, when"
Delroy, who had been listening open-mouthed, burst
into a sudden roar of laughter. Drysdale stopped,
looked at him, then turned and left the room.
Tremaine seemed to enjoy his walk; at least, he did
not return to the house until nearly the hour for
luncheon. At that meal, the women joined them, and
a drive was planned for the afternoon, which ended
at the vesper service at the little chapel at Babylon.
For some reason1 the drive had not been a success;
a certain constraint seemed to have fallen upon the
party, a feeling of unrest, of uneasiness, which sent
them severally to their rooms as soon as they reached
the house.
Drysdale did not proceed to dress immediately.
Instead, he sat moodily down and stared out into the
darkness. He could see the flare of light which
streamed from his neighbour's windows—what was
there about him that repelled while it attracted?
What had he meant by that glance of disdain? Drys-
dale flushed hotly at thought of it. It had been so
quick, so elusive, that at the instant he had not caught
its full meaning, its almost insolent triumph. Tri-
umph? And was there cause for that? Did that ex-
plain Grace's indifference during the drive? Was that
why she sat beside him silent, distraught? Was she
thinking of Tremaine? Or was she waiting for him
before the fire . . .
He sprang to his feet, switched on the lights, and
began hastily to dress.


158 A Crossing of Swords
What instinct was it that told him to set his foot
lightly on the stair, or was it only that he hoped to
look down upon her for a moment, unseen? The
sound of voices reached him, and leaning over, he saw
two figures standing before the fire which the evening
chill had rendered necessary—Miss Croydon and Tre-
maine. He started abruptly to descend, when he
caught a sentence that made him pause.
"I'm not in the least like that," Tremaine was say-
ing, and though the voice was carefully repressed,
it had in it a ring of savage earnestness. "In your
heart you know it, or you wouldn't stand there listening.
I have come to you at once, boldly, because I'm sure
that I shall win. He is not worthy of you—in your
heart you know that, also. He cannot hold you; he is
too weak; I shall wrench you away! You're not the
woman to be tied to a gilded mediocrity. You have
fire—ah! I have studied you—you need a larger out-
look upon life. You've been kept in a cage—you've
never had a chance to be yourself. Here, you will
never have the chance—with me, it would be different.
You do not know how different! At Paris, at Vienna,
at Rome"
She had been leaning away from him, staring into
the fire, as though charmed into silence by this im-
petuous eloquence. Now, she stood erect and looked
at him.
"What you are proposing to me is infamous," she
said, through clenched teeth.
"It is not in the least infamous," he retorted coolly.
"I am offering you the future I know you sigh for.
It is a future that I sigh for, too; that I have sighed


A Crossing of Swords 159
for from the first moment I saw you, and which I am
going to make come true. Together, we will conquer
the world. As my wife"
"Your wife?" There was scorn, anger, fear in
the words, and in the glance she cast at him.
"Certainly—my wife," he repeated, with emphasis.
"If I should prove to you"
She stopped him by an imperative gesture.
"You go too far," she said. "There is a limit to
what even I will endure. Do not push me too far; do
not rely too much upon my forbearance. A man
capable of any crime"
He held her by the motion of a finger.
"Is a man who appeals to you," he concluded.
"To be capable of any crime, and yet to commit none,
is a virtue"
"To commit none!" she echoed scornfully.
He looked at her without the flicker of a lash.
"To commit none, yes—your own conscience ac-
quits me," he repeated steadily. "But I would pause
at none to gain possession of you. Look at me—do
you doubt it?"
She looked at him with a little shiver.
"No," she said.
"Is there any other man you know who can say as
much?"
She wrested her eyes away from his and turned
again to the fire.
"You strangely mistake me," she said in a cold
voice. "You are reading your own nature into me.
I would ask no man to commit a crime for my sake
—I should abhor the man who did."


160 A Crossing of Swords
He did not answer, but stood looking at her with
a gaze which seemed to envelop her, to pierce her
through and through. Drysdale felt the perspiration
start across his forehead; he wished to cry out, but
could not . . .
A door at the farther end of the hall opened and
Delroy came in. The bonds loosened and Drysdale
fled back to his room. He needed to compose himself.
Mrs. Delroy did not come down to dinner, pleading
a headache, and after the meal was over, Delroy car-
ried Tremaine off to the library for a last talk over the
details of the railroad enterprise. They intended go-
ing into New York in the morning for an interview
with certain capitalists that would be crucial, and they
needed to arrange their plan of attack.
Drysdale, left to himself, threw away his cigar and
went straightway to seek Grace Croydon. He found
her sitting before the fire in the hall, gazing into it,
her head in her hands. She did not hear his ap-
proach, and for a moment, as he gazed down at her,
he doubted whether he had really witnessed that
strange interview of an hour before. Had he not
rather dreamed it? Was it not merely a wild imagin-
ing? He passed his hand before his eyes and dropped
into the chair beside her.
She started at the sound, turned, saw him, and smiled.
But it was not the smile that had greeted him the
night before; it was not from the heart; it did not
reveal, it dissembled. He saw the change and trem-
bled as he guessed its meaning. Then he put hesi-
tation behind him.


A Crossing of Swords 161
"Grace," he said gently, " as I was coming down to
dinner to-night, I happened to see you and Tremaine
standing here together, and, without intending to, I
overheard a sentence which stopped me up there at the
turn of the stair."
She looked at him, her eyes dark with apprehen-
sion.
"You mean that you listened?" she asked.
"After that first sentence, it seemed to me that I
had a right to listen.""
Her lips were curling in scorn, her eyes were burn-
ing through him.
"Oh, a right!"
"Yes, a right," he repeated boldly. "No man
should be permitted to talk to you as he talked. Why,
he insulted you, he threatened you—Heaven knows
what outrage he was ready to commit. Why did you
permit it?"
She turned away from him and her arms dropped
wearily by her sides.
"Your proper course is to inform Delroy," he con-
tinued doggedly, braving the certainty of offending
her. "Or, better still, I will, and then kick that
scoundrel out. I've already had one quarrel with
Dickie about him."
"Have you?" she asked listlessly.
"Yes, I distrust him. Why did you permit him to
talk to you the way he did?"
"I can't tell you," she answered hoarsely.
"But I have a right to know."
"Yes, I suppose you have. Why not break it off?
Then you won't need to worry about me any more,"


CHAPTER IV
Cut anO Cbrust
JOHN DRYSDALE accompanied the other men
to town in the morning, not that he cared to be
with either of them, for his indignation at what he
considered Delroy's laxness had not in the least dimin-
ished, and his distrust of Tremaine had grown stronger
with the passing hours; but the prospect of a day alone
in the house was intolerable, and he felt that Grace
Croydon would wish to avoid him till the hour of ex-
planation was at hand.
Indeed, the sudden antagonism he had developed
toward Delroy would have suggested a permanent
return to town had not a point of honour, as it were,
compelled him to stay. He could not, at this moment,
desert Grace Croydon to the machinations of Tre-
maine; he must save her if he could, not only for his
own sake, but for hers.
It was this gloomy meditation which occupied him
on the trip in to the city, for his companions, immersed
in the details of the day's business, left him severely
to himself. He bade them good-bye at the ferry, and,
in a sort of desperation, went down to the Record
office and asked for Godfrey. He felt that he was
being swept into waters beyond his depth, that he
needed a strong, cool hand to pluck him back to safety;
but he found that Godfrey was out of town.
163


164 Cut and Thrust ,
Delroy and Tremaine went at once to the Wall
Street office where the conference concerning the rail-
road was to take place. Memories of that conference
still survive in the Street; wild legends concerning it—
how a company of conservative, cold-blooded, steel-
gutted capitalists were worked upon, bamboozled, hyp-
notised, wrought up to enthusiasm over a project
which was proved, by the subsequent reports of
engineers, to be about as practicable as a bridge to the
moon. Even yet, the glamour of that meeting endures
with some of the investors who were present, and
they are still convinced that a railroad in Martinique
would pay a fabulous return. Tremaine set for the
Street a new standard of " smoothness," and one which
has never been approached.
The conference was over by noon, and Tremaine
announced his intention of returning to Edgemere by
the first train.
"I'm feeling a little worn out by the morning's ex-
ertions," he explained, and he really looked it. "When
are you coming out?"
"I'm going up to Tiffany's first," Delroy answered,
"and have a talk with them about my wife's necklace.
I left it with them Saturday. If they advise a sea-
bath, I'll bring it along with me, and we'll see what
virtue there is in the treatment."
"Perhaps there isn't any," said Tremaine; "or it
may be that Tiffany has some better method."
"Well, I'll know by to-night," and Delroy held up
a beckoning finger to a passing cab. "Good-bye till
then."
When Tremaine reached Edgemere, he made a tour


166 Cut and Thrust
mediately. Delroy unwrapped a bundle and laid it on
the table. It was a little cage of fine but exceedingly
strong gilt wire, closely meshed.
"My dear," he began, turning to his wife, "you
know I took your necklace to Tiffany's just before
we came out here, and left it for them to examine.
They seemed rather puzzled by its condition—rather
sceptical about its having changed so suddenly—and
they asked me to leave it until to-day. When I went
back after it, their expert gave me a long lecture about
the action of fatty acids and the danger of leaving
pearls shut up in air-tight safe-deposit boxes. I as-
sured him that these hadn't been shut up—they haven't,
have they, Edith?"
"No, of course not," answered his wife promptly.
"I thought not, but I doubt if he fully believed me.
Finally he said that in a case so unusual as this, it
would be well to try the sea-water treatment before
proceeding to anything more heroic—peeling, for
instance."
"Not very encouraging," remarked Drysdale.
"Oh, I didn't stop there. I drove from Tiffany's
up to that queer little Italian jewel-store—Contiani's—
on Thirty-third Street. Contiani himself was there
and he grew quite excited when he saw the stones and
heard the story. He said that a sea-bath was unques-
tionably the best thing for them—in fact, he advised it
most strongly. The stones are getting deader and
deader, so to speak."
He took up the case from the table and snapped it
open. The necklace lay before them, a dull, clammy
white.


Cut and Thrust 167
"So it seems that the only thing to be done is to im-
merse them in their native element for a few days,''
he continued; "and the sooner it's done the better,
Contiani says. That's what I brought this cage for.
We'll put the necklace in it and let it down into the
water at the end of the pier."
"It seems a rather dangerous thing to do," objected
Drysdale. "Why not have a lot of water brought up
to the house and immerse them here?"
"Because only living sea water will do; it seems to
have no efficacy shut up in a vessel of any kind. I
asked about that particularly. Besides, I don't see
that there'll be any danger—we're the only ones who
know. Still, if Edith objects"
"Oh, not at all," said Mrs. Delroy instantly. "I
only hope the stones will be restored; I think they're
horrid now," and she shivered a little as she looked at
them.
"I would suggest, nevertheless," put in Tremaine,
"that a guard be stationed at the pier, to prevent any
possibility of danger. If you haven't any servants you
can fully trust, we might ourselves take turn about."
"Nonsense!" protested Delroy quickly. "Do you
think I'd impose on you like that?"
"I think Mr. Tremaine's suggestion a good one,
nevertheless," said Miss Croydon. "A guard could
stay in the boathouse for a few days without any great
discomfort."
"Perhaps you're right," and Delroy nodded.
"Graham and his boy will be just the ones. They can
relieve each other, so that the time won't seem so
long."


168 Cut and Thrust .
"Yes," agreed Drysdale, "the Grahams are all
right."
Delroy touched the bell.
"Send someone after Graham and his boy,
Thomas," he said. "Bring them here at once."
"You're quite certain of them?" asked Tremaine.
"It's rather a big temptation to put in any man's
way."
Delroy laughed.
"Certain! I should say so. He was an old ser-
vant of my father's, and would as soon think of rob-
bing himself as robbing us. His son's a chip of the
old block. But here they are," he added, as the door
opened and two men came in.
A single glance was enough to convince anyone of
their absolute probity. The elder man was perhaps
sixty years of age, in the very prime of health and
strength, with a weather-beaten countenance sur-
rounded by a grizzled beard; the younger one was
about twenty-five. Both showed the clean skin and
clear eyes and firm muscles resulting from life in the
open air, for they had the care of the acres of lawn
and garden and woodland and meadow belonging to
the estate.
"We was jest passin', sir," began Graham, "when
Tummas called us an' said as how you wanted t' see
us."
"Yes," said Delroy, and held up the little cage.
"Do you know what this is for?"
Graham looked at it stolidly.
"No, sir; I don't," he said.
"Well, I'll show you. This string of white stones


Cut and Thrust 169
/
is Mrs. Delroy's pearl necklace, worth something over
a hundred thousand dollars. I put! them in this cage,
close the lid, and fasten it with these little hooks.
Now, Graham, these stones have lost their lustre and
sea-water's the only thing that will restore it. I want
you to tie a rope to this cage and lower it into the bay
from the end of the pier, securing it, of course, so that
it can't thresh around or break away. It will have
to stay there for three or four days, and during that
time I'd like you and your boy to sleep at the boat-
house and see that nobody meddles with it."
The two men had listened intently, with serious
faces.
"Very well, sir," said the elder, as Delroy finished,
and held out his hand for the cage.
Delroy gave it to him, with a little chuckle of en-
joyment.
"You'd better have a gun with you—not that I think
there's any danger"
"Never'fear, sir," interrupted Graham. "We'll
'tend t' all that. Come on, Willum."
Delroy watched them till the door closed behind
them.
"I believe Graham would say 'Very well, sir,' in
just that tonej if I told him to burn the house down,"
he remarked. "We'll go down after dinner and see
how he's arranged things. And now," he added, " my
innards are beginning to clamour vigorously for re-
freshment."
Drysdale lost no time in staring out of the window
or in unprofitable meditation, for he was determined
that Tremaine should have no second opportunity for


170 Cut and Thrust
a tete-a-tete with Grace Croydon. Therefore he
dressed as rapidly as he could and ran lightly down the
stair. But there was no one waiting for him before
the fire-place.
He sat down in one of the great chairs, hoping
against hope. Perhaps she would come; every mo-
ment of silence irked him; he was chafing to tear down
the wall of misunderstanding that had risen between
them. How could she have permitted Tremaine's
threatening insolence? She was the last woman in the
world . . .
"I think we're going to have rain," said a smooth
voice, and Drysdale looked up with a start to find
Tremaine standing beside him.
Since the night before they had made no pretence
of friendship; they instinctively understood each other;
and Tremaine's smile now had a cool impudence
very galling. Nevertheless, Drysdale choked back
his first angry impulse; he must wait until Grace
spoke.
"Do you?" he said carelessly, and turned deliber-
ately away.
Tremaine's face flushed at the tone and his eyes
narrowed like a cat's; then he, too, sat down and
stretched out his legs.
"It's a great privilege," he said, "to be admitted
thus to a place where life passes so pleasantly."
"It is," agreed Drysdale. "I confess, I don't un-
derstand how you obtained it."
He regretted the words the instant they were
spoken; he had no wish to precipitate a quarrel.
Tremaine did not change his careless attitude, but


Cut and Thrust 171
he turned upon his companion a gaze that glittered
coldly.
"I must tell you," he said in a voice of sfeel, "that
you have not the manners of a gentleman."
The words brought Drysdale upright.
"Perhaps not," he retorted hotly; " but neither have
I those of a blackguard. I had the good fortune to
overhear the infamous threats you made to Miss
Croydon"
Tremaine laughed a laugh that was more insult-
ing than any words.
"So you're also an eavesdropper, a listener at doors?
That confirms the statement I have already made.
You will make me an apology or"
"Or what?" demanded Drysdale fiercely, rising
from his chair with muscles tense.
Tremaine rose, too, deliberately, and faced him with
a look so terrible that despite himself he shivered.
"Or take the consequences," said Tremaine, in a
tone all the more threatening because it was very
calm.
Drysdale laughed—it cost him something, but he
achieved it.
"Very well," he said contemptuously, " I'll take the
consequences," and he turned his back upon Tremaine
and walked away with an indifference he was very
far from feeling.


CHAPTER V
tTbe mow galls
DINNER, that night, was anything but a cheer-
ful meal; in fact, it was evident that the house
party possessed that fatal bar to success — a spirit of
antagonism. Drysdale and Grace Croydon main-
tained a careful silence, and Mrs. Delroy was so ob-
viously depressed that her husband was alarmed.
"I don't believe this stay in the country is doing
you a bit of good, Edith," he observed.
She smiled wearily in answer to his anxious look.
"I don't feel very well, to-night," she said. "I
think I shall lie down right after dinner."
"I would," he agreed. "You must save yourself
all you can. I can't have you getting ill, you know.
If I'd had any sense, I'd have got you away from that
New York whirl a month ago."
"I'm not going to be ill," she assured him; " I'll be
all right in a day or two."
As soon as the meal was over, she and her sister
disappeared upstairs while the men lighted their cigars
and strolled down to the boathouse to view the prep-
arations made by the Grahams for the protection of the
necklace. The night was very close, with a promise
of rain unmistakable.
They went through the boathouse without rinding
anyone, but out on the pier beyond old Graham was
172


The Blow Falls 173
sitting, gazing across the water and smoking an odor-
iferous pipe. Between his knees he held a Winchester
repeater and a revolver-butt stuck from a case at his
belt.
Delroy laughed quietly as he looked at him.
"Why, you're a regular arsenal," he said. "You're-
taking it in earnest for sure."
"Might as well be on th' safe side, sir," responded
Graham sententiously.
"And where's the necklace?"
"Lowered from th' end of th' pier, sir."
"No chance of it getting away?"
"I tied th' knots, sir."
"All right—that settles it. You're not going to
sit out here all night, I hope?"
"Willum takes his trick at midnight, sir. He's
gone over t' th' house t' bring a cot an' some beddin'
down t' th' boathouse. We'll take turn an' turn about."
"Well," said Delroy, turning away, "I see I can
sleep without worrying any over the safety of the neck-
lace. If there's anything you want, Graham, in the
way of eatables or drinkables, don't hesitate to send
to the butler for them."
"Thank 'ee, sir; but I guess we'll let th' drink-
ables alone fer th' present. We'll cook our own meals
on th' stove in th' boathouse."
"What do you want to do that for?"
"Well," returned Graham slowly, " then we'll know
that they ain't nothin' in them thet hadn't ought t'
be there."
Delroy laughed again, long and loud, and even
Drysdale smiled.


174 The Blow Falls
"You've been reading a dime novel!" cried Delroy,
when he had got his breath. "Deadwood Dick—I
didn't think it of you, Graham!"
"I don't read nothin', sir, but th' Noo York
Record"
"It's the same thing," Delroy interjected.
"But I don't believe in takin' no risks—when you
come after th' necklace, sir, it's a-goin' t' be right here."
"I haven't a doubt of it," his employer assured him.
"It would be a mighty desperate thief who'd tackle
you. You're all right, Graham. But I'd go into the
boathouse if it rains."
"I'll see about it, sir," said Graham, and refilled his
pipe.
As they passed through the boathouse again, they
perceived young " Willuni " busily engaged in making
up his bed on a cot in one corner. Delroy nodded
to him and passed on without speaking.
"It's too nice a night to spend in the house," said
Drysdale, a little abruptly, as they mounted the steps
to the door. "I believe I'll go for a tramp. I'll take
my rain-coat, though; then I needn't hurry back."
"I didn't know you were such a lover of nature,
Jack," observed Delroy.
"I'm not; but I feel like tramping to-night."
Delroy shrugged his shoulders, as Drysdale entered
the outer hall with them and took down his rain-coat
from the rack. Thomas, who was stationed in the
vestibule, helped him on with it.
"Good-bye," he called from the door; "don't look
for me for an hour or two."
"All right, we won't worry," answered Delroy;


The Blow Falls 175
"though, for my part," he added, as he and Tremaine
went on through the hall together, "I prefer a book
before the fire. There's a chill in the air that strikes
through one after a while, and Jack '11 soon get enough
of it. But I'd better go up and see how my wife's
getting along. You'll excuse me?"
"Certainly—and stay as long as you like. I'm go-
ing to my room presently, myself—I have some letters
to write."
Delroy nodded and went on up the stair. Tremaine
sank into one of the chairs before the fire and watched
the blazing logs, with an expression intent, alert, as
though he were waiting for someone.
A door opened and closed, a light step crossed the
hall, a hand was laid upon the chair-back . . .
"Oh," said Miss Croydon, "I thought—where is
Mr. Drysdale?"
Tremaine arose slowly.
"Drysdale," he said, with a meaning look which
did not escape her, "was unable to resist the charms
of the evening. He has gone for a walk. He said he
would not be back for a couple of hours. Please sit
down."
It was more of a command than an invitation, and
she yielded to it reluctantly.
"I can stay but a moment," she said. "Edith is not
at all well and needs me. Why are you waiting
here?"
He pulled a chair close beside her.
"I was waiting for you," he said calmly. "I don't
think you quite realise yet that I am in earnest."
"To be in earnest would be infamous."


The Blow Falls 177
V
your heart you know that the pale feeling you have
for this boy is not love—not strong, passionate, mature
love—the love that seizes and conquers, that takes one
through heaven and through hell. Not many women
are capable of such a love—they're too cold, too selfish.
But you're capable of it, and when it comes to you,
as I swear it shall come, you'll not stop to question
the past; you'll look only toward the future—you'll
not stop to ask what the world thinks; you'll heed
only the longings of your own heart."
She had sat spell-bound, gazing at him, chained
by the sound of his voice, by his vehemence. She
roused herself with an effort.
"If I should love," she said, "I should at least
choose a gentleman"
He interrupted with a dry laugh.
"There spoke the Philistine—the English variety!
Your heart wasn't in it! Let me tell you that you
wouldn't stop to ask what he was—he would be only
the man you love. And have you chosen a gentle-
man? Does a gentleman listen at the turn of the stairs
to a conversation not intended for him? He did
listen; he told you of his ridiculous doubts of you.
What right has he to doubt you, to make conditions,
to demand explanations? Explanations from a
woman like you!"
"He has a right"
"He has no right—he's a beggar at your table!
If he can't hold you, it's his fault, not yours. And he
can't hold you—he's too weak every way! Ah, I could
hold you!"
"Yes—perhaps even beat me!"


178 The Blow Falls
He looked at her, his eyes agleam.
"Perhaps," he agreed, his mouth working with
eagerness. "Perhaps I should. But if I did, you
would stab me in the night."
He was weaving the spell about her again; she gazed
at him, half-fascinated.
"Yes," she said intensely; "yes—I should like to
do it now!"
His eyes flashed with sudden triumph.
"And yet you think yourself in love with Drys-
dale!" he cried. "Did he ever awaken a wish like
that in you?"
"No; thank God!" and she shivered slightly.
He was radiant, assured.
"Nor any other feeling except a baby liking! Yet
you yield to his fancied right; you promise to explain
to him! It was to do that you came here to-
night"
"Who told you that?"
"He did."
"Then why isn't he here?"
"He preferred to commune with nature," Tremaine
answered, in an indescribable tone. "Think of any
man preferring nature to you—preferring anything to
you—life, honour—anything! Do you know what
I'm longing to do? I'm longing to take you in my
arms and hold you fast and kiss you on those red lips
of yours—kiss you, kiss you"
He was half out of his chair, leaning over her.
Another instant—but his ears caught the opening of
a door.
"Here comes Delroy," he said in another tone,


The Blow Falls 179
rising suddenly, his hands gripped tensely at his sides.
"Damn him!"
She lay back in her chair, relaxed suddenly, panting
.with exhaustion.
"I'll go," he added hoarsely. "I can't keep up the
farce of polite conversation—besides I have some let-
ters to write. Good-night."
For an hour or more, Delroy sat alone before the
fire reading. At last he yawned, laid down his book,
arose, and walked to the door. The wind was rising;
he could hear it roaring in the trees; and every minute
a broad flash of lightning illumined the clouds on the
horizon.
"There's a storm coming," he said to Thomas, who
was nodding at his post. "I wonder where the devil
Drysdale went? He'd better be getting in pretty
soon."
As though in answer to the thought, a dark figure
appeared suddenly on the walk, strode up the steps,
and opened the door. It was Drysdale.
He took off his coat, threw it to Thomas, and went
on into the inner hall, where he stood rubbing his
hands before the fire, with a face so hopeless, fierce,
despairing, that Delroy was fairly startled.
"You may go to bed, Thomas," he said; then he
went to Drysdale and laid a hand upon his shoulder.
"What's the matter, Jack?" he asked. "You're look-
ing regularly done up."
Drysdale turned with a start.
"Oh, it's you, is it, Dickie? Where is Grace?"
"Upstairs with my wife."


The Blow Falls 181
By Jove, I did hear him say that he'd bought a block
of stock on margin!"
A gleam of triumph indescribable flashed into Tre-
maine's eyes.
"That may explain it," he said, with studied care-
lessness.
"Yes—but it doesn't excuse it. If a man can't keep
his temper when he loses, he hasn't any business to
speculate. Hello, who's that?"
Someone was pounding at the outer door. Delroy
strode to it and threw back the bolt. It flew open
and young Graham staggered rather than walked into
the hall, hatless, coatless, soaked with rain, his eyes
staring, his face rigid with horror.
"Good God, man; what is it?" cried Delroy.
He opened his mouth; but only a low rumbling came
from his throat.
"Come!" cried Delroy sharply. "Be a man!
What is it?"
By a mighty effort, Graham pulled himself together.
"Father's killed!" he whispered hoarsely.


CHAPTER VI
Gbe Agaterg at tbe pier
FOR a moment, no one spoke. Only the boy's
laboured breathing broke the stillness; he was
shivering convulsively, clutching at the hat-rack for
support.
"It was the lightning, I suppose," said Tremaine, at
last, in a suppressed voice. "I knew that bolt struck
somewhere near. The pier would naturally be a dan-
gerous place."
"I told him not to stay there," broke in Delroy
angrily. "There was no sense in it. Was it the
lightning?" he demanded, wheeling on the boy.
"No," he gasped, " it's murder."
"What!" cried Delroy incredulously.
"Lightnin' don't cave a man's head in, does it?"
asked the boy doggedly.
Delroy grabbed a rain-coat from the rack and Tre-
maine caught up another. Across the lawn they sped,
under the trees, down to the water-front, with young
Graham stumbling blindly along behind. The little
white boathouse gleamed vivid in the glare of the
lightning. They entered and paused uncertainly in
the gloom.
"Where is he? " asked Delroy.
"Out there on th' pier,' answered Graham brok-
enly, "Out there where they struck him down."
182


The Mystery at the Pier 183
"Get a light here and we'll bring him in. Come
on, Tremaine."
At the pier-end lay a dark, huddled figure. A
lightning-flash disclosed the staring eyes, the blood-
stained face.
"Good God!" cried Delroy, and the horror of it
seemed to strike through him, to palsy him.
Tremaine knelt down beside the body and lifted
a limp wrist. He held it a moment, then laid it gently
down.
"He's quite dead," he said, and stood quickly
erect again, with a shudder he could not wholly re-
press.
Delroy, swallowing hard, gripped back his self-
control.
"We can't leave him out here," he said; "perhaps
there's a spark of life. You take the legs; I'll take the
head."
It was a heavy load and they staggered under it.
From the boathouse a light flashed out, and in a
moment young Graham came hurrying out to them and
helped, them forward, sobbing drily.
They laid their burden on the cot which the son had
occupied and stood for a moment looking down at it.
The boy seemed on the verge of collapse; his lips
were drawn, his teeth chattering; the horrible sobbing
did not stop. Delroy turned to him sharply.
"William," he said, " I want you to show yourself
a man. A good deal depends on you. Remember
that—remember, too, that with your help, we're going
to catch the scoundrel who did this."
The boy straightened up with a groan of agony,


184 The Mystery at the Pier
"That's what I want!" he cried. "That's all I
ask!"
"That's what we want, too," and Delroy laid a calm-
ing hand upon his arm. "Now go up to the house
and rouse Thomas, but don't alarm anyone else. Get
him to telephone at once to Babylon for Doctor Wise
and for the coroner, and tell them both to get out
here as quickly as they can. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," answered Graham, and disappeared in
the outer darkness.
For some moments, the two men stood looking down
at the body without speaking. Then Delroy stooped
and touched lightly the bloody forehead.
"See," he said, "his head has been beaten in."
"Yes," nodded Tremaine, "the murderer struck
boldly from the front—he didn't think it necessary to
steal up behind."
"But why didn't Graham defend himself? He was
armed. Why did he let him get so near?"
"There's only one possible explanation of that,"
said Tremaine drily, "supposing, of course, that
Graham didn't fall asleep. He knew the man and
thought him a friend. Perhaps they were even talk-
ing together at the time the blow was struck."
Delroy's face turned livid and great beads of sweat
broke out across his forehead.
"That would explain it, certainly," he agreed
hoarsely, "for there isn't the least likelihood that
Graham was asleep. But it's too horrible, too fiend-
ish; I can't believe it."
Tremaine turned away to the window without an-
swering, and stood there rolling a cigarette between his


186 The Mystery at the Pier
sat down. Seeing that no one noticed him, he filled
a glass for himself with a trembling hand.
Ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed—thirty cen-
turies during which no one spoke. Then they heard
the swift clatter of a horse's hoofs, the whir of wheels,
and a buggy pulled up before the door. Thomas had
it open on the instant and two men walked in.
"What is it, Delroy?" asked one of them. "Noth-
ing serious I—ah!" he added, as his eyes fell upon
the cot.
He went to it quickly, the other following; touched
the hideous wounds, looked into the eyes, felt the
temples.
"He's dead," he said, at last; "has been dead two
or three hours, I should say. His skull is crushed—
fairly beaten in. " It's your gardener, Graham, isn't it? "*
"Yes," Delroy answered.
The doctor stepped back.
"I turn the case over to you, Heffelbower," he said.
"It's in your province now. Mr. Delroy, this is Mr.
Heffelbower, the coroner."
Heffelbower bowed. He was a little, stout man,
bald-headed and with wide-open blue eyes that stared
like a doll's. Primarily, he was a saloon keeper, but
had been elected coroner as a reward for his valuable
services to his party. He possessed a certain native
shrewdness which fitted him to some extent for the
office; also a lack of nerves and a familiarity with
crime which might often be of service.
"I presume," he began slowly, " t'at t'is man wasn't
killed here in his bed?"
"No," said Delroy, "we found him lying out on


The Mystery at the Pier 187
the pier yonder. We thought it only common human-
ity to bring him in, since there might have been a
spark of life left."
"Oh, of course," agreed the coroner, instantly, visi-
bly impressed by Delroy's presence. "T'at was right.
Who found t'e body?"
"His son, there," and Delroy indicated young Gra-
ham by a gesture.
The coroner turned toward him; it was easy to see
that he had a high opinion of his own ability as a cross-
examiner and detector of crime. He wasn't actually
smiling, but his round face was shining with satisfac-
tion. Babylon and the neighbouring villages are quiet
places, and this was Heffelbower's first important case
since his election. He would show his constituents
how wise their choice had been.
"My dear sir," he began, evidently proud of his
command of language, the result of many years of
saloon debates, and speaking with distressing care but
with a racial inability to conquer the "th," "I know
such a recital will be painful to you—most painful—but
I must hear from you just how t'e discovery was made.
You will naturally be more anxious t'an anyone to
bring to justice t'e scoundrel who committed t'is crime,
so please give us all t'e details possible. T'en I will
know how to proceed."
From the moment of his entrance, Tremaine had
been contemplating the coroner with half-closed eyes;
now, he turned back to the window with a little con-
temptuous smile.
"I'll tell everything I know, sir," said William, com-
ing forward eagerly. "I went up t' th' house about


188 The Mystery at the Pier
nine o'clock and brought this cot down, intendin' t'
turn in here an' relieve father at midnight. Father
was settin' out there on th' pier a-smokin' his pipe
when I turned in. I went t' sleep almost as soon as
I touched th' piller. I don't know how long it was,
but after a while I kind o' woke up an' heard voices
a-talkin' out there on th' pier. I got up an' looked
out th' winder an' purty soon I saw it was Mr. Drys-
dale with father."
"Drysdale? Who's he?" asked the coroner.
"He's a friend of mine," spoke up Delroy quickly.
"An old friend. He's staying here at the house with
us. In fact, he's to marry my wife's sister."
The coroner bowed.
"Very well," he said, turning back to Graham,
"you may continue."
"Well," went on the young fellow, "as soon as I
saw it was Mr. Drysdale, I knowed it was all right,
so I went back to bed ag'in. An' I didn't know nothin'
more till a great clap o' thunder nearly took th' roof
off th' house. I set up in bed, but I couldn't seem t'
git awake fer a minute, my head was whirlin' so.
Then I got on my feet an' looked out th' winder an'
jest then it lightened ag'in an' I seen father layin'
there"
He stopped with a sob that shook him through and
through.
"That will do for t'e present," said the coroner
kindly. "It seems rather extraordinary," he added,
turning to Delroy, "t'at t'is man should have sat out
t'ere in t'e rain at t'at time of night. Was he fish-
ing?"


The Mystery at the Pier 189
Delroy sprang to his feet with a sudden start.
"Fishing?" he cried. "No! I'd forgotten. He
was guarding my wife's necklace."
He threw open the door and ran out on the pier,
the others following. At the extreme end a rope was
dangling in the water. He reached over and pulled
it up. The wire cage was flapping open. The neck-
lace had disappeared.


CHAPTER VII
Coil
THE horizon was grey with the coming dawn, but
it was still too dark on the pier to see anything
distinctly, so they went slowly back together to the
boathouse.
"Was t'e necklace a valuable one?" asked the
coroner, as he closed the door.
"It was worth over a hundred thousand dollars,"
answered Delroy, and explained briefly the purpose of
the immersion.
"How many persons were aware of your inten-
tion to put it in t'e water out here?" asked Heffel-
bower, when he had finished.
Delroy hesitated.
"So far as I know," he answered slowly, at last,
"only myself, my wife, her sister, Miss Croydon, Drys-
dale, Tremaine, and the two Grahams."
"Tremaine?" repeated the coroner. "I don't t'ink
you have mentioned him."
"Oh, I forgot to introduce you. This is Mr. Tre-
maine, Mr. Heffelbower, a friend of mine, who is
staying with me."
The coroner bowed, but he shot Tremaine a sharp
glance which did not escape Delroy's notice.
"You will understand, Mr. Heffelbower," he added
quickly, " I believe the crime was committed by some-
190


A Tightening Coil 191
one else—I'm sure none of these could have com-
mitted it."
"Ah," said the coroner blandly, "t'en t'ey were all
in t'e house, I suppose?"
"I can answer positively that my wife, Miss Croy-
don, and Mr. Tremaine were in the house the entire
evening."
"And Mr. Drysdale?"
"Drysdale went out for a walk."
"A long one?"
"He was gone two or three hours."
"Iss he in t'e habit of walking after night?"
"No," answered Delroy slowly, "I can't say that
he is."
"Did you see him when he came in?"
"Yes—I was looking out the window at the
storm."
"Did he appear as usual?"
Again Delroy hesitated.
"I see, of course," he said, at last, "what you're
aiming at; but I'm sure that Drysdale can explain
his absence, as well as everything that happened
during it. I therefore answer candidly that he
did not appear as usual; he seemed excited and de-
pressed. He left me in a fit of anger and went to his
room."
"Wit'out explaining his action?"
"Yes—he made no effort to explain it."
"Did any explanation occur to you?"
"I thought perhaps he was worrying over losses
incurred in speculation."
"Ah!—he has incurred such losses, t'en?"


192 A Tightening Coil
"I do not know positively," said Delroy, a little im-
patiently. "I merely suspect so."
"Iss Mr. Drysdale still in his room?"
"Yes, I suppose so. I haven't seen him since he
went up to it."
"Mr. Tremaine was wit' you at t'e time Mr. Gra-
ham burst in and announced t'e murder?"
"Yes, we were in the hall talking together."
"What time was it?"
"Nearly one o'clock, I should say."
"T'ank you," and Heffelbower turned back to make
a more detailed examination of the body. "Doctor
Wise," he asked, after a moment, " from which direc-
tion should you say t'ese blows were struck?"
"From directly in front," answered the doctor
promptly.
"But I see he has a pistol at his belt. Why did he
not tefend himself? Why should he allow himself to
be beaten down?"
"That question also occurred to me," observed Del-
roy. "Mr. Tremaine suggested that it was because
Graham thought his murderer a friend and anticipated
no assault. So he allowed him to approach unchal-
lenged, and was wholly unprepared for the treacherous
attack."
The coroner looked at Tremaine again with a glance
in which suspicion had changed to admiration.
"T'at iss, indeed, a very probable explanation," he
said. "In fact, I haven't t'e least doubt it iss t'e true
one. Graham would not have allowed a stranger to
approach him; but if he had come on, Graham would
have prepared for t'e attack and would have given a


A Tightening Coil 193
good account of himself. He seems a fery powerful
man."
As he spoke, he lifted one of the muscular hands;
then, with a little exclamation of surprise, he bent and
examined it more closely.
"Come nearer, gentlemen," he said, his face flushed
with excitement. "I want you to witness t'at he has
somet'ing between his fingers."
They stooped and looked as Le indicated. They
could see that the hand clasped tightly some small,
dark object.
"Let us see what it is," Heffelbower continued, and
bent back the stiffening fingers.
The object fell out into his hand. He held it up in
the glare of the light so that all might see. It was a
button with a little shred of cloth attached.
-" If we can find t'e garment t'at t'is came from,"
said the coroner triumphantly, turning it over and look-
ing at it, " we shall probably find t'e murderer. It iss
a good clew."
He placed the button carefully in his pocket-book
and turned to the window.
"I t'ink it iss light enough," he said, " to take a look
at t'e scene of t'e crime. I shall t'en return to Baby-
lon"
"I have thought," remarked Delroy, "of calling in
a New York detective. Should you object"
"Not in t'e least," Heffelbower broke in. "I shall
welcome eferyt'ing t'at will assist in bringing t'e guilty
person to justice. Only," he added pompously, "wit'
t'e clews which I already possess, and wit' t'e ot'ers
which I expect to find, I believe it will be unnecessary.


194 A Tightening Coil
T'e guilty man will not escape, I'll promise you t'at,
Mr. Delroy,"and he opened the door and stepped out
upon the pieit
Dawn was'jin the sky, a clear, warm, joyous dawn.
In tree and bush and hedge the birds were welcoming
it. All nature was rejoicing, quite indifferent to the
human tragedy which had marked the night.
They went together down the pier to the spot where
Graham had fallen. The rain had washed away nearly
all the blood-stains. His rifle lay on the pier beside
the chair in which he had been sitting. The chair was
overturned.
"But t'e wind may have done t'at," said the
coroner, when Delroy pointed out that the overturned
chair suggested a struggle. "Or maybe he knocked
it over when he fell. Let's have a look at t'at little
cage."
He pulled up the rope. The lid of the cage was
open, but it did not seem to be injured.
"Maybe t'e waves proke it open," suggested Heffel-
bower.
"They couldn't have done that," objected Delroy.
"See—here's how it fastened."
He closed the lid and snapped into place three
small but very strong hooks, which locked automat-
ically.
"The only thing that could open it," he added, " was
a human hand."
"And an intelligent one, at t'at," concluded the
coroner. "It would be very hard to find t'ose little
hooks in t'e dark, unless one knowed just where t'ey


A Tightening Coil 195
"Yes," admitted Delroy. "That's true."
Heffelbower opened his lips to say something more;
then changed his mind, closed them, anffcturned away
with a significant smile. He examined!! the knots in
the rope, the pier, the waters of the bay, on which, just
beyond the pier, a small boat was riding at anchor.
"T'e boat iss yours, I suppose, Mr. Delroy?" he
asked.
"Yes—it has been there ready for use since Satur-
day."
As he spoke, a gust of wind swung the boat in
towards them.
Young Graham, who was standing on the extreme
edge of the pier, glanced down into it, and uttered
a sudden exclamation.
"What's that?" he cried, with arm outstretched.
The others followed the gesture, but a second gust
swung the boat away.
"What was it?" asked the coroner.
Without answering, Graham sprang into the water,
and with a few strokes reached the boat. He climbed
into it and untied it from the buoy. Then, at the in-
stant another gust of wind came from the ocean, he
released his hold. The boat was swept against the
pier; he fended her off with the boathook and made
fast.
"This is what I meant," he said, and pointed to a
pistol lying at his feet.
They stared down at it, amazed. It was the coroner
who spoke first.
"Pass it up," he said.
He turned it over carefully in his hand. It was a


196 A Tightening Coil
fine type of the Smith & Wesson. It was fully loaded;
none of the chambers had been discharged.
"Ah," he said, " see t'ere," and he pointed to a clot
. of blood on the butt. "T'e butt iss very heavy," he
added, turning it up. "And see—here are some in-
itials—J. T. D. Whose are t'ey?"
"They are John Tolbert Drysdale's," answered Del-
roy in a low voice.


CHAPTER VIII
1>anO of tbe law
FOR a full moment the coroner stood looking
down at the pistol in his hand without speaking,
but his face hardened and grew stern, so far as lay
in the power of a countenance so rubicund.
"I t'ink I shall have to see Mr. Drysdale before I
go back to Babylon," he said. "But first, let us
try to account for t'e presence of t'is pistol in t'at
boat."
"How can it be accounted for?" demanded Delroy
impatiently. "Good God! I tell you Jack Drysdale
never killed that man. Perhaps he was boating yes-
terday — no, he was in New York yesterday — well, Sun-
day, then, and had the pistol with him and left it in the
boat by mistake. How else could it have got there?
The murderer wouldn't have put it there."
"Nobody's used th' boat, sir," said William.
"How do you know t'at?" asked the coroner
sharply.
"Because, sir, I tied it t' the buoy, an' I know my
knot. It's th' same one I jest unfastened."
"You mean that boat hasn't been away from the
buoy since you tied it there?" asked Delroy.
"Jest that, sir."
"Then how did the revolver get in it?"
Delroy and Heffelbower looked at each other help-


198 The Hand of the Law
lessly. Tremaine was rolling another cigarette, and
the coroner, glancing at him, noted the meaning smile
which passed across his lips.
"Have you a t'eory, Mr. Tremaine? " he questioned
respectfully. "I should be fery glad to hear it, iff
you have."
"Why, yes," answered Tremaine slowly, "a pos-
sible explanation occurs to me. However, it's only
a theory, and so may be worth nothing, but it seems
to me that after committing a crime like that, the mur-
derer would seek instantly to dispose of the weapon
with which it was committed. What better hiding-
place could he ask than the waters of the bay? He
would hurl the pistol far out—only, by a strange
chance, instead of falling into the water, it fell into
the boat. Of course, he added, in another tone, " I
fully agree with Mr. Delroy that Mr. Drysdale could
not have committed the crime. The pistol no doubt
passed from his possession some time ago. He can
explain that."
Heffelbower nodded with open admiration.
"Yes," he said; "I'll ask him about it. I'm sure
your t'eory iss t'e correct one, Mr. Tremaine. I pre-
sent you my compliments. You yourself did not leave
t'e house yesterday evening?"
"Mr. Delroy can tell you."
"No," answered Delroy, "Mr. Tremaine did not
leave the house yesterday evening."
"Nobody went out except Mr. Drysdale," spoke
up Thomas. "I was in th' vestibule till nearly mid-
night, when Mr. Delroy told me t' go to bed."
"You saw Mr. Drysdale come in?"


The Hand of the Law 199
"Yes, sir; an' I never saw anybody so worked up
an' nervous-like."
"Do you remember what outer garment he wore?"
"He wore his rain-coat, sir; I helped him on an'
off with it."
"Where are t'e rain-coats kept?"
"They usually hang on the rack in th' vestibule, sir.
That's Mr. Drysdale's coat that Mr. Delroy has on
now."
"Yes," said Delroy, looking down at it; "I didn't
notice; I snatched it down in such a hurry"
He stopped, staring down at the coat, his face sud-
denly livid.
The others followed his glance.
The top button of the coat was missing. It had evi-
dently been wrenched away with violence, for the cloth
was badly torn.
Amid a silence strained, absolute, the coroner took
from his pocket-book the button he had found in
Graham's hand.
"I believe Mr. Drysdale will find it difficult to ex-
plain t'is, gentlemen," he said, his face glowing more
and more, and he held against the place the button he
had found.
It fitted it exactly; the button matched the others
on the coat; the shred of cloth was of the same colour
and material as the remainder of the garment. It
.was a proof there could be no disputing.
Heffelbower slowly replaced the button in his
pocket-book.
"May I trouble you to take off t'e coat, Mr. Del-
roy?" he said; and when Delroy complied, he threw


2OO The Hand of the Law
it over his arm. "T'ere's just one more question,"
he added. "I suppose Mr. Drysdale's financial condi-
tion iss good?"
"Why, yes," answered Delroy. "I have always so
considered it."
There was a hesitation in his manner which Heffel-
bower noticed.
"You mean you do not so consider it at t'is mo-
ment? Don't try to shield him, Mr. Delroy. Iff he iss
innocent he will have no difficulty in proving it; if he
iss guilty, he should be punished."
"Well, then," said Delroy, with a kind of desper/
ate calm, "I've already told you that I heard he'd
been speculating in steel. There was a crash, Satur-
day, you know; but for how much he was caught, or
whether he was caught at all, I don't know. You'll
have to ask him about that."
"T'ank you for your frankness," said the coroner.
"Frankness never yet hurt an innocent man. I t'ink
t'at iss all we can do here. Let us go up to t'e house
and have a talk with Mr. Drysdale."
They followed him in silence from the boathouse
and up the broad gravel path. Thomas opened the
door for them.
"Shall I have Drysdale called down?" asked Del-
roy, as they stepped inside.
"No," said the coroner. "I'd prefer to see him in
his room."
"Very well," the other acquiesced, and led the way
through the still-deserted hall and up the stair.
At the top, Tremaine turned to the coroner.
"If you don't mind," he said, "I'll go on to my


The Hand of the Law 201
^ *""•
room. I'm feeling pretty well used up. My room is
right here next to Mr. Drysdale's. If you want me,
you can call me."
"Certainly, sir," agreed Heffelbower instantly.
"And let me t'ank you again for your fery faluable
suggestions."
"Oh, not at all," returned Tremaine, and entered
his room.
The others went on to the next door. Delroy
knocked.
"Who's there?" queried Drysdale's voice.
"Open up, Jack," called Delroy. "We've got to see
you on some rather important business."
"Important business!" Drysdale repeated, and they
heard him cross the room. Then the door was flung
open. "Come in—why, what the deuce is all this
about, Dickie?"
"Come in and shut the door, Jack," replied Del-
roy quietly. "This gentleman is Coroner Heffel-
bower, of .Babylon. He wishes to ask you a few ques-
tions."
Drysdale answered with a stare of amazement,
but he stood aside and let them pass into the
room.
"Why, what's all this, Jack?" asked Delroy, look-
ing about at the disorder.
Drysdale closed the door and turned toward him
rather sheepishly.
"Fact is, I was packing, Dickie," he said. "I've
got to go back to New York to-day, to look after some
investments. I'd like to stay, old man, but I really
can't"


2oz The Hand of the Law
Something in the faces of his auditors stopped him,
and he changed colour.
"What do you fellows want, anyway?" he de-
manded hotly.
"Sit down, Mr. Drysdale," said the coroner
solemnly, himself taking a chair. "Our business
may take some little time. You own a revolver, I
believe."
"Yes," said Jack, " a Smith & Wesson. I was just
looking for it. When I opened my trunk just now, I
missed it."
"How long has it been since you saw it?"
"I can't say—two or three days, perhaps."
"You kept it in your trunk?"
"Yes."
"And the trunk was locked?"
"Yes—that is, generally."
"Was it locked last night?"
"Yes—that is, I don't know—I'm not certain.
Why?"
"Did you have your revolver last night?"
"No, I haven't seen it for a day or two, I tell you."
"Iss t'is your revolver?" asked the coroner, pro-
ducing the weapon.
Drysdale took it and looked at it with an air of
astonishment.
"Why, yes," he said. "Where did you get it?"
"And iss t'is your rain-coat?"
"Yes—but what"
"You wore it when you went out last night?"
"Yes—but I insist"
"Mr. Drysdale," asked the coroner sternly, "for


The Hand of the Law 203
what purpose did you go out last night, and where did
you go?"
Drysdale sprang to his feet, his face red with anger.
"Why, you infernal busy-body!" he cried. "It's
none of your business."
"T'en you refuse to answer?"
"I most certainly do, and I think you'd better go
back to Babylon."
"I shall go back in due time, Mr. Drysdale," re-
torted the coroner in a cool voice, holding up his hand.
"Perhaps you have, as yet, not heard of t'e murder
committed here last night and of t'e robbery which
accompanied it?"
Drysdale paled suddenly, his hands were trem-
bling . . .
"Murder!" he repeated blankly. "Robbery!"
"Precisely. Graham t'e gardener was murdered last
night and Mrs. Delroy's pearl necklace stolen. You
were t'e only person who left t'e house. Your revolver
was found beside him. T'is button, torn from your
coat, was found in his hand. I hope you will now per-
ceive t'e wisdom of giving us a tetailed account of your
movements while you were away from t'e house."
Drysdale had listened with a growing pallor. When
the coroner finished, he was fairly livid, and he
passed his hand helplessly "before his eyes. But he
did not speak.
"Well?" asked Heffelbower impatiently, after a
moment.
Drysdale took down his hand and steadied himself
against the back of his chair.
"I have nothing to say," he murmured hoarsely.


204 The Hand of the Law
The coroner stared in astonishment.
"You don't mean"
"I mean that I have nothing to say," repeated Drys-
dale, this time in a firmer tone.
"Oh, come, Jack," burst out Delroy, "don't be
so obstinate. Tell us where you were. Of course I
know you didn't murder Graham."
"Thank you, Dickie," and Drysdale looked at him
gratefully. "I didn't do it; I'm ready to swear that
by any oath you please. But I can't tell you or any-
body where I was."
"Don't let any little secret stand in the way," pro-
tested Delroy. "This isn't the time"
"I can't tell," repeated Drysdale firmly.
"Do you persist in t'at decision?" asked the
coroner sharply.
"I certainly do."
"T'en," said Heffelbower, rising in his turn, "in
t'e name of t'e law, I shall haf to arrest you. Please
finish your dressing."
"Very well," returned Drysdale composedly, and
set about his toilet, while Delroy watched him in a kind
of dazed perplexity. It took but a few moments.
"I'm ready," he said.
"Jack!" cried Delroy again, but the other stopped
him with a gesture.
"Don't worry, Dickie," he said. "I didn't do it.
They can't convict me. I'm not in the least afraid."
Heffelbower took the key from the door and trans-
ferred it to the outside.
"I'll haf to lock up t'is room," he said. "It will
haf to be searched."


The Hand of the Law 205
Delroy nodded his consent and the little procession
passed out into the hall.
Suddenly from the farther end came the swish of
skirts and Grace Croydon appeared, radiant as the new
day. She paused in astonishment as she saw the
group, then she came forward. Her eyes went anx-
iously from face to face.
"What is it, Richard?" she asked. "What has
happened?"
Delroy laughed a mirthless laugh.
"Enough and to spare," he answered. "They're
arresting Jack, here, for murder."
"For murder!" she breathed, and caught at the
balustrade. "Oh, surely, you're joking!"
"Jack seems to think it's a joke," he retorted bit-
terly.
"Oh, why did you kill him?" she cried, turning
upon her lover. "Why did you not wait"
"Kill him!" echoed Delroy. "But he didn't, Grace!
How can you think such a thing? He could clear him-
self by telling where he was last night, and he refuses
to do it. Maybe he'll tell you."
She turned her searching eyes to her lover's face.
"Where were you last night, Jack?" she asked.
"You'll tell me, won't you?"
"Tell you?" he sneered, his eyes blazing with sav-
age anger. "Where was I? You ask me that?"
And with a gesture of fierce contempt, he went on
down the stair.





PART IV
DAWN





−−=−
±=


CHAPTER I
B abreaO JBreafas
IT was not until the Sunday evening following Tre-
maine's departure that I found myself alone with
Cecily and in a position to begin that conversation
from which I hoped so much.
In the morning I had taken her to mass at the
cathedral, where she had listened with rapt counte-
nance. In the afternoon, the weather being very pleas-
ant, we drove out to the Bronx to see the animals and
the conservatories, in which she was as interested as
any child. In fact, I found myself treating her more
and more as a child. She was essentially one in char-
acter — self-willed, easily downcast and as easily elated;
and though she was religious to a degree amounting
almost to superstition, it seemed never to have occurred
to her that there was anything wrong or irregular in
her manner of life. She was frankly Tremaine's mis-
tress, evidently cherished a deep affection for him,
and, I doubt not, would have been faithful to him
under any but the most extraordinary temptation.
She had arrayed herself, that Sunday evening, in the
same garments she had worn the first night I had
met her — the gorgeous costume of the belle af-
franchie, in which she was most at home — but I had
grown more accustomed to her and sat down near
her without any great bedazzlement. She was lying


A Thread Breaks 211
well! d'amour, de rires, et d'oublis!" and she laughed,
but I fancied there was a sob beneath the laughter.
"At least, I shall be again at St. Pierre."
"And you still long for it?"
"Oh, long for it! So would you, die, if you had
ever lived there."
A line from Mandalay flashed into my head—
"If you've 'card the East a-callin', why, you don't 'eed nothin
else "—
and looking at her, I caught a glimpse of that com-
pelling fascination. Preachers and lecturers are fond
of pointing out that no great nation ever came
from the tropics—but the people who live there have
their compensations.
Suddenly there came a soft hissing from the little
cage over the radiator.
"Ah, I must feed Fe-Fe—she is calling me," she
cried, and she sprang up, ran to the next room, and
came back with a little wine in a glass.
I stood and watched her without being greatly im-
pressed. Fe-Fe seemed very harmless and lethargic
—evidently the climate of New York, even though
mellowed by the radiator, did not agree with her.
"She is not at all well," said Cecily, as she put her
back into her cage. "It is only the warmth of the
wine that keeps her alive. I shall take her back to
St. Pierre with me—there she will again be happy.
Tambou! and so shall I! One is always shivering
here—the whole world is so cold—the sky, the sea,
even the sun!"
"Of course Tremaine will go back with you," I


212 A Thread Breaks
assured her; I was wondering if she really suspected
his intention.
"No, he will not," she said decidedly; "but," she
added, with an electric flash of the eyes, "he may
come in time."
I lighted another cigarette.
"Where did you meet him, Cecily?"
"He came to St. Pierre three, four years ago. He
saw me one day standing at the door of my house in
the Rue Peysette."
"Do you know where he came from?"
"No; it mattered nothing to me."
"He never talked about his past?"
"His past? No, no. What was it to us? We had
a pretty, pretty place at Fond-Corre. Tambou! I
wish I was there now!"
"You were happy there?"
"Yes—except for the times doudoux was in his
black spells."
"His black spells?"
"Yes—oh, then everyone ran from him—even I.
He was terrible—raving and cursing Missie John-
son."
"Johnson?" I repeated, with a sudden leap of the
heart. "Who was he, Cecily?"
"He was doudoux's zombi," she anwered with con-
viction, and crossed herself.
"Then he didn't live at Fond-Corre?"
"At Fond-Corre? Oh, no! He was a zombi—in
the air, in the earth, everywhere. Doudoux would
fight with him an hour at a time. Oh, it was ter-
rible!"


A Thread Breaks 213
I leaned back in my chair and watched the smoke
from my cigarette circling upwards. I remembered
the letter that had been tattooed on the arm of the
man killed in suite fourteen. So Tremaine had some
cause to hate him—he had helped him, had supplied
him with whiskey, with money, through fear and not
through friendship. To establish that was to take
another step forward.
"Did he have those spells often, Cecily?" I asked,
at last.
"Oh, no; sometimes not for months. Then, phut!
the zombi would charm him."
"Charm him?"
"With a little scrap of paper, yes. There would
come a letter; doudoux would open it; always in it
there would be a little piece of paper. Sometimes it
had writing on it, sometimes printing, as though it
had been cut from a newspaper. Then, tambou! dou-
doux's face would grow black, he would tear the paper
into little, little bits, uttering curses the most terrible,
and we would all run!"
Clippings from a newspaper! Here was a coin-
cidence. But I cudgelled my brain vainly—I could
form no theory as to why a clipping should cause those
fits of rage.
"The last one, though, did not give him a spell,"
she added, after a moment.. "We were watching the
sun set out across the water when Dodol brought the
letter to him. This time it was printing and writing
both; I got up, ready to flee, for I thought that would
be twice as bad; but no. He sat reading it and his
eyes glistened; then he sent me running for his hat


A Thread Breaks 215
sometimes as a pin for his scarf. Tambou! I was
angry when I found it gone. You should have heard
me!"
"I have a diamond," I said, getting out my pocket-
book, "that might do to replace it. Let us see if it
will fit."
I unwrapped the little brilliant and applied it to the
break in the circle. Then my heart fell. It was evi-
dent in an instant that it had not come from there—
it was much smaller than the other stones,—differently
cut . . .
I have seldom experienced a more poignant pang of
disappointment. I seemed to have lost more than I
had gained. Where, then, had this diamond come
from? Who was it had dropped it in suite fourteen?
I was lost, confused, utterly at sea. And a moment
before, I had been so confident! Well, it was right;
it was just! This would be the fate of the whole silly,
flimsy fabric we were trying to build against Tremaine.
"No, it will not do," I stammered, at last. "It
is too small," and I returned it to my pocket. "I
shall have to get you another trinket, Cecily."
She thanked me with a child's exuberance, then
put away her jewels and came back to the divan, talk-
ing of many things. But my attention wandered; I
answered her mechanically, or not at all; I felt the
need of being alone and setting my discoveries in
order; of finding out whether I had gained or lost
ground. In any event, we should have to take a fresh
start—the trail we had been following led nowhere—
ended in a swamp.
Cecily perceived my indifference in a moment—she


2i 6 A Thread Breaks
had a temperament which seemed to scent instinctively
every change of feeling—and she threw her arms
above her head with that gesture of weariness which I
had seen before.
"Adie, che," she said abruptly.
"Good-night, Cecily," 1 answered, rising, smiling
in spite of myself at my curt dismissal, at her change
of tone.
"Bon-Die ke beni ou!"
"And you, Cecily."
As I turned to the door, I heard the rustle of her
gown as she arose from the couch. My hand on the
knob, I glanced around, expecting to find her at my
elbow. Instead, she was kneeling, with bowed head,
before her Virgin.


CHAPTER II
Greasure
IT seemed that my sudden abstraction had offended
Cecily more deeply than I imagined, for when I
knocked at her door next evening, she told me curtly
that she was not feeling well and intended going early
to bed. So I went back to my room, rather glad of
the chance of an evening to myself.
Besides, Cecily was a good deal like a highly
flavoured dish — to be fully enjoyed only at intervals.
And, too, there was only one point as yet unsettled —
where she and Tremaine had been the night of the
murder. That, I felt, could be cleared up without
much difficulty the first time she received me, which
would probably be not later than to-morrow. I had
a premonition that that line of inquiry, too, would
lead nowhere — that Cecily would prove, by a word,
that neither she nor Tremaine had been anywhere near
the Marathon at the hour of the crime. In any event
I had plenty of time, and I could spend this evening
very profitably in weighing and classifying my dis-
coveries; in getting a fresh start.
'As I opened my door, I noticed it scraped on the
carpet, and an examination showed me that the carpet
had come loose along the sill. I stepped to the speak-
ing tube and blew down it.
"Hello!" called up a voice in a moment.
ai?


Treasure Trove! 219
threaten to do so? That would remove him from her
path once and forever.
This last question seemed so unanswerable that I
paused to look at it again, for it was evident that one
really insuperable objection must invalidate the whole
theory. By the commission of a crime, especially of
a crime so serious as this one, would he not place
himself as much in Miss Croydon's power as she could
possibly be in his? If she were still in his power, then,
he had committed no crime; and if he had committed
no crime, why, of course, he had not killed Thomp-
son. But in that case, who had? Where had that
diamond come from?
I knocked out my pipe and filled it again. I felt a
good deal as though I was wandering around and
around in a maze; I was getting a little dizzy.
If Tremaine had not killed Thompson, I asked my-
self again, who had? Not Miss Croydon! To sup-
pose that a delicately reared girl would smash a man
over the head with a piece of pipe was to descend to
the ridiculous. Yet if he had attacked her, she might
have nerved herself to do it. But that was absurd,
too, since, admittedly, she had a pistol in her pocket
and was not afraid to use it. Who else, then?
Jimmy the Dude? But he had already proved an
alibi; besides, a motive was wanting.
Then I thought of Cecily. Could she have been
the assassin? Certainly it was not impossible; that
last savage act, that shooting of an unconscious man,
fitted in, somehow, with my estimate of her character.
She might have done that. But why should Miss
Croydon seek to shield her? Was it Cecily who


22O Treasure Trove!
possessed the secret? Was there some connection be-
tween them? I remembered the other famous case in
which I had been engaged—must I look for the same
solution here? Was there a blood relationship be-
tween Cecily and Miss Croydon? Clearly, such a
thing was possible; I even fancied that one, knowing
them both, might be able to detect a subtle resem-
blance. I closed my eyes and endeavoured to recall
the features of Miss Croydon's portrait; her face had
much in common with Cecily's. Both were dark, both
were . . .
A knock at the door brought me out of my thoughts.
I opened it and found the janitor standing there.
"It's nothing very much, Higgins," I said, "but
I thought you'd better fix it before it got any worse.
The carpet has come loose here along the door.
Three or four tacks are all it needs."
He stepped over the threshold and looked at it.
"All right, sir," he said. "I'll fix it in th' mornin'.
Them fellers what put th' carpet down didn't half do
their work. I tacked a loose place down over there
by th' wall jest afore you moved in."
"Where was it?" I asked as calmly as I could.
"Right here by this angle," he said, indicating the
place with his foot. "I think maybe I'd better go all
around th' walls t'-morrer."
"Perhaps it would be best," I said; "thank you,"
and I closed the door upon him.
The next instant I was down on my hands and
knees tearing away the carpet, my blood singing in
my ears. I had found them—the clippings—it was
here they must be hidden; but for those chance tacks


222 Treasure Trove!
another, a bank robbery; a third, an escape from
prison; a fourth was merely a marriage notice; a fifth
told of a row in a sailors' dive, and so on down the
list. They were about different people—friends of
Thompson's, perhaps; none of them had any connec-
tion with Tremaine; they told no story, furnished no
clew, shed not a ray of light on the mystery—they
were absolutely worthless.
I laid them down in despair. Yet if they were
worthless, why had Miss Croydon taken them? Why
had Tremaine sought for them? Were they mistaken,
too? Had they imagined the clippings told a secret
which in fact they did not tell? But perhaps they
did tell it—perhaps I had overlooked it. They must
have some connection with the tragedy? Why could
I not perceive it?
I ran through them feverishly again, but with no
better result. At last I laid tHem down and took up
my pipe. I must submit them to a keener brain than
mine. If Godfrey were only here . . .
I heard a step come down the hall, stop at my door.
Someone knocked.
I hastily stuffed the clippings into my pocket and
opened the door. But it was not Tremaine who stood
there—it was Godfrey.
"Well, of all things!" I cried. "I was just wish-
ing for you. Come in."
With that quiet smile of his, he stepped over the
threshold.
"That must mean you've got some new problem to
solve," he said, still smiling.
"I have; the worst yet; impenetrable as the counte-


Treasure Trove! 223
nance of the Sphinx. But first give me your coat and
hat."
They were dripping with water, and for the first time
I heard the rain beating savagely against the windows.
"I happened to be across the street talking with
Simmonds," he said, " and I thought I'd run over and
see you a moment."
"When did you get back from Washington?"
"Just this evening, and I've got to put in to-mor-
row at Boston, worse luck!"
I handed him a cigar and took one myself. I con-
fess that" the match with which I lighted it was not
wholly steady.
"Come," said Godfrey, smiling in sympathy with
my excitement, "what's the great discovery? Some
news from the house-party?"
"No; I haven't heard a word from the house-
party."
"What is it, then? Out with it."
"Godfrey," I cried, " I've found the clippings!" and I
plunged my hand into my pocket and drew them forth.
He was out of his seat in an instant.
"The clippings! Not the ones"
"The very ones!" I nodded triumphantly.
"Let me see them; but wait," and he held himself
back. "I confess you surprised me, Lester—I wasn't
expecting such a bomb. This is great luck. Where
did you find them?"
I told him of Higgins's chance remark that had
put me on the track, and in the same breath related
what Cecily had told me of Tremaine and his encoun-
ter with his zombi.


224 Treasure Trove!
"Good boy!" Godfrey commended when I had
finished. "You're worth all the rest of us put to-
gether. You see, we're beginning to get the threads
in hand. Now bring the clippings over here to the
desk under the light."
I laid them on the desk and he sat down before it.
"But here," he said, starting up again, "you'll
want to see them, too"
"No, no," I protested. "Sit down. I have seen
them," and then suddenly I remembered how I had
been disappointed. They contained no secret, they
gave us no clew . . .
"So," he said, sitting down again; " so you're in the
secret, then?"
"I've looked them over," I repeated despondently,
"but I'm not in the secret. They don't tell any
secret, or anything else that concerns this case. I
don't believe they'll help us a bit, Godfrey. They're
about everything under the sun but the one thing we're
interested in."
I went back to my chair and applied myself to my
cigar; I hardly dared look at Godfrey, his disappoint-
ment would be so intense. A silence of three or four
minutes followed, broken only by the rustling of paper
and the howling of the wind about the building.
Then I glanced at Godfrey. His cheeks were
flushed, his eyes were beaming with triumph . . .
"What!" I cried, starting up, " do you think"
He looked up with a little nod.
"Yes," he said; "they tell us the whole story,
Lester."


226 A Study in Probabilities
take them unless she was pretty certain that they some-
how vitally concerned her. It's evident that Tremaine
wouldn't have taken so much trouble to look for them
unless he was mighty anxious to find them. We ar-
rive, then, at our first conclusion, namely, that these
clippings necessarily shed some light upon the tragedy
recently enacted in this room, and upon the connection
of these people with each other."
"Yes," I agreed; "unless all these people were
mistaken in their estimate of the value of the clip-
pings."
"That, of course, is possible; but I don't think it
probable. At any rate, let us disregard that suggestion
for the moment, and proceed along the other line.
What light is it possible for these clippings to shed
on the murder of Thompson? Obviously, it must be
only by explaining motives. The majority of them
seem to be concerned with the adventures of a French-
man, who goes under various names, but who, I am
sure, is one and the same person. He must, then, be
either Tremaine or Thompson. But Thompson was
evidently not a Frenchman, and Tremaine pretty evi-
dently is, though his contact with the world has served
to rub away a good many of the marks. I think
we're pretty safe, therefore, in assuming that the
Frenchman of these clippings is Tremaine. As we go
on, I believe we'll find some internal evidence con-
firming this. You agree with me thus far?"
"Perfectly," I said, "admitting your first premise
that these clippings are really concerned with the
case."
"That, too, I believe, we'll soon be able to prove


A Study in Probabilities 227
by internal evidence. Of course, if they haven't any
connection with it, they'll soon lead us into chaos. But
there's another thing; we mustn't expect too much
from them. We mustn't expect a story complete in
all its parts—it's bound to be fragmentary. The won-
der is that Thompson succeeded in keeping this many
links in the chain. Maybe in his more prosperous
days he had a mania for clippings. At best, we
mustn't be disappointed if there are long gaps in the
story."
"Yes," I agreed again; "that's evident enough."
"Very well; we'll begin with the clippings, then,
substituting Tremaine's name for the one used. The
first clipping is merely a marriage notice, announc-
ing that on the 23d of August, 1883, Tremaine
married one Therese Bertigny, at Dieppe. Let
me see; Tremaine was then probably about twenty
years of age. No doubt he was born at Dieppe, so
that the name given here, Victor Charente, is his real
one. You'll notice that he's retained his first name—
which is a bit of corroborative evidence."
"Or a mere coincidence," I supplemented.
"I'll wire our correspondent at Dieppe to look up
this Charente—perhaps he can get a photograph. That
would settle the question."
I nodded. Yes, that would settle it, for Tremaine
at forty was probably not greatly different from Tre-
maine at twenty.
"The second clipping," proceeded Godfrey, " shows
us that our hero soon wandered from the straight and
narrow path, and gives us, too, a little light upon his
personal history. In the spring following his mar-


A Study in Probabilities 229
Thompson, then, were arrested in New York, July
23, 1885, at a low resort where they were having a
carouse. They had beaten and robbed another sailor.
It seems that nothing was left of the sixty thousand
francs, and naturally Tremaine found it difficult to
go honestly to work again. The fourth clipping, un-
dated, but probably some months later, shows that
Tremaine and Thompson were sentenced to three years
each in Sing Sing. But they didn't stay there so long,"
he added, turning to the next clipping, " at least Tre-
maine didn't. On the night of January 2, 1886, in
the midst of a tremendous snowstorm, they managed
to hide themselves in one of the workshops, and after-
wards to scale the outer wall. In the morning Thomp-
son was found at the foot of the wall with his head
cut open and nearly frozen. "Tremaine got clear away.
Thompson was brought around with the greatest diffi-
culty, and would say nothing except to indulge in
terrible imprecations against his companion. You see,"
concluded Godfrey, looking up, "we begin to get at
the motive."
"Yes," I agreed, "it's very plain, now you've
started on the right track. It's a good deal like
Columbus's egg."
Godfrey smiled and turned to the sixth clipping,
the longest of them all.
"It's that way with most mysteries," he said, "and
here's the internal evidence that all this theorising is
pretty straight. It's the clew, too, which we've been
seeking so long."
"It explains Miss Croydon's presence here?"
I asked, intensely interested and deeply stirred.


230 A Study in Probabilities
"Just that!" he said, and shot me a triumphant
glance. "Let us see if you can catch it. The clip-
ping is in French, and though my French isn't of the
highest order, I can get the sense of it pretty well. It
is dated Suresnes, and is evidently a letter from a
provincial correspondent to a Paris newspaper, who
like most other provincial correspondents, is delight-
fully vague. However, I gather from it that on the
night of September 16, 1891, a beautiful young Eng-
lish girl—name not given—ran away from the con-
vent school of the Sacred Heart at Suresnes and that
the next morning she was safely married to a ' gallant
Frenchman '—Tremaine, of course—by the cure of the
little village of Petits Colombes. The marriage was
quite regular—though no doubt the cure's fee was
larger than usual—for the banns had been published
as required. 'Thus,' concludes the eloquent cor-
respondent, ' does the grand passion once more prevail
over the hypocrisies of the cloister.' Evidently the cor-
respondent is a rabid anti-clerical."
"But still," I objected, "I don't see that that ex-
plains anything."
"Let me help you. It was this clipping I happened
to look at first the night we found the body. I read
two or three lines aloud, then Simmonds put it back
in the pocket. It must have been those few lines
which told Miss Croydon the nature of the clippings
and their importance to her. The date line would
have been enough to do that. Besides, if she'd already
known of them, she'd have taken them before we got
here."
"You mean Miss Croydon is the girl who ran away


A Study in Probabilities 231
with Tremaine? But then, she couldn't have been
more than ten or twelve years old in 1891."
"Eleven," corrected Godfrey, and I was struck by
the radiant expression of his face as he,took a yellow
paper from his pocket. "Let me read you two
sentences from this old report concerning the Croydon
family—you ought to have recalled them, my dear
Lester."
"Go ahead," I said helplessly.
"' Eldest daughter, Edith, born in France, August
26, 1874. Educated at school there, but broke down
from overstudy and returned to Beckenham. Re-
ligion, Catholic.' Now," he demanded, "do you
understand who it was married Tremaine at Petits
Colombes in 1891?"
At last I saw it, and I could only sit and stare at
him, marvelling at my own stupidity. This was the
key—the key to the whole enigma. Miss Croydon
had taken her sister's place, had tried to buy him off,
to get him out of her sister's way. It was Tremaine
who had opened the door—it was Tremaine whom she
had come to the Marathon to meet. But—and I
started upright—since they were Catholics, only his
death could release Mrs. Delroy! Perhaps it was
Thompson, after all, and his death had released her!
But no; and in an instant the whole terrible position
of the elder woman burst upon me. She was not Del-
roy's wife, she was . . .
"So," I said hoarsely, "Tremaine is then the true
husband of Mrs. Delroy!"
"Let us finish the story of the clippings before going
into that," suggested Godfrey. "I confess, I don't


232 A Study in Probabilities
quite see the bearing of this next one. It's a New
York dispatch, perhaps to a London paper, under date
of February 18, 1892, and chronicles the loss of the
bark Centaur, with all on board, off the coast of Mar-
tinique. The Ceiqtaur was bound from Marseilles to
Fort-de-France with a cargo of wines and muslins.
Let us leave it, for a moment, and pass on to the next
one, which is the last.
"This is dated Sydney, Australia, October 23,
1896, and- relates how a daring scheme to rob the
Bank of New South Wales was frustrated by a sailor
who had been a member of the gang, but who got
frightened and informed the police. The ringleader,
a Frenchman, was captured and would receive a term
of years in prison. There are four copies of this clip-
ping, which no doubt means that it is the one which
Thompson was sometimes in the habit of sending to
Tremaine, to remind him of that Australian experi-
ence.
"Now, don't you see, we reconstruct the whole story.
Tremaine, starting out as a defaulter and robber,
escapes from prison, leaving his partner in the lurch,
treacherously, no doubt, since it awakened his violent
anger—there isn't any hatred more vindictive than
that of one criminal toward another who has betrayed
him. Tremaine finally goes back to France and suc-
ceeds in entangling Edith Croydon, then only about
sixteen, in a marriage. We know how fascinating he
is, and it's not wonderful that he should be able to
mislead an inexperienced girl. Of course what he
wants is money, and so she writes to her father. He
comes for her and takes her home—no doubt paying


A Study in Probabilities 233
Tremaine a handsome sum to take himself off—in
fact, mortgaging his home to do it.
"Miss Croydon gradually recovers; but she is Tre-
maine's wife. Yet in 1900 she marries Delroy. She
must, therefore, have had good reason to believe
Tremaine dead."
"Don't you see?" I cried. "That's the meaning
of that item about the foundering of the Centaur, with
all on board. Tremaine was a passenger and she
knew it."
"Good!" nodded Godfrey. "That's undoubtedly it.
Let me see," and he turned back to the clipping; " that
was in 1892. His name, perhaps, appeared among the
missing; she waited eight years, and at last, believ-
ing his death established beyond a doubt, married
again.
"Now let us see what Tremaine was doing. In
1896 he was in Australia, planning a bank robbery.
He meets Thompson, descended from his estate of
captain to that of common sailor. Tremaine takes
Thompson in on the plan; and Thompson, to get even
for that treachery at Sing Sing, gives him away. Tre-
maine, no doubt, got a penitentiary sentence. He
probably broke jail again, for in 1899 he appears at
Martinique, supposedly from South America. He has
considerable money, which he no doubt stole some-
where, and perhaps he chose St. Pierre as a safe place
to stay in hiding until the hue and cry after him was
over. He would have some acquaintance with the
island, if he landed there from the wreck.
"Thompson learns where he is—perhaps even sees
him at St Pierre—and puts a bouquet to his revenge


234 A. Study in Probabilities
by driving him into fits of rage by reminding him of
that Australian treachery. But at last he sends him a
message, which brings him to New York."
"Yes," I said, "and I have cudgelled my brain in
vain trying to imagine what that message could have
been."
"Well," remarked Godfrey, "while we can't, of
course, give its actual text, I don't think it very diffi-
cult to guess its general tenor. We know what Tre-
maine came here to do—he came to blackmail Mrs.
Delroy. It's pretty safe, then, to suppose that the
message told him that she was blackmailable—in other
words, that she had married a rich man. No doubt,
Tremaine's money was running low, and he jumped
at this chance of replenishing his purse. Thompson
was working his way toward St. Pierre to join him,
and actually reached there on the Pariina just as
Tremaine was leaving. Perhaps Tremaine had tried
to play Thompson false a second time.
"Now," he continued, "let us see how nearly we
can reconstruct the scene which occurred in this room.
Tremaine supplies Thompson on the voyage up with
whiskey, and agrees to keep him supplied, believing
that he may be useful—not daring, at any rate, to make
an open enemy of him, lest he spoil his game here—
Thompson had only to speak a word to the police to
put Tremaine back in Sing Sing to serve out his un-
expired term. Arrived at New York, he establishes
himself in the suite across the hall, and spends a week
or two in looking over the ground, ostensibly boosting
his railroad scheme. Thompson, who has been in
jail, joins him and takes these rooms.


A Study in Probabilities 235
"At last Tremaine is ready—or perhaps his lack of
money forces him to act. He writes a note to Mrs.
Delroy, telling her that he's alive and wishes to share
in her prosperity. He demands that she meet him in
these rooms, asking for Thompson—that leaves him
free from suspicion should she show the note to her
husband and should he attempt to have the writer ar-
rested for blackmail. But she isn't so sensible. Per-
haps she disregards his first note; perhaps she's unable
to decide what to do. She has, of course, been thrown
into a panic. He writes again; in despair, she seeks
the advice of her sister, and Miss Croydon, who is by
far the stronger of the two, offers to come here her-
self, see the man, and find out what he proposes to do.
"Tremaine has secured Thompson's key, given him
some money, and sent him out to get drunk. But for
Jimmy the Dude, he would have stayed away—probably
in the lock-up—-but Jimmy brings him home. Tre-
maine has to make the best of it, since there isn't time
to get Thompson out of the way again. Anyway, he's
so dead-drunk, that Tremaine anticipates no interfer-
ence from him. He shuts him in the bedroom, and sits
down to wait for Miss Croydon.
"She arrives promptly, despite the rain, and we
can imagine that the dialogue which followed was not
of a milk-and-water kind—both of them are full of
fire, and they made the sparks fly.
"Thompson is aroused by the voices, or perhaps
wakes naturally—comes into the outer room and in-
terferes. He is still half-drunk; perhaps he threatens
Tremaine. At any rate, Tremaine picks up the iron
pipe and knocks him down; then, in a sudden black


A Study in Probabilities 237
"We don't need it!" declared Godfrey confidently,
as he arose to go. "We've got a chain about Tre-
maine, Lester, that he can't break—and we'll compel
Miss Croydon to forge the last rivet."
But in my dreams that night, I saw him breaking
the chains, trampling upon them, hurling them from
him. I tried to hold them fast with all my puny
strength, for I fancied that, once free, he would sweep
over the earth like a pestilence. Then, suddenly, it
was not Tremaine but Cecily I was holding; she turned
to look at me with a countenance so terrible that it
palsied me; her eyes scorched me with a white heat,
burnt me through and through. Then she raised her
hand and struck me a heavy blow upon the head—
again—again—till, blindly, in agony, I loosed my hold
of her and fell, fell . . .


CHAPTER IV
Cecilg Sage <3oo»sbge
THE cold light of the morning brought with it
a profound scepticism. Godfrey's theory no
longer seemed so convincing; in fact, it did not seem
convincing at all. Many objections occurred to me;
I saw that the whole elaborate structure was built upon
quicksand—there was no proof that any of the clip-
pings referred to Tremaine or Thompson; there was
no proof that Thompson had gathered them with
elaborate care and of set purpose; there was no
proof . . .
Yes—there was one point susceptible of proof; by
it the whole structure would stand or fall . . .
"Mr. Royce," I said to our junior, in the course
of the morning, '' I wonder if I could be spared
this afternoon? I've some business of my own which
I'd very much like to attend to."
"Why, certainly," he answered instantly: so when I
left the office at noon, I took the Elevated to the Grand
Central Station and bought a ticket to Ossining. Once
there, I went direct to the grey old prison and stated
my errand to Mr. Jones, the sub-warden, whom I
found in charge.
"I've come up from New York," I began, after
giving him my card, "to see if you can identify
238 &


Cecily Says Good-bye 239
this man," and I handed him the photograph of
Thompson.
He looked at it long and searchingly, seemingly for
a time in doubt, but at last he shook his head.
"No, I don't believe I can," he said. "There's
something familiar about the face, but I can't place
it."
"How long have you been connected with the
prison, Mr. Jones? " I asked.
"I began thirty years ago as guard. But what
made you think I could identify this fellow?"
"We've rather imagined," I answered, "that his
real name was Johnson and that he served a term here
for robbery, beginning in 1885."
He looked at the photograph again, with a sudden
flush of excitement in his face.
"I believe you're right," he said. "Let's look at
Johnson's photo."
He consulted the index, then turned to one of the
wall cases.
"Here he is," he said, opening a compartment and
pointing to a photograph. "It's the same man, sure,
only changed a lot. It would be easy to prove it.
I suppose they took his Bertillon measurements at the
morgue, and we've only to compare them with ours.
They'd be the same, no matter how much he'd
changed."
And he had changed, indeed! The Johnson of the
prison photograph was, of course, smooth-shaven; his
face was alert, intelligent; there was no scar upon the
temple, nor did the features show that subtle bloating
of long-continued dissipation. But it was the same—


240 Cecily Says Good-bye
undoubtedly it was the same. There was no need to
apply any finer tests.
"I remember him now," said Jones, looking from
one photograph to the other, "very well. He was a
quiet, well-behaved chap—had been captain of a little
tramp steamer, I believe. He had a perfect mania
for cutting pieces out of newspapers and pasting them
in a scrap-book. He spent all his leisure time that
way. Oh, yes; I remember, too, he tried to escape,
but his pal went back on him and left him layin' out
yonder by the wall. His pal was a bad one, he was; he
got away and I've often wondered what become of him.
Here he is."
He swung open another compartment, and I found
myself staring at Tremaine!
Not until I was quite near New York did I recover
sufficiently from the effects of this discovery to heed
the cry of the train-boy as he went through the
coaches with the evening papers.
"All about th' Edgemere murder!" he was crying,
and the name caught my ear.
"Edgemere," I repeated to myself. "Edgemere.
I've heard that name somewhere."
Then in a flash I remembered; and in a moment
more the whole story of the tragedy of the night
before—the murder of Graham and the theft of Mrs.
Delroy's necklace—lay before me. With what inten-
sity of interest I read it can be easily imagined; I was
shaken, nervous, horror-stricken. That there was
some connection between this second tragedy and the
one in suite fourteen I did not doubt; and I read and


Cecily Says Good-bye 243
"Cecily?" I questioned.
"Yes—she takes it to heart more than you'd believe.
But she'll get over it in a day or two."
"When does she leave?"
"In the morning early, by the fruit boat. And,
by the way, I want you to go down with me to see her
off. She'll appreciate it."
"Why, certainly—but isn't it rather sudden?"
"In a way, yes. You see, I've arranged for a com-
mittee from New York to go down to Martinique and
look over the ground, and I want to take them before
they have a chance to cool off. I've got to get my
house there in order and engage some servants, for
that will be our headquarters, and if Cecily doesn't
leave by the boat to-morrow, she can't go for ten days.
Ten days from now I'm going to have the committee
ready to sail, and when I get them to Martinique, I'm
going to give them a sample of Creole hospitality. I
wish you could come," he added warmly. "I'd like
to have you."
"There's nothing I'd like better," I said, suddenly
conscious of how I had slandered him in my thoughts.
"But I fear it isn't possible just now."
"Well, some day I shall have you there, and I
warn you I shan't let you go in a hurry. Come
in," he added, in response to a knock at the
door.
Two waiters entered, and in a moment the dinner
was served.
"That will do," said Tremaine, pressing a coin into
the hand of each of them. "We'll attend to ourselves.
Send up in an hour for the dishes. I thought that


244 Cecily Says Good-bye
was best," he added, as he closed the door after them.
"We can talk freely now."
He stepped to the inner door.
"Cecily!" he called.
She appeared in a moment, with eyelids a little
puffed and red, but on the1 whole in much better spirits
than I had expected. She was arrayed in all her
finery—she had put on every piece of jewelry, I
think—and she paused in the doorway to throw
me a courtesy. Tremaine took her hand and led
her to a seat, with a grace worthy of the Grand
Monarque.
"See the spoiled child!" he said, laughing across
the table at her, a moment later. "She's been mak-
ing herself miserable for nothing. In two weeks, we
shall be together again at Fond-Corre."
She answered his laugh with a thin smile, and shot
me a glance pregnant with meaning. I knew she
meant that her prophecy had come true.
He brimmed her glass with wine.
"Drink that," he said. "To our meeting in two
weeks."
"To our meeting in two weeks!" she repeated
ironically, and drained the glass.
But in a few moments the mood passed and she be-
came quite gay. Not till then did it occur to me
that Tremaine had made no reference to the tragedy
at Edgemere. Then I caught myself just in time, for
I remembered suddenly that I was not supposed to
know he had been there.
"So you have been successful?" I asked finally.
"Yes, I believe so. I've succeeded in interesting


246 Cecily Says Good-bye
The story that Godfrey had built up was, I reflected,
wholly hypothetical, flimsy with the flimsiness which
always attaches to circumstantial evidence. I knew
how a jury, looking at Tremaine, would laugh at it.
No lawyer would risk his reputation with such a case,
no magistrate would allow it to proceed before him.
Why, for all I knew, Tremaine could prove an alibi
for the tragedy in suite fourteen as complete as that
which Delroy had offered for him in the Edgemere
mystery. Godfrey and I had been forging a chain of
sand, imagining it steel! As for that prison photo-
graph, I had been deceived by a chance resemblance.
"The boat starts from pier fifty-seven, North River,
at the foot of West Twenty-seventh Street, at eight
o'clock," were Tremaine's last words to me. "We
shall look for you there."
Is there any virtue in dreams, I wonder? That
night, while I slept, the tragedy in suite fourteen was
re-enacted before me. I witnessed its every detail—
I saw Tremaine snatch up the pipe and strike a heavy
blow—then, suddenly, behind him, appeared a face
dark with passion, a hand shot out, a pistol flashed,
even as Tremaine tried to knock it aside, and Cecily
looked down upon her victim with eyes blazing with
hatred!
I was at the pier in good time, for, let me confess
it, I was curious to see the details of this leave-taking.
Cecily and Tremaine were there before me, the former
leaning sadly against the rail while the latter directed
the checking of some baggage.


Cecily Says Good-bye 247
I went directly to her.
"So here you are," I said, " ready to go back to that
St. Pierre you love so much. Aren't you glad?"
"Oh, very glad," she answered, with a single list-
less glance at me. "I shall never come back to this
horrible place."
"And Tremaine will join you in two weeks," I
added.
This time she looked at me—a lightning flash!—a
glance that brought back vividly my dream.
"Will he?" she asked between her teeth.
"Why," I questioned, in affected surprise, "don't
you think he will?"
She drew in her breath with a quick gasp.
"What does it matter? I'm only a fille-de-couleur.
I shall laugh and forget, like all the others," and, in-
deed, a strange unnatural excitement had come into
her face. ,
I saw her eyes devouring Tremaine as he ap-
proached.
"Everything is arranged," he said cheerily, shak-
ing hands with me. "Here are the checks, Cecily.
Now take us down to your stateroom and do the
honours."
"As you please, doudoux," she answered quietly,
and led the way.
It was a very pleasant cabin, one of the best on
board, and I saw that some of her personal belongings
were already scattered about it. Against the hot-
water pipe in one corner was hanging Fe-Fe's cage.
A curtain had been tied about it to protect its tender
occupant from the cold.


248 Cecily Says Good-bye
"I see you're taking Fe-Fe with you," I remarked.
"To be sure she is," said Tremaine. "She knows
the snake would starve to death if she left it with me.
But we must drink to a good voyage."
He rose and touched the electric button. Cecily
followed him with eyes gleaming like two coals of
fire. Looking at her, I felt a vague uneasiness—did
she have concealed in the bosom of her gown that
same revolver—was she only waiting a favourable
moment . . .
"The first toast is yours, Mr. Lester," said Tre-
maine, as he filled the glasses.
"To Cecily!" I cried. "Her health, long life, and
happiness!"
"Thank you, che," she said simply, and very
gravely, and we drank it.
Just then a bell sounded loudly from the deck and
a voice shouting commands.
"Come, we must be going," said Tremaine, rising
hastily. "That's the shore bell."
I passed out first, and for an instant held my breath,
expecting I know not what—a dull report—a scream
. . . But in a moment they came out together. Tre-
maine and I made a rush for the gang-plank, while
Cecily again took up her station against the rail. We
waved to her and waved again, shouting good-byes,
as the last rope was cast loose, and the steamer began
to move away from the dock.
She waved back at us and kissed her hands, look-
ing very beautiful.
Then suddenly her face changed; she swayed and
caught at the rail for support.


Cecily Says Good-bye 249
"She's going to faint, pardieu!" said Tremaine.
But she did not faint; instead she made a funnel
of her hands and shouted a last message back at
us.
Tremaine nodded as though he understood and
waved his hand.
"Did you catch what she said?' he asked.
"No, not a word of it. That tug over there
whistled just then."
"I caught the word 'lit.' She probably wants to
know how many she'll have to get ready—but no
matter," and he turned to me with an expressive
little shrug.
"Why? Isn't the committee really going to Mar-
tinique?"
"Oh, a couple of engineers are going to look over
the ground and report."
"And you?"
"I shall stay here." He waved his handkerchief
again at the receding boat, then passed it across his
forehead. "That takes a big load off my mind, Mr.
Lester, I tell you, to get her safely off and be alive
to tell the tale. I rather expected her to stick a knife
into me last night. I made a great mistake in bring-
ing her with me."
"But I thought you said"
"Oh, they do laugh and forget in time; but just
at first they naturally feel badty. Now, before the
voyage is over, I dare say Cecily will have another
doudoux—some handsome Creole returning home, per-
haps. She's a magnificent woman, just the same," he
added.


250 Cecily Says Good-bye
"That she is," I agreed, and threw a last look down
the river.
The boat was almost hidden by the morning mist;
in a moment more it had quite disappeared, bearing
Cecily to death, a fortnight later, in the shadow of
Pelee. And I doubt if I shall ever know another
woman like her.


252 Counsel for the Defence
I sat down beside him and mopped away the
perspiration. I had need of all my breath for a
moment, but at last I managed to blurt out a ques-
tion.
"What's it all about?"
"Well," began Godfrey, putting on his hat again
and looking at me with a quizzical smile, " in the first
place, the eminent and widely known firm of Graham
& Royce has been engaged to defend one John Tolbert
Drysdale, now under arrest charged with murder and
robbery. You are on your way to Babylon, Long Is-
land, to look over the ground, have a talk with your
client, and get the case ready."
"So!" I nodded; "yes, I read of the case in last
night's papers. But Mr. Drysdale has never, I think,
been a client of ours; how did he happen to choose
us?"
"He didn't; I chose you. I wanted him to have
the best in the market."
"Thanks," I said, colouring a little. "But how did
the office come to take the case? We're always rather
shy of criminal cases, you know."
"Yes, I know you are. But I chinned your junior a
bit."
"That explains it!" I said, laughing. "Of course
we'll do our best for him."
"You'll acquit him," said Godfrey, with conviction.
"I was at Boston yesterday, or I'd have gone down
to Babylon at once and taken you with me."
"Then I shouldn't have got to say good-bye to
Cecily."
"To whom?"


254 Counsel for the Defence
"Perhaps not," he agreed; "but we're going to get
it—enough to convict him and some to spare."
"Convict him of what?"
j "Of two murders and one robbery."
"Then you believe he's implicated in this Edgemere
affair?"
"I'm sure of it"
"But there isn't a shred of evidence against him," I
protested again, coming back to my old objection;
really Godfrey was allowing his prejudices to carry
him too far.
"Not a shred, apparently," he assented readily.
"Well, then, how"
"Here's the landing," he interrupted. "We can
talk it over on the train."
We left the boat and hastened across to the station.
The train was waiting the word to start, and was in
motion a moment after we stepped aboard. 'There
were not many passengers, for the morning travel is
toward the city, not from it; and we had no difficulty
in finding a seat where we could talk without fear of
being overheard.
"Now," began Godfrey, "as you say, there isn't a
shred of evidence, apparently, against Tremaine. How
about your client?"
"Against Drysdale," I answered, "the evidence
seems to be unusually complete."
"You might have used a stronger phrase. It's not
only complete, it's consummately perfect. Not a link
is missing. He was on the spot; his revolver is found
near by with blood on it; a button from his coat is
in the dead man's hand; when he returns to the house,


Counsel for the Defence 257
"Godfrey," I said, "there seems to me to be one
great objection to your theory that Tremaine killed
Thompson. If Miss Croydon saw him do it, would
she consent to associate with him? Wouldn't her very
knowledge of his crime give her a greater hold on him
than he has on her sister?"
He paused to turn this over.
"Yes," he admitted at last; "it would; but a
woman might not think of that."
"A desperate woman would think of everything,"
I said; " and if your theory is right, both she and her
sister must be very desperate."
He nodded without answering, and sat staring be-
fore him, his brows knitted in perplexity.
There was one conclusive objection I might have
urged, had I known of it—but I was not yet possessed
of the story of the house-party. If Tremaine was
the husband of Mrs. Delroy, how could he propose
marriage to her sister? That was a rock, as yet un-
seen by us, which loomed ahead—which we could not
avoid—upon which our theory must inevitably be
dashed to pieces.
The train flashed past two or three big hotels, then
the brakes were applied.
"Here's Babylon," said Godfrey, rousing himself
from the profound revery into which my question had
thrown him. "We'll look in upon the prisoner, first,
and cheer him up a bit."
The jail was only a short distance from the station,
and a five minutes' walk brought us to it.
"We're here in behalf of Mr. Drysdale," Godfrey
explained to the jailer. "This is Mr, Lester, of Gra-


258 Counsel for the Defence
ham & Royce, of New York, who have been retained
to defend him. I suppose we may see him?"
"I'll take in your cards," he said, after looking us
over. "If Mr. Drysdale wants to see you, it's all
right, but you'll be the first ones."
He disappeared into an inner room; we heard the
rattling of keys and the clanging of an iron door. He
was back again in a moment.
"Step this way, gentlemen," he said.
Drysdale was sitting on the bunk in his little cell.
He came forward with hand outstretched as soon as
he saw Godfrey.
"This is mighty kind of you, Jim," he said.
"I'll have to lock you in, gentlemen," broke in the
jailer. "How soon must I come fer you?"
"Say twenty minutes," answered Godfrey, looking
at his watch. Then he turned back to us as the jail-
er's steps died away down the corridor. "Jack," he
said, " this is Mr. Lester, of Graham & Royce, who've
been retained to look after your case."
"My case? Who retained them?"
"I did. I scarcely supposed you were going to let
yourself be convicted without lifting a finger."
Drysdale smiled bitterly.
"They won't convict me. Just the same, I'm glad
to see you, Mr. Lester," and he held out his hand. "I
shall, of course, need some legal advice."
"I'm glad you admit that much!" retorted Godfrey,
with sarcasm. "I understand that you haven't con-
descended as yet to prove an alibi?"
"No," answered the prisoner quietly. "The fact
is, I can't prove an alibi,"


Counsel for the Defence 259
"You can't? " and Godfrey's face paled a little.
"No; when I left the house that night, I went
down to the pier and had a little talk with Graham;
then I—I wandered around the grounds until the storm
came up, when I went back to the house and up to my
room. Nobody saw me; I spoke to nobody after I
left Graham, until I returned to the house. There's
only my own word for it. What was the use of telling
the police a story like that?"
"No use at all," agreed Godfrey hastily. "I'm
glad you didn't tell it. But what on earth possessed
you to behave in such a crazy fashion?"
"That," answered Drysdale, still more quietly, "is
one question which I must absolutely refuse to an-


CHAPTER VI
Innocent or <Suflt£?
WE sat looking at him a moment in silence. It
was evident that he was suffering some ex-
quisite mental anguish, though I suspected, somehow,
that it was not because of his imprisonment. There
was something deeper than that; something that
touched him more closely . . .
"Oh, come, Jack," protested Godfrey, at last, "this
is no time to put on the high and mighty. You don't
seem to realise what an exceedingly serious position
you're in."
"I know one thing, Godfrey," returned Drysdale,
with a forced smile, "and that is that I didn't kill
Graham nor steal the necklace. So I know they can't
convict me."
"I wouldn't be too sure of it; things like that happen
occasionally. How did Graham get hold of that but-
ton off your rain-coat?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
"You wore the coat that evening?"
"Yes."
"And the button was on it?"
"Yes—I'd have missed it, if it hadn't been. Besides,
I buttoned the coat up when I started back to the
house."
Godfrey's face flushed and his eyes began to glisten.
260


262 Innocent or Guilty?
that you won't read it—not yet—it won't help you
a bit"
"I'm not so sure of that," retorted Godfrey grimly.
",Why don't you want me to read it?"
"The fact is," Drysdale answered, colouring still
more, "that after I got started, I—I forgot I was
writing it for you"
"I see," said Godfrey drily, as the other paused.
"I'll promise you this, Jack—I won't read it unless I
find that I can't clear you any other way."
Drysdale heaved a sigh of relief.
"That's all I want," he said. "Afterwards, per-
haps, I won't mind; but just now"
His voice trailed off, his lips trembled.
"And you've nothing more to tell us?"
"Not a thing."
"Very well; we'll go out and have a look about the
place. We'll come in again this afternoon. We're
going to clear you," he added confidently.
We heard the jailer's footsteps approaching along
the corridor.
"I don't doubt it," said Drysdale, with a puzzling
listlessness. "It's very good of you both to take all
this trouble."
The jailer opened the door and we passed out.
"Do you know when the inquest will be?" God-
frey asked, as we stepped through together into the
outer room.
"Yes, sir; t'-morrer mornin'. They'd have had it to-
day, but Coroner Heffelbower hopes t' find th' necklace
by t'-morrer."
"Oh; so they haven't found it, then?"


264 Innocent or Guilty?
average jury's eyes—he must see them as those twelve
men in the box will see them—and applying that
method now, it was very evident to me that the chance
of clearing our client was very slim indeed.
The trap came around to the door and in a moment
we were off along the sandy road. The day was warm
and bright, the air had the sharp salt smell of the
ocean, trees and bushes were starting into life under
the touch of spring. But Godfrey did not seem to
notice any of these things. He kept his eyes straight
ahead and his face was very stern. No doubt he was
finding the problem much more difficult than he had
thought.
But at last we swung down before the door at Edge-
mere. A man ran out to hold our horse. We asked
for Mr. Delroy, and a servant who had been stationed
in the vestibule took in our cards. He returned im-
mediately and conducted us to the library. Delroy
came forward to meet us, our cards in his hand, a
curious look of doubt and perplexity upon his counte-
nance.
"My dear Godfrey," he began, "I didn't like to
refuse to see you, and yet I've declined to talk to re-
porters"
"You're not talking to one now, Mr. Delroy," broke
in my companion. "I've come down purely in Drys-
dale's behalf. Of course, I'll write up the story, if
I succeed in getting him off, but I'll not use anything
I learn here in that way."
"Oh, that's all right, then," and Delroy breathed a
sigh of relief. "Glad to see you. And you, too, Mr.
Lester."


Innocent or Guilty? 265
"Mr. Lester is Drysdale's counsel," explained my
companion. "Between us, we're going to see that
he's cleared of this ridiculous charge."
"Yes, I hope you will. Sit down, won't you?
Ridiculous, that's the word for it; and yet," he added,
passing his hand before his eyes in a dazed way,
"there are so many points of evidence which seem
unexplainable that I've grown giddy thinking about
them. It's such a terrible thing—my wife is quite
prostrated—even a little delirious at times; her sister
is almost ill—we've all been terribly upset."
"No doubt," nodded Godfrey, his face curiously
intent. "We're not going to trouble you much now,
Mr. Delroy; the only thing I should like you to do is
to give us an account of all that happened that evening.
I hope you will do that."
"Yes, I'll be glad to do that," and he proceeded to
tell in detail the story the reader already knows.
"There's one thing," said Godfrey, when it was
ended. "Is it true that Miss Croydon seemed to be-
lieve Drysdale guilty?"
"Yes," answered Delroy; " for an instant she did;
but she explained to me afterwards that she thought it
was Tremaine who had been killed."
Godfrey's eyes blazed with sudden interest.
"Tremaine! Then there's been ill-feeling between
them?"
"Yes—at least on Drysdale's part. He'd conceived
some absurd suspicions of Tremaine—told me I'd
done wrong in inviting him here—acted rather nastily
about it, in fact."
"Thank you," said Godfrey quietly, though his eyes


The Key to the Mystery 271
mere " embossed in blue at the top. There were also
on the table pens, an inkstand, and two or three blot-
ters. He turned the blotters over, but only one of
them showed any sign of having been used, and the
marks on it were very faint—yet they seemed to inter-
est Godfrey. He bent over them with puzzled face;
then he got out a little magnifying glass and studied
them again.
"Lester," he said, at last, " I wish you'd take a look
at this," and he pushed the blotter and glass toward
me. "What do you make of it?"
I gazed through the glass at the marks, but for a
moment could make nothing of them. Then they
resolved themselves into a string of letters marching
backward, fairly distinct at one end but fading away
to nothingness at the other, thus—

"Somebody seems to have been scribbling a lot of
disconnected letters on a piece of paper," I said, at
last. "I can't make out any words. The letters seem
to be mostly B's and G's—yes, and here's an I."
"Thomas," said Godfrey, "will you go down and
ask Mr. Delroy if he has a sample of Mr. Tremaine's
handwriting, and, if so, if he will let us see it for a
moment?"
Thomas went out instantly and I looked at Godfrey
in surprise.
"You think those marks have some value? " I asked.
Godfrey drummed absently on the table and stared
out of the window.


The Key to the Mystery 273
this room to rights," explained Thomas apologetically,
"till the coroner sent us word we might. He ain't
sent no word yet."
It was evident that Drysdale had been packing very
hastily when he was interrupted by the arrival of the
officers. The clothing which was in the trunk had
been crammed in carelessly—though, of course, that
might have been done by the coroner, after searching
it.
"Drysdale evidently didn't spend much time in bed
that night," observed Godfrey, and indicated a pile
of cigarette stubs heaped high on an ash-tray on the
table. "He must have had some knotty problem to
wrestle with to need so many."
He walked slowly about the room, looking at every-
thing keenly, but touching nothing; he stood gazing
at the bed for a long time. Then he turned again to
the table.
"Here's the diary," he said, picking up a little book
which lay there. "So Heffelbower didn't get it.
Well, I guess I'd better see that he doesn't have
another chance."
He weighed it in his hand, and I could see how it
tempted him—perhaps here lay the very key which he
had been seeking in vain! But in a moment he slipped
it unopened into his pocket.
"A man is a fool to make promises," he observed,
with a wry smile, and sat down at the table. "Hello,
what's this?" he added suddenly, and, stooping, he
fished from the waste-basket beside him the fragments
of a cane.
It was a cane certainly of at least ordinary strength,


274 The Key to the Mystery
and yet it had been broken into half a dozen pieces,
and hurled into the basket.
Whistling softly to himself, Godfrey surveyed it
for a moment; then he bent over the basket and ex-
amined the remainder of its contents, piece by piece.
There were scraps of letters, a torn envelope, a crum-
pled sheet of paper . . .
He sprang to his feet with a cry of triumph and
waved it in the air.
"I've found it!" he cried, his face beaming. "I've
found it, Lester!"
"Found what?" I questioned, more and more aston-
ished, for Godfrey was usually master of his emotions.
"Ah, Lester," he continued more calmly, as he
smoothed it out carefully on the table, "this takes
a lot of conceit out of me. Had I been really clever,
I'd have deduced the existence of this message long
before I entered the room. As it is, it's luck—pure
luck! I'm glad to win on any terms, but I'd rather
win by scientific deduction. C. Auguste Dupin would
have come straight upstairs, walked straight to that
basket, and selected unerringly this sheet of paper—
he would have known that it was there; while I—well,
one can only do one's best, and this point was a little
too fine for me. Take a look at it."
It was a sheet of the ordinary Edgemere note paper.
Across it, two lines were written:
Be at the pergola at nine.
If I am late, wait for me.
G.
"Well," I faltered; "well"


The Key to the Mystery 275
"Oh, don't you see, Lester, it's the key to the whole
problem. It's the light we've been looking for—with
our eyes shut! And to think that instead of coming
straight here for it, I should have stumbled about in
the dark for so long. It's the only possible explana-
tion, and yet I didn't think of it. It was inevitable
from the first, and yet I couldn't see it. It disgusts
me with myself—it's what I get for being so cocked
up over finding that bottle down there. Even after I
saw that blotter, I didn't guess it!"
He had taken out a card, and as he spoke he wrote
a rapid sentence on it.
"Here," he said to Thomas, "take this to Miss
Croydon at once, please."





PART V
DAT!


–––––––-
！=）=）=）=）=–


CHAPTER I
Wbat IbappeneO in Suite fourteen
I WAS conscious, in a dim way, that the end was
at hand, that we were about to penetrate the
mystery. Indeed, I already had a vague inkling of
the truth—too vague to be put into words, too ob-
scure to be discerned clearly. I was trembling with
eagerness; I endeavoured to string upon a common
thread the bits of evidence which had seemed to God-
frey so important—the bottle, the scratches on the wall,
the coat-rack, the broken cane, the note; but for the life
of me I could see no connection between them. Yet
I knew there must be, or Godfrey would not now be
walking up and down the room with a face so beam-
ing, so triumphant . . .
"Miss Croydon will see you at once, sir," announced
Thomas from the threshold, and we followed him to
the farther end of the corridor, where he tapped at a
door. A voice bade us enter.
She was standing by a window, looking out across
the waters of the bay, and she did not turn for an in-
stant—not, indeed, until Godfrey had closed the door
carefully behind him. I have seen few women more
regal, more magnificent, yet there was about her—in
her face, in the droop of her figure—such an air of
utter misery, of exquisite suffering, that, after the
first moment, one forgot to admire her in the desire
to be of service.
•79


What Happened in Suite Fourteen 281
what we already know, in order that you may realise
how useless it is for you to try to hold us off. .We're
going to see that the guilty man is punished, not for
this crime alone, but also for that other one at the
Marathon, of which you were the only witness. You
shall not be permitted to keep him from justice a day
longer."
She raised her head and looked at him, her face
white as marble and as immobile; but she did not
speak. She grew livid and more livid as he continued,
watching him with starting eyes, and at one moment I
thought she would collapse; but I did not know her
strength of will.
"In the first place," went on Godfrey evenly, never
removing his eyes from hers, " we know that this man
Tremaine inveigled your sister into a school-girl elope-
ment and marriage; she was rescued from him; she
thought him dead; she married Delroy; came to New
York; Tremaine followed her and attempted the ex-
tortion of blackmail; you met him at the Marathon;
while you were talking, Thompson interfered and
Tremaine killed him, escaping before the officers ar-
rived. You did not know Thompson, but you saw
Simmonds and me take out his pocket-book; you heard
me read a line or two from one of a packet of clippings
we found there, and while we were in the bedroom,
you took those clippings from the body and hid them
under the edge of the carpet"
She breathed a long sigh and sat erect again.
"Ah," she said, with a little smile, " I was beginning
to fear you, all that seemed so supernatural. But now
I see where your information came from."


What Happened in Suite Fourteen 283
you on the trip out. Please read it aloud, Miss Croy-
don."
"' The widow of Victor Charente,'" she read in a
low voice, "'died here February 21, 1901. Had
never married again.'" She looked up, her brows
still knitted. "Well?" she asked.
"Well," said Godfrey, "Victor Charente is the
real name of Tremaine. He married that girl many
years before he met your sister. She was his legal
wife. Your sister never was. She was never the legal
wife of anyone except Richard Delroy."
She understood now, and the glad tears burst forth
unrestrainable. Indeed, she made no effort to restrain
them, but only rocked back and forth, pressing the
message against her heart.
"Thank God!" she sobbed, "Thank God!" and
then she started up from her chair. "I must tell her,"
she said, " at once. If you knew how she has suffered!
She must not be left in that cruel position an instant
longer."
"Very well," agreed Godfrey. "We will wait for
you here."
She disappeared through a door at the farther end
of the room, but in a moment came softly back
again.
"She is asleep," she said. "I will wait until she
wakes. What a joyful awaking it will be!" and she
sat down again. She wiped away the tears, but her
eyes were still shining. Godfrey gazed at her with
a face full of emotion.
"Now, Miss Croydon," he began, "you've told me
that my theory's correct, but there are three or four


284 What Happened in Suite Fourteen
points I should like you to help me clear up, if you
will."
"I shall be glad to if I can," she answered, and
smiled at him, her eyes brimming again. "You've
lifted such a load from me, Mr. Godfrey, that I'd do
almost anything to show my gratitude."
Why, looking at her, did his face change—soften,
harden? Why did his hands tremble so? It was over
in an instant; yet I had caught a glimpse of his secret,
I understood . . .
"It was nothing," he said; " I was glad to do it—
I was deeply pleased when that message came this
morning."
"You've been kinder to me than I deserved," she
said; and I more than half agreed with her. How,
with his eyes before her, could she fail to understand?
Perhaps she did understand—I was never sure.
"In the first place, then, Miss Croydon," he went
on, in a different tone, "how did your father succeed
in getting your sister away from Tremaine?"
"They had gone to Paris," she answered, "and in
two or three days, Edith had awakened from her
dream—she saw something in the man which terri-
fied her, and she wrote a pitiful letter to father, who
went over to Paris at once, and finally succeeded in
buying the man off. Father paid him fifty thousand
francs, I believe—perhaps it was the fact that he knew
he was not really Edith's husband—that he himself
had committed a crime—which made him take it. He
agreed to leave the country, and in the following
December he wrote father that he was about to sail for
Martinique in a ship called the Centaur. He said


286 What Happened in Suite Fourteen
nor did he act like one. He listened to me with atten-
tion and seeming respect. He even appeared moved.
Oh, I know now what a hypocrite he was; I know
that he was laughing at me; that he was planning
something deeper, more villainous. I had brought
twelve hundred dollars with me,—all that we could
gather together at the moment,—and I pressed it upon
him, urging him to take it and go away and we would
send him more. He pretended to refuse the money,
to protest that that was not in the least what he wanted,
but I compelled him to take it. And just as I was hop-
ing that I had prevailed with him, the door of the bed-
room opened and a horrible drunken man staggered
out.
"'Well, Vic,' he cried, 'so this is th' gal, is it?
She's a likely piece. I wouldn't give her up, Vic, no,
not fer ten thousand'
"' Go back to bed, you drunken brute!' cried Tre-
maine, and took him roughly by the arm.
"But the other shook him off.
"' Don't lay your hands on me, Vic!' he cried.
'Don't dare lay your hands on me!'
"I saw a very devil spring into Tremaine's
face. He looked about him for some weapon, and
picked up a piece of pipe that lay beside the radiator.
Thompson saw the action and lurched heavily toward
him.
"' Coin' t' use that on me, Vic?' he asked. 'You'd
better try it,' and he made a pass at Tremaine and
tried to snatch the pipe away. 'You try it on an' I'll
blow your game like I did once before down at
Sydney.'


A Gathering of Threads 293
any such note as that, Mr. Godfrey. Where did it
come from?"
"Is it in your handwriting?"
"Why, yes," she answered, looking at it more
closely. "That is, it is something like. Oh! I begin
to see!" she cried, and I saw her seized with a sudden
convulsive shuddering.
"Yes," said Godfrey, "it was a pretty plot. This
note lured him from the house, and kept him away
until the storm came up and he was forced to abandon
the hope of meeting you. He concluded that you were
playing with him—when he returned to the house, he
found that you had spent the evening with Tremaine
—afterwards, in his room, he did a number of violent
and foolish things. Finally, he determined to go
away; he started to pack his belongings—and then, in
the hall, you, as he thought, added insult to injury
by asking him to tell"
She stopped him with a wild gesture.
"Oh, I must see him!" she cried. "Something
must be done"
"Something shall be done," Godfrey assured her,
rising. "The real culprit shall be in custody to-
night."
"The real culprit?" The words arrested her atten-
tion.
"Who but Tremaine?"
"Tremaine? But he was in the house—as you
know, I talked with him for a long time."
"In the same vein?"
She coloured a little at the tone.
"Yes," she answered, "You will, perhaps, think


298 A Gathering of Threads
"Crazy!" cried the coroner, beaming with satis-
faction. "I could not haf put t'e case petter myself,
sir!"
And Godfrey gravely bowed his thanks at the com-
pliment.


CHAPTER III
anO fl are "Oc Crop"
HEFFELBOWER insisted that we join him in
an appetiser; he had evidently jumped to the
conclusion that Godfrey was a famous New York
detective, and he gazed at him with respect and a little
awe. He wanted to discuss again all the details of
the tragedy, but we got rid of him, after a while, and
went in to dinner. Then we started toward the jail
for a final talk with Drysdale. Another jailer had
come on duty, but he made no difficulty about ad-
mitting us.
"Well?" asked the prisoner, as soon as we were
alone.
"Oh," said Godfrey, regarding him with a good-
humoured smile, "you won't be electrocuted this time
— though I must say you deserve it!"
"What!" cried Drysdale, colouring suddenly.
"You don't believe -"
"That you killed Graham? Oh, no; but you've
made an unmitigated ass of yourself, my friend. Did
you have a pleasant time, Monday night, kicking
your heels by the hour together, out at the per-
gola?"
Drysdale flushed again, but this time it was with
anger.
Oh' so she told you, did she?" he asked between
299


Godfrey and I are "de Trop" 301
you've tormented me long enough. Do you mean that
Miss Croydon didn't write che note?"
"I mean just that."
"Then who did?"
"Tremaine!"
The word brought Drysdale to his feet like a thun-
der-clap.
"Do you mean," he demanded, gripping his hands
tight behind him, "that Tremaine wrote the note and
placed it in my room in order to get me out of the
house?"
"I do."
"And that Miss Croydon knew nothing about it?"
"Not a thing—she was waiting for you in the house.
She thought you'd deliberately broken an appointment
you'd made with her."
Drysdale ground his teeth together and struck him-
self a savage blow in the chest.
"Good God!" he groaned. "What a fool! What
a perfect, muckle-headed fool!"
"Go on," laughed Godfrey. "Do it again—sack-
cloth and ashes! You deserve it all!"
"Deserve it! Do you think she'll ever forgive
me?"
"I shouldn't if I were in her place," Godfrey as-
sured him. "I'd think myself well rid of you. I
shouldn't want to marry an idiot."
Drysdale cursed dismally to himself.
"Still," Godfrey added, " there's no accounting for
the whims of women—there's no telling what they'll
do. Maybe, after this, you'll come nearer appreciat-
ing her as she deserves."


302 Godfrey and I are "de Trop"
"Appreciating her!"
"You don't seem to ha-'e any curiosity as to how
we're going to save that precious neck of yours,"
Godfrey observed.
"Oh, damn my neck! What do I care! Godfrey,
I've got to see her right away—I've got to ge-t down
on my knees—crawl in the dust"
"That's it!" nodded Godfrey approvingly.
"You've caught the idea. You ought to feel like
an insect—a particularly small one. But I hardly be-
lieve the jailer will release you on your own recogni-
sance. Maybe, to-morrow after the inquest, if every-
thing goes well"
"Oh, to-morrow be hanged! I've got to see her
right away, Jim! Isn't there any way?"
He was pacing furiously up and down the cell, bit-
ing his nails, tearing his hair. Could Tremaine have
seen him, then, he might have modified his estimate
of him.
"There's no way," said Godfrey, "unless Miss
Croydon herself should commit the inconceivable folly
—hello, who's that?"
The outer door had been flung crashing back; there
came a rush of feet down the corridor, a swish of
skirts . . .
"Grace!"
It was Drysdale's voice and he stood there like a
man struck suddenly to stone.
And she? I turned a little giddy as I looked at
her—at the shining eyes—at the quivering, smiling
lips . . .
Godfrey had sprung instantly to his feet.


308 The Story of Monday Night
the way under Circumstances as discreditable as pos-
sible, confident that, in that case, he would himself win
Miss Croydon. Which," he added, in a thoughtful
aside, "from what you've told me of him, I don't
think at all impossible."
"Not in the least," I agreed. "I believe Tremaine
could win any woman he really set his heart on."
"At any rate, he learns of Drysdale's jealousy and
of Miss Croydon's promise to explain things. He
sees that at any hazard he must prevent that explana-
tion. Monday morning, he comes to town with Del-
roy, and the latter tells him that he intends giving
the necklace the salt-water treatment. You'll remem-
ber it was Tremaine who originally proposed this,
though he could scarcely at that time have foreseen
what would come of it."
"Mere chance," I nodded.
".Well, Tremaine takes the early train back to
Edgemere and lays his plans. He writes the
note"
"But you really haven't any evidence that he did,"
I objected.
For answer Godfrey took from his pocket the blotter
he had found in Tremaine's room.
"I told you that these letters aren't in Tremaine's
hand," he said; "but if you'll compare them with
the note, you'll see how nearly they resemble Miss
Croydon's. Again, they are only capital B's, G's, and
I's, which are the only capitals used in the note.
That's pretty good circumstantial evidence. Tre-
maine, of course, burnt the piece of paper he prac-
ticed on; but he didn't think to burn this blotter. It


The Story of Monday Night 309
was only the freshest line at the bottom of the paper
that left these marks."
"But did Tremaine have a sample of Miss Croy-
don's writing?"
"There's no reason to think he didn't have; but if
he didn't, he could no doubt have found plenty of
samples among Drysdale's things. He's probably an
adept at forgery as well as at most other branches of
crime."
"All right; go ahead," I said.
"Tremaine writes the note and leaves it in Drys-
dale's room,'' continued Godfrey. "Then he opens
the trunk and secures the revolver. Perhaps he knew
the revolver was there and perhaps he didn't. If he
hadn't found it, he'd probably have taken something
else belonging to Drysdale for a weapon.
"Having secured the revolver, he returns to his
room by way of the balcony. What passed in the
early part of the evening you already know. Drys-
dale goes to keep the rendezvous at the pergola, start-
ing early, because the house, with Tremaine in it, has
become unbearable to him. He stops for a chat with
Graham, which the latter's son overhears, and then
goes on to the pergola, which is quite at the other
end of the grounds from the boathouse.
"Meanwhile, Tremaine has spent the early part of
the evening talking with Delroy and Miss Croydon.
At last he goes to his room on the pretence of writing
letters, gets the revolver, lets himself down by the
vine, and starts for the pier. He enters the boathouse
softly, feels his way to the cot, whose position he has
already seen, and carefully administers the chloroform.


31 o The Story of Monday Night
The dose was no doubt nicely calculated and the boy
would probably have awakened naturally in a few
hours.
"That done, Tremaine walks boldly out upon the
pier. Old Graham sees him; perhaps challenges him;
but of course allows him to approach as soon as he
recognises him. They talk together for a moment;
then Tremaine, swift as lightning, knocks the other
down. Graham probably fell without crying out. I
fancy I can see Tremaine pausing to make sure his
victim is dead before he goes on to the end of the pier
to get the necklace."
I shivered; I could see him, too, bending over in
the darkness, with a horrible calmness . . .
"That throwing of the pistol into the boat," con-
tinued Godfrey, "was one of those flashes of inspira-
tion which come to a man sometimes. It was superb!
It proves that our friend is really an artist. Not one
man in a thousand would have thought of it. He
must have laughed with sheer satisfaction when he
heard it clatter safely into the boat."
He paused for a moment to think of it, to turn it
over, to taste it.
"Well," he continued, at last, " he secures the neck-
lace, throws away the bottle, and probably goes down
to the water's edge to wash his hands."
"Did he take the necklace with him to the house?"
I asked.
"No," said Godfrey decidedly. "There was no
reason whatever for him to run that risk. He had
doubtless picked out a safe hiding-place for it in the
afternoon. The necklace once deposited there, he


The Story of Monday Night 311
hurries tjack to the house, climbs up to the balcony,
and re-enters his room. He assures himself that there
are no bit >od-stains on him anywhere, then he moves
his table rear the window and sits down to wait for
Drysdale's return.
"As soon as he hears him enter his room, he gath-
ers up the 'etters which he had, of course, written
during the a >ernoon, and goes downstairs. And it is
here that he makes his most serious mistake. He
fancies, perhaps, that he is to have only the country
police to deal w*th—only your Heffelbowers—that he
must clinch the r.'iil, that he cannot make the evidence
against his victim too strong. So, when he places his
letters in the bag on the hall-rack, he also tears off the
top button of Drysdale's rain-coat.
"He returns to the hall, talks with Delroy; the
storm comes up and young Graham rushes in. They
run down to the pier, kneel beside the body, try to
discover signs of life—and Tremaine adroitly shuts
the button within the dead man's hand. That, my
dear Lester, is, I fancy, the whole story."
I smoked on for a moment in silence, turning it over
in my mind with a certain sense of disappointment.
"It may be true," I said. "It seems to hold to-
gether. But, after all, there isn't a bit of positive
evidence in it. How are we to convince a jury that
Tremaine really did all these things?"
Godfrey blew a great smoke ring out over the
seat in front of us.
"I agree," he said, "that we haven't as yet any
direct evidence against Tremaine; it may be that this
whole structure will fall to pieces about my ears. But


312 The Story of Monday Night
I don't believe it. I believe, within an h r, we'll
be in possession of the one piece of posit -, indis-
putable evidence that will outweigh all the est."
"What is that?" I asked.
He turned to me with that bright light i his eyes
that I had seen there once or twice be for
"The necklace," he answered.
i t


CHAPTER V
B t)orror in tbe Darlt
THE necklace; of course, the necklace!
"But then," I objected after a moment, "if
your theory's correct, we're going right away from
the necklace. You said that Tremaine had hidden it
at Edgemere."
"Yes; but he's no such fool as to come away and
leave it hidden there. He's not the man to make the
mistake Miss Croydon made—to conceal a thing in a
place where he can't get it again without exciting
suspicion. No, no; he took the necklace with him to
New York; he ran no risk in doing that; everything
had happened just as he hoped it would. There was
absolutely no suspicion against him."
"He may have hidden it somewhere else in the
meantime," I observed.
"Yes, he may have done that," admitted Godfrey;
"and yet, why should he? He has no reason to be-
lieve that any suspicion attaches to him. He'll natu-
rally wish to keep the pearls by him until he has a
chance to sell them, one by one. He can't do that
yet—he'll probably arrange a trip to Europe to get
rid of them. If the necklace is concealed at all, it's
concealed somewhere in his rooms. And if it's there,
we'll find it!"
"Long Island City!" yelled the guard, slamming
open the door. "Change for New York!"
313


314 A Horror in the Dark
We took the Thirty-fourth Street ferry, and ten
minutes later were in a cab hurrying downtown.
"We'll get Simmonds first," said Godfrey. "I've a
sort of reciprocity treaty with him. Besides, we've
got to have an officer to make the arrest. Here we
are."
He jumped out, paid the driver, and hastened up the
steps, I after him. 'As we entered the room, I saw
that a clock registered half-past ten.
"Hello, Simmonds," said Godfrey, to a grizzled,
stockily built man, who had sprung to his feet as we
entered. "All alone?"
"Yes—the other boys have turned in."
"That's good—I've got something big for you."
Simmonds's face flushed with sudden emotion.
"Really?" he stammered. "Have you really?"
"The biggest catch that's been made in many a
day. But remember our agreement—yours the glory,
mine the scoop. Not a word of this to anybody be-
fore daybreak."
"Of course not; of course not," assented Simmonds,
rubbing his hands together eagerly. "What is it?"
"You've read about that murder and robbery at
the Delroy place near Babylon?"
"Yes, certainly; they've got the murderer in jail
down there."
> "No, they haven't," retorted Godfrey sharply.
"We're going to have him in jail here inside of
twenty minutes."
Simmonds's eyes began to glisten.
"That would be a big thing," he said. "Are you
sure of the man?"


A Horror in the Dark 31 5
"Dead sure; but see here, Simmonds, I haven't
time to tell you the whole story now; only I assure
you, on my word, that I've evidence against the
man which will convict him of one murder and per-
haps of two. Is that enough?"
"Yes," said Simmonds instantly, and he opened a
drawer, from which he took a pistol and a pair of
handcuffs. "All right," he added, turning back to
us.
"That's good! Better have a lantern, too, though."
"Think so?"
He took down a little dark lantern, lighted it, tested
it, and put it in his pocket.
"Now I'm ready. Have we far to go?"
"Oh, no; just across the street."
Simmonds started with astonishment.
"You don't mean the Marathon!" he said.
"Just that."
"But who is it we're going after?"
"A fellow named Tremaine."
"Tremaine!" Simmonds's face grew blanker and
blanker. "Why, I know him; he's been in here to see
me. He doesn't seem at all the kind of fellow who
would"
"So ho!" cried Godfrey. "It was you who told
him about the clippings!"
Simmonds coloured to the eyes.
"Who told you that?" he stammered.
"No matter; it didn't do any harm; played right
into our hands, in fact. But you didn't show your
usual perspicacity there, Simmonds. That fellow is
the most remarkable scoundrel I've ever run across


316 A Horror in the Dark
—perhaps it's just as well I never met him, or he'd
have hypnotised me, too. Come along."
Simmonds followed meekly. Evidently he felt his
indiscretion deeply; though I didn't think him greatly
to blame. Who, to look at him, would have con-
ceived any suspicion of Tremaine? Even yet, I found
it difficult to believe him guilty of any crime; this
chain which Godfrey had so laboriously forged about
him—would it really hold—was it really strong in
every link? Or was there some fatal weakness in it,
some unsuspected flaw . . .
Higgins was just shutting the inner doors. He
recognized Simmonds at once.
"Hello," he said; "what's up now? No more
murders, I hope?"
"Do you know whether or not Mr. Tremaine is in
his rooms?" asked Godfrey.
"Yes, sir; he went up about an hour ago."
"You have a key to his door?"
"Yes, sir."
"We want you to go up with us and open the
door."
"Oh, come!" protested Higgins. "That's going
it pretty strong. What's Mr. Tremaine done?"
"No matter. There's no use holding off, Higgins.
Simmonds here can place you under arrest and force
you to go."
"Well, see here," said Higgins, turning a little
pale, "if you break in on him like that, there's apt t'
be some bullets flyin' around-—he's hot-headed, he is!
I wish you'd excuse me. Here's the key—why can't
you open th' door yourself?"
1


A Horror in the Dark 317
"That '11 do," assented Godfrey, and took the key.
"Now, you stay down here."
"No fear," said Higgins promptly. "Though," he
added gloomily, " mebbe I'd better telephone fer some
ambulances."
We went softly up the stair and down the dimly
lighted corridor to Tremaine's door. We could see by
the transom that the room was dark.
"I want to surprise him," whispered Godfrey. "If
he has two or three minutes' warning, he may be able
to get rid of some evidence. He's probably in bed
and we must get to the bedroom door without his
hearing us. How does the bedroom door lie, Lester,
with reference to this one?"
"Straight ahead," I answered hoarsely.
"That's good; are you ready?"
"Yes," said Simmonds, and cocked his revolver.
As for me, I grasped my stick more firmly, glad
that it was a stout one.
"All right," said Godfrey, and he threw back the
bolt and opened the door.
The room was- in absolute darkness, save for the
dim stream of light from the hall. We entered cau-
tiously, Godfrey in the lead.
"Have your lantern ready, Simmonds," he whis-
pered, and I caught the odour of heated metal as Sim-
monds obeyed the order.
Two, three, four steps we advanced, feeling our way
—then I heard a startled cry from Godfrey—an in-
stant's pause . . .
"Quick, Simmonds, quick!" he cried, in a stifled
voice. "The lantern!"


CHAPTER VI
Vengeance
IT strikes a chill through me, even yet, to recall the
awful horror of that instant. The fer-de-lance—
death in a few heartbeats, and such a death!—a death
that melts a man into an abomination! For a mo-
ment, none of us dared move, scarcely dared breathe,
and I saw the band of light from Simmonds's lantern
waving uncertainly across the floor, the walls, the
ceiling—evidently poor Simmonds did not understand
the exact nature of the danger, but only that it was a
terrible one. I had a mad impulse to jump, shriek-
ing, for the door, and should probably have done it
had that quivering silence endured a moment longer.
"Simmonds, give me your lantern," said Godfrey,
with an admirable calmness. "Lester, have your cane
ready."
He threw a broad band of light upon the carpet, and
keeping carefully within this path, approached the
door, felt for the electric button, and switched on the
lights.
Half-blinded for an instant, we stood staring at each
other, at the floor . . .
"For God's sake," gasped Simmonds, mopping the
sweat from his face, " what is it?"
"It's a snake," said Godfrey tersely. "The deadli-
est in the world. If you don't believe me, look
319


Vengeance
"It was greater than he deserved," I protested
hoarsely. "He was not the man to meet a death like
that."
"A man! He was a vampire!" said Godfrey
sternly. "He lived on the lives of others. Don't let
your sentimentalism blind you, Lester."
"Oh, you didn't know him!" I cried. A hot re-
sentment of fate was sweeping over me; I realised
that, down at the bottom of my heart, I had never
really believed in Tremaine's guilt—even now, I hardly
believed in it!
Godfrey turned to Simmonds, who stood contem-
plating the scene with staring eyes, his lantern still
open in his hand.
"It's hard luck, Simmonds," he said. "You're
not going to get the glory, after all. But who could
have foreseen a thing like this?"
Simmonds opened his mouth and shut it again, with-
out uttering a sound.
"You'd better notify the coroner," continued God-
frey, " and, I suppose, to be strictly regular, I'll have
to turn this necklace over to you for the night. Guard
it well, Simmonds; it's worth a hundred thousand
dollars."
"What!" stammered Simmonds. "Is it the—the
—the"
"Yes, it's the Delroy necklace. You'll have to go
with us to Babylon in the morning, to attend the in-
quest. I fancy there'll be something of a sensation
when we produce the necklace there—eh, Lester?"
and he laughed a grim little laugh of anticipatory
triumph.