OCTAGON
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(NEVELS

















OCTA GO N A/O OVSA)
G E R TRUD E KAVE WE LS


----------- ----~--~


Octagon House
By GERTRUDE KNEVELS
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with D. Appleton & Company
Printed in U. S. A.


COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
*RINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


TO
M. L. K.
AND
M. E. K.


vae


II.
III.
IV.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
CONTENTS
“ALL Rose AND GoLD”
THE DAUGHTER OF THE House
A BIRTHDAY DINNER .
PEARLS AND A PortRAIt
THE TERRoR BEFoRE THE DAwN .
ZéLIE . . . . . .
JERRY ON THE JOB . .
CLUES . . . . .
A FAMILY CHARACTERISTIC
THE INQUEST . . . .
IN WRONG
THE BLOND GARDENER
JERRY PAYs A CALL
NicoLETTE Goes SHoPPING
MR. HESLIN DRESSEs A Doll
THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF
A MUtton CHoP—AND AN Even
GREATER SURPRISE .
MLLE. X . . . . . .
DISASTER • - e --e . * : *
PAGE
I3
24
34
46
54
72
79
IO6
II.8
I34
I45
I6O
I68
182
I92
2O3
vii


viii
CONTENTS
cHAPTER
XIX.
XX.
THE MISSING THREE .
PAGE.
2I4
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV,
THE Rooms witHout MIRRORs
THE HIDDEN PEOPLE . . .
GHOSTs . . . . . . .
OPENING Doors . . . .
THE TRUTH of IT . . .
234
246
255
274
290


OCTAGON AMOU/SAC





OCTAGON HOUSE
CHAPTER I
“ALL ROSE AND GOLD”
T was still early on a crisp September morning just
I shaking itself free of the light garment of mist
that had clung like a silver shift to its first hours.
On such a day—a brave day dressed in blue and silver
with the tail of a red cloak flung over its shoulder—
something fine should happen. So Jerry decided as
she stood at her office window, waiting for the Dalli-
son car. Her desk was cleared, her last task attended
to, now she could let her mind dwell on the new pros-
pects ahead of her. Her employer's offer of new duties
among pleasanter surroundings had been gladly ac-
cepted, indeed no one ever refused Nicholas Dallison
anything. Yet Jerry Day, young, light-hearted, and
with a reputation for mischief, could not but chuckle
over her new job. She took it with her tongue in her
cheek, and wasted much good time in wondering why
it had been offered to her. The conclusion she finally
arrived at was that there are certain things of which
even a millionaire inventor may be ignorant.
“If I were a dynamo,” she mused, “or some kind of
weird wireless that he was installing in his home, my
chief would have looked me over much more carefully.
I suppose the grumpy old dear just said to himself, ‘I’ll
1.


2 OCTAGON HOUSE
need a companion for my daughter when she comes
home from school. Here's a girl, clean, honest, and
(comparatively) sober. Girls are all alike—she'll do.’”
It was almost time for the car to arrive. The excit-
ing moment was at hand when Mr. Nicholas Dallison's
secretary and office “handy man,” as she liked to call
herself, was about to emerge from her humble chrysalis
into the more elegant environment of his home. For
a new butterfly, she was not particularly dressy, yet—
after all—she decided, the effect was not so bad. New
clothes were not in evidence to-day, but Jerry had a
gallant way of wearing old ones. Her simple serge was
smart, and her last year's hat was cocked at an angle
that defied derision.
A gay little tune rose to her lips as she moved about
the office looking for a last-minute occupation. It was
checked abruptly as she came upon the thorn—the ever-
lasting thorn—prickling in the morning's bouquet.
This was represented by her letter to Michael O'Boyle,
lying ready for the mail and reminding her again of
the young man's disappointment when he should hear
of her new job.
Jerry's young man—for so he insisted on calling him-
self in spite of innumerable protests—was due to re-
turn in a day or two from England where a business
trip had carried him. Her firmly worded letter would,
she hoped, be in time to meet his steamer and prevent
his coming out to Mill Hollow for the holiday they had
planned to enjoy together. He could stay in the city,
he was informed, or play about with some other girl.
Jerry sighed as she opened the envelope and added a
postscript in a firm, round little hand:


“ALL ROSE AND GOLD” 5
ing air, through the village, past the shops and the bank
and the little gray church on its triangle of green, on
to the gates of Woodland Park. Here dwelt the cream
on the top of Mill Hollow's milk bottle; and Nicholas
Dallison, Mill Hollow's genius-son, had chosen its
finest site for his home. The way led up a steep hill
and along a tree-bordered road to the gates of the
“Beeches,” as the place was called from the giant trees,
twin masses of coppery-green and purple flanking the
house.
Jerry leaned forward in delight. Her work had
been entirely confined to the laboratory offices, and this
was her first glimpse of her chief's home. Her eyes
met gladly the flat green of freshly groomed lawns, the
wide front of the handsome, somewhat ornate house
with its shining windows, its long terrace, and broad
white steps banked by stone urns of gorgeous blossoms.
Beyond privet hedges she caught a glimpse of formal
gardens, the glitter of sunlight on a fountain's spray.
Mrs. Goodleigh, the housekeeper, met the newcomer
at the head of the terrace steps. She was a plump and
pleasant elderly lady who—so Jerry afterwards dis-
covered—was distantly related to the master of the
house. The connection was not one to be suspected
from the housekeeper's submissive attitude. She
addressed her employer as “Mr. Dallison” or “Sir.”
He stormed at her, scolded her, and secretly delighted in
her, always calling her “Goody,” an appellation which
Jerry discovered to be singularly appropriate.
The girl's embarrassment took wings as she per-
ceived that, for all her volubility, Mrs. Goodleigh was
as nervous and excited as she herself was.


6 OCTAGON HOUSE
“My dear,” began the housekeeper, “I am glad to see
you here. Such short notice as we've had and so much
to be done. You see we hadn't expected our young lady
home for another month yet. It was arranged that her
father should go over to France and fetch her and they
should travel a bit, but of course this dreadful war has
upset everything, and Mr. Dallison cabled for his
daughter to be sent home. He went into the city this
morning to meet the steamer—as I dare say you know—
and I’m expecting them home in time for dinner. But
let us go in. I want you to know your way about the
house. These are the yellow drawing-rooms, Miss
Day—our main reception rooms—and the smaller room
beyond we call the ‘peacock parlor.’ It used to be Mrs.
Dallison's music room—her harp is still there—and
beyond, where you see the palms, is the conservatory—
the sun room I believe they call them now. On the
other side of the hall is Mr. Dallison's library, and his
study is just beyond. But what's this, Antonio P More
flowers?” -
They had returned to the wide entrance hall, and
Mrs. Goodleigh broke off her flow of explanation to
address a gardener who came staggering in, burdened
by a huge basket of ferns and pink roses.
“Take them right upstairs, and wait till I come.”
Turning to Jerry the harassed little lady added,
“They're Mr. Dallison's selection for his daughter's
rooms, but where we are to set another flower I'm
sure I don't know. You'll be wanting to see your own
room though, my dear. We've been making great
changes upstairs. Nothing seemed good enough for
our little girl, and no wonder—after all these years!”


“ALL ROSE AND GOLD” 7
Up the wide, plush-covered flights they went, Mrs.
Goodleigh's slow and panting progress giving Jerry
time to glance about her. The house, she quickly
realized, while large and comfortable in all its appoint-
ments, was by no means in particularly good taste.
Here and there the trail of the modern decorator had
passed, in striking contrast with the main part of the
house which smacked of a generation overdevoted to
crimson velvet, gilding, dark draperies, stained glass
and statuettes. The place was apparently in the throes
of last-minute preparation for this its festal day, the
home-coming of its young mistress. A suite of rooms
on the second floor had been done over for Miss Dalli-
son, and one of these with its bath had been allotted to
her companion.
Jerry found her new quarters delightful. It was all
so daintily attractive—shining floor, blue rugs, blue
curtains, furniture of white wicker, blue cushions, even
a blue bowl of larkspur and roses on the glass-topped
dressing table. Her shabby little trunk was being
unstrapped by a red-cheeked, neatly uniformed maid
who rose from her knees as Jerry entered.
“Why, Celia,” she cried, “how nice to see you here!”
Then to Mrs. Goodleigh Jerry explained, “Celia Grady
and I are old friends. Her mother used to be my
nurse.”
Mrs. Goodleigh beamed. “And now, Celia,” she
gently chided, “perhaps you won't be so foolishly nerv-
ous any longer about having two strange young ladies
to wait on. Miss Dallison is bringing her own maid,”
the housekeeper continued, “or rather it is her aunt,
Madame Fouquert's maid, who is bringing Miss Nico-


8 OCTAGON HOUSE
lette over. I don't think much of these French maids
as a rule—they want so much waiting on. I don't doubt
this one will be glad enough to have Celia's help with
the care of her young lady. But come with me, Miss
Day, if you are ready. I want to show you Miss Dalli-
son's rooms.”
Miss Dallison's rooms had meant a considerable wind-
fall to the fortunate decorator who had been allowed
free reign to his imagination. From his point of view
they were an entire success. It seemed to Jerry that
no luxury possible to heap upon the head of one adored
young person had been omitted from the list. The
bedchamber was no “girl's room,” all maidenly simplic-
ity, nor was it the advanced young person's apartment
where she might venture with impunity upon a cigarette.
This was Mr. Dallison's idea—and the decorator's—of
what was fitting for Mr. Dallison's daughter. The
result was astonishing, at least to the eyes of the
unsophisticated Jerry. All was cream, rose, and gold.
Walls paneled in rose satin, rose curtains at the long
windows with pale silken linings and lacy inner
draperies, a white rug on a creamy polished floor, a
wonderful carved shell of a bed set upon a little dais at
one end of the room and presided over by a guardian
angel bird—a kind of glorified American eagle, Jerry
dubbed it—clutching lacy hangings in his gilded beak,
There was a slender day bed, too, with a wealth of
frilled cushions like fat pink roses, there were squatty
golden candlesticks with pink candles, and the air was
oversweet with the quantities of rosebuds in the tall
glass vases or fussy gilded baskets. Three full-length
mirrors waited to reflect the youthful figure of the


“ALL ROSE AND GOLD” 9
owner of all these glories. Jerry, as she caught a
glimpse of her own face in one of them, made haste to
rearrange her expression.
Mrs. Goodleigh, gazing about her, gave a sigh of
satisfaction. “Well, what do you think of it?” she
demanded. “Isn't it beautiful? Do you think she will
be pleased?”
“It is—wonderful,” Jerry gravely assented. “I am
sure she will certainly be—astonished.”
Mrs. Goodleigh led the way through the suite explain-
ing as they advanced. “This is her dressing room—
you'll notice those wonderful mirrors and the big
cedar-lined closets for her dresses—and here is the
bath. That tub, my dear,” the housekeeper lowered her
voice to an awed whisper, “has fittings of solid silver.
It was built especially for Mrs. Dallison, and it was
mentioned in that article in the paper that annoyed Mr.
Dallison so. Do look at the design painted on those
pale green walls, Miss Day, a conventionalized Baby
Moses in the bulrushes, I suppose. Isn't it sweet? I
rather think the decorator must have meant a compli-
ment to Mr. Dallison, don't you? Pharaoh's daughter
—and all that. . . .”
Infinitely impressed by the tub and Baby Moses, Jerry
followed her guide into the boudoir, very smart and
up to date in peacock blue and yellow, and finished the
tour of inspection by a glimpse of the sleeping porch,
a specially enclosed portion of the long balcony upon
which all the rooms on that side of the house opened.
Later, at a delectable little luncheon served in the
red-tiled lounge, Jerry put a question that she had
been longing to ask. “Isn't there a recent photograph


IO OCTAGON HOUSE
of Miss Dallison somewhere about, Mrs. Goodleigh 2
Although I’m to see her so soon, I can't wait to know
what she is like.”
The housekeeper puckered her brows as she carefully
selected the best bunch of grapes for her companion's
plate.
“Well, we haven't had a new photograph for some
time now, and the best we have are in Mr. Dallison's
rooms. If I remember rightly there was a snapshot
taken by one of the cousins in the last letter Madame
Fouquert wrote. I believe it's on the desk in the study.
If you are sure you won't have anything more we will
go and take a look at it.”
They passed through the great drawing-rooms again
and crossing the wide hall entered the long library out
of which opened the study, a smaller, simpler room.
Mr. Dallison's desk was there, his safe and file cases, the
big swivel chair so suggestive of the man's personality.
At one end of the room the wall was concealed by a
silken curtain and as Mrs. Goodleigh directed Jerry's
attention towards it, she whispered: “His wife's por-
trait. I dare say he'll show it to you himself some day.”
Taking a little photograph from the desk, she passed
it to Jerry. It was just an amateurish snapshot of a
girl in a light summer dress standing beneath a tree,
a delicate, Greuze-like little girl—not at all the proud
young heiress-person Jerry had imagined. This girl
wore the plainest of print frocks, her fair braids were
wound in a coronet about her shapely head, her big
dark eyes gazed sweetly, a little sadly, out of the pic-
ture.
“What a dear!” Jerry exclaimed. “I know I'm going


“ALL ROSE AND GOLD” II
to love her. Oh, Mrs. Goodleigh, don't you suppose
when Mr. Dallison saw this picture it made him feel
he could not wait any longer to see his daughter?”
The housekeeper sighed. “He’s waited long enough.
It's ten years in all since Mrs. Dallison died and her
sister, Madame Fouquert, came over and took the little
girl back to France with her—adopted her, you might
say. I wasn't here then, but I came the next year. He
was a broken man then for he had adored his young
wife and couldn't seem to take much comfort in the
child, or in anything but his work—it's that that has
swallowed him all these years. It's plain now he's
bound to do his best by his daughter; but, dear me, it
takes more than money, as I look at it, to win a child's
affection. Not that he hasn't spent enough of that,
goodness knows. I suppose you’ve heard about the
pearls?”
Jerry nodded. As it happened she knew more than
most people about the rare and beautiful necklace,
commonly known as the “Rajah's pearls,” which Nicho-
las Dallison had acquired at the time of his marriage as
a gift to his young bride. This was the necklace which
had figured in the famous—or infamous—article
written by that all too enterprising young reporter,
Michael O'Boyle, after he had been ignominiously dis-
missed from the door of Dallison's factories, with
instructions to look elsewhere for his news. Michael
had looked no farther than his own abounding imagina-
tion—it seemed to Jerry—and had drawn from that
well a spicy account of the origin of the jewels which,
so he said, had once formed part of a triple string owned
by an Oriental monarch and forfeited by him as a


I2 OCTAGON HOUSE
gambling debt. The account hinted that the Eastern
gentleman bitterly regretted his loss and had vainly
endeavored to repurchase the jewels. Jerry knew sev-
eral less romantic items about the necklace from her
own experience. She knew that the pearls had been
added to and restrung. Her chief had dictated letters
to her concerning their insurance, also a letter to
Madame Fouquert in which he announced his intention
of presenting the necklace to his daughter on her arrival,
as her eighteenth birthday would be passed on ship-
board.
Mrs. Goodleigh carefully restored the little photo-
graph to its place. Passing a plump arm round Jerry's
waist, she led her away in the direction of the stairs.
“Come now and rest, my dear. Later I shall want
your advice about the flowers for the dinner table, but
you must rest and dress in your prettiest for the birth-
day dinner. Not that it's a real party to-night. Our
only guest is Dr. Morton, the physician up at Octagon
House, you know, and one of Mr. Dallison's few inti-
mates. We wanted no outsiders to-night, for fear of
tiring Nicolette. The dear child ! I like to think—”
here the housekeeper's round blue eyes grew moist and
her voice took on a sentimental note—“I love to think
that from the moment our dear girl comes back to us,
her future will be bright—like her pretty room—all rose
and gold !”


CHAPTER II
THE DAUGHTER OF THE HOUSE
& & ND my room,” Jerry reflected, while dressing
for dinner, “is upholstered in the bluest of
blues! Anything suspicious about that?”
For all the gay resolution with which she had begun
her day, the girl's heart sank a little. Sharply she
rebuked herself. Was she not being promoted from
long hours of uncongenial toil to a life of ease and
luxury? Then why this foolish foreboding, this shiver
of premonition? Mr. Dallison, dreaded by so many of
his subordinates for his arrogance and bad temper,
had been to Jerry unusually considerate. Not that
Michael had been willing to give him credit, even on
this account. “The Old Nick,” he had remarked, “is
one great bluffer. A regular grown-up spoiled baby.
My idea, Jeremiah, is that your boss is due to get one
whacking big bump from life some day, and I’d like
to be around to see him get it!”
Jerry smiled. No, Michael would not be pleased to
know that she was installed in the enemy's camp—he
had even hated her work at the offices. Well, she must
cheer herself up somehow, she would put on the One-
and-Only. This was Jerry's label for the one new
evening frock she had been able to afford, a delightfully
frivolous little affair of marigold-yellow crêpe. It was
not a real party to-night, Mrs. Goodleigh had said, yet
13


I4 OCTAGON HOUSE
the dinner was intended to celebrate Nicolette's birthday
passed on shipboard. No guests but Dr. Morton—the
very man Jerry had hoped to avoid meeting. Ah, well,
she would have to try to forget her prejudices and
behave prettily to her employer's friend, not that he
would be likely to notice the existence of an unimpor-
tant young person like herself—not even in her party
gown It was not of Dr. Morton Jerry was thinking,
as the last frill of the dainty little frock was adjusted
and the full effect visible in the long mirror, but of
Michael O'Boyle—Michael whom she had planned to
forget, who would so certainly have appreciated the
marigold dress.
At this point her cogitations were interrupted by the
entrance of Celia, the red-cheeked housemaid, ostensibly
to help Miss Day with her dressing, but truly to relieve
her young mind by the unloosing of her gossipy tongue.
“The table looks lovely, and the dinner's grand,” she
exclaimed; “but, oh, Miss Jerry, things is at sixes and
sevens in the kitchen. Cook's all in and cross as a crab,
and Annie—she's the waitress—is ready to walk out on
us because the caterer didn't send a man to help wait
on the table. Frederick, the boy, he's that dumb he's
no use in the dining room, so Mrs. Goodleigh says I
must help Annie; but, my, I'm that nervous—”
“You needn't be, Celia,” Jerry comforted her. “It
isn't a real party. Dr. Morton has been here quite
often before, I suppose?”
“That one?” Celia, as she adjusted a hairpin for
Jerry, made a sour little face at herself in the mirror.
“I should say he did Makes himself at home here.
He's got round Mrs. Goodleigh, but us in the kitchen,


THE DAUGHTER OF THE HOUSE 15
we've got our own ideas about the doctor. Toadyin'
up to the boss, we say he is. Cook, she says it's Johnny-
on-the-spot he's tryin' to be, ready to court our young
lady, and that he's a good-lookin’ enough feller to hook
any heiress in the land; but, my stars, I don't want our
Miss Nicolette to marry a man that keeps a mad-
house—”
“A madhouse? What nonsense you do talk, Celia!”
Jerry took the pin from the maid’s inefficient fingers
and inserted it to her own satisfaction. “I’ve heard
about Octagon House from Mr. Dallison,” she said.
“The doctor was very clever. He bought that queer old
half-ruined place for a song and has built it over into
one of those luxurious homes where well-to-do people
with nerves go. I imagine it's just a place to rest in,
you know, and drink buttermilk and eat queer diets and
roll round on mats to wiggle your fat off, and get
psycho-analyzed and mental-hygienized and all that
sort of thing.”
“You don't say!” Celia's round, bright eyes had
grown rounder as she listened to this lucid description.
“Sounds kinder nutty to me,” she continued; “but,
anyway, Miss Jerry, if the folks ain't crazy, the house
is. Me, if I had all the money in the land to have
nerves with, I wouldn't do my rollin’ and restin' in
that there house. Whoever heard of such a place, an
old eight-sided barn stuck off by itself on the top of a
hill with a mess of trees and bushes left growin’ round
it like a frizz o' hair round a bald man's crown!
Gloomy—my!”
Jerry, every crisp wave of her curly locks being ad-
justed to her liking, had now moved from mirror to


I6 OCTAGON HOUSE
window where she stood looking out over the tree tops
of the park towards the wooded mountain slope.
“I know what you mean about Octagon House,
Celia,” she admitted. “It's—queer. I've passed it
often and every time I've hated it—even the little
glimpse I’ve had of it, all smothered in the trees. You
can't see it from here because of them, but you have
the feeling that it's up there, crouched, and ready to—
but what awful nonsense I’m talking! And you, Celia,
I suppose you believe those stories they tell in the
village about the place being haunted?”
The housemaid nodded emphatically. “I do that.
Why, 'twas just the other day a girl I know told me
she met one of the maids from Octagon House in the
railway station. Leavin' her place she was because
sometimes at night she'd hear awful queer noises there
wasn't no accountin' for. The doctor wouldn't give
her no satisfaction about it—just told her to clear out.
Yes, and I remember, Miss Jerry, that one time when
me and my boy friend we'd been out to a dance at a
farmhouse and was comin' back 'round midnight, we
passed the old house and saw. . . .”
At this interesting point in Celia's narrative—and
greatly to Jerry's regret—the girl's chatter was inter-
rupted by Mrs. Goodleigh's appearance. Celia was
briskly sent about her business, and Jerry followed
the housekeeper downstairs to the big dining room
where Lawrence, the elderly English butler, awaited
their judgment upon his table decorations. Though
she was unable to find fault with the brilliant arrange-
ment of crystal and gold plate, gleaming candles and
exquisite white roses, Mrs. Goodleigh began to fuss


THE DAUGHTER OF THE HOUSE 17
about the room, giving last-minute directions, shifting
a flower here and a spoon there, greatly to the old man's
annoyance. His worried frown melted into gratitude
as Jerry put an arm about the nervous woman and
coaxed her from the room.
“I’m sure everything is perfect,” Jerry said.
“It’s too late to make changes in any case,” the
housekeeper sighed. “I do believe I hear the car now.
Oh, my dear, how my heartbeats!”
She trotted to the door, her violet silk rustling, her
flushed face like a fat pink marshmallow wreathed with
smiles of welcome. Jerry, hanging back a little shyly in
the drawing-room doorway, heard the car stop, heard
Mr. Dallison's big voice giving orders, and Mrs. Good-
leigh's nervous babble of greeting. Then the figure
of her chief blocked the doorway, his hand resting on
a girl's slim shoulder.
“Well, Miss Day, here we are at last. Ship docked
almost on time for once—what d'ye think of that?
'Colette, this is Miss Day—Jerry Day. You two girls
had better get down to first names right away, for
you're to be great friends, you know. I insist on that.”
“I hope—oh, I’m sure we will!” Jerry took the stiff,
gray-gloved hand in hers and smiled at the child—for
it was as a child that Nicolette Dallison first impressed
her. She noted the abundant fair hair and the big dark
eyes she had so admired in the picture. Miss Dallison
wore a plain blue traveling cape over a nunlike little
gray frock. Her hat was a childish affair of dark blue
straw with a dangling velvet ribbon and a bunch of
bright cherries. Behind her, arms laden with wraps and
bundles, stood the courier-maid, a respectable-looking,


I8 OCTAGON HOUSE
middle-aged Frenchwoman with a sallow face and black,
beadlike eyes.
“How do you do, Mees?” said Nicolette, speaking
English prettily, but with a decided accent. Her big
eyes wandered in a queerly frightened way about the
great bright room where the firelight glowed on satin
hangings, the splendid furniture and massed flowers,
the shining crystal and gilding. Then—“Zélie!” she
cried suddenly, and shrank back almost into the arms
of the woman behind her.
“Mademoiselle is fatigued. We will go upstairs—
yes?”
Jerry disliked the unceremonious fashion in which
Miss Dallison's maid took her young mistress by the
arm and bundled her out of the room. Mrs. Good-
leigh followed, bubbling over with anxious concern.
“Of course—of course—the dear child must rest! A
cup of tea and a nice hot bath!” Mr. Dallison, with
a worried but important demeanor, escorted the party
to their rooms. When he returned to the drawing-
room he looked greatly relieved.
“She's all right now; she was just a little tired, poor
child. They had a rough trip. Zélie—that's the name
of that dragon-faced maid—tells me all this war excite-
ment has worn on Nicolette's nerves and she will need
a good deal of care and consideration.”
Jerry nodded. “Of course—but, oh, Mr. Dallison,
how pretty she is "
“You think so?” Nicholas Dallison fairly beamed.
His expression of intense parental pride sat oddly on his
heavy features. “To tell you the truth,” he admitted,
“I had no idea Nicolette would turn out to be such a


THE DAUGHTER OF THE HOUSE 19
little beauty. She was not, as I recollect, a particularly
pretty child. After dinner I must show you her
mother's portrait and you can give me your opinion
about the likeness. I can see already that it is strong.
But, excuse me—I must go and dress. Tell Morton,
if he comes, that I'll be down directly.”
Jerry was glad of the respite. She sank into a big
chair by the fire, resting her slim bare arms on the gold-
colored plush, her eyes regarding with satisfaction her
new satin slippers. Those pretty yellow slippers, to
match the marigold frock, had been an unusual extrava-
gance, but one it was impossible to regret. Jerry's
preoccupation was so complete that for several moments
she did not turn her head nor did she hear Morton's
step in the hall or his quiet entrance into the room
where she sat. But she roused quickly and started to
her feet at the sudden exclamation that broke from his
lips. For the first time Jerry found herself looking
straight into Paul Morton's eyes, those extraordinary
black eyes like jewels in the ivory setting of his pale
face; eyes at one moment dull, weary almost; at the
next, twin fires flaming with the passion of his look.
And why—why was Paul Morton looking at her like
that? A curiosity almost avid seemed to leap from
those strange eyes and die as suddenly to ashes,
“Is it—is it—Miss Dallison?”
Jerry's laugh, broke the strain. “No, no,” she hastily
interrupted. “I’m not Miss Dallison, she's upstairs,
dressing. I'm her companion. You see,” she con-
tinued rather lamely with her explanation, “I used to
be Mr. Dallison's secretary, but he brought me up here
to help him look after his daughter.”


THE DAUGHTER OF THE HOUSE 2 I
well-advised among his underlings took to cover until
the storm was over. The doctor, she felt sure, rarely
took the trouble to be angry at anything. He was calm,
suave, assured.
“You know Miss Day?” It was Dallison speaking.
“We have introduced ourselves,” the doctor ex-
plained. “She tells me she is to be your daughter's
companion. You hadn't told me that you—er—con-
templated making any such arrangement.”
Dallison smiled in an absent-minded manner as he
jingled the coins in his pocket and looked longingly
towards the door. “Didn't I? Well, you see, it's like
this, Paul. Nicolette, for the reason that she is my
daughter, will have to stand more or less in the lime-
light. I want some one to be with her constantly and
guard her against any annoyance. A couple of those
darned reporters recognized me on the docks to-day, and
I had hard work to shake them off. They wanted to
snap Nicolette for their fool Sunday supplements. I
put the lid on that pretty quick, you can imagine.
We've had enough of that cheap sort of publicity, what
with O'Boyle's fairy tales about her necklace and my
silver bathtub and the rest of that rot. Excuse me,
Miss Day, but you know pretty well what I think of
that young man of yours.” - -
Jerry flushed. Her lips parted to disown the par-
ticular young man, as she had for a couple of years
been in the habit of doing, then she shut them obsti-
nately. It was one thing to run Michael down herself,
quite another to hear some one else do it. She was
glad to hear Dallison change the subject and hark back
to the more interesting one of his daughter.


22 OCTAGON HOUSE
“Nicolette has been very strictly brought up and
won't expect to run about by herself as girls do here.
She is not very strong, her aunt writes me, and I shall
insist on her living as quietly as possible till she is rested
and used to our ways. She's got to be amused, of
course, as well as looked out for. That's why I've
enlisted this young person's services.”
He nodded towards his secretary with a serenely pro-
prietary manner that filled her heart with pride. She
colored prettily beneath his look, but noticed that Dr.
Morton's face still failed to reflect his friend's en-
thusiasm. His eyes were on the door, and it was with
a slight start that he turned to meet Jerry's regard.
“Delightful idea,” he murmured—“excellent arrange-
ment. Have you seen the evening papers, Dallison?”
The two men plunged into a discussion of the war
news which lasted until Mrs. Goodleigh entered quietly
and whispered to Jerry:
“Nicolette would not let me wait for her, but she
should be dressed by now. Would you like to run up
and fetch her down? She may be feeling just a little
strange, you know.” -
Jerry's slippered feet made no sound upon the heavily
carpeted stair, nor was her light tap upon the bedroom
door at once heeded. Waiting, she heard a sharp, high
voice in an angry torrent of French exclamation and
invective. Her French being of the home-grown
variety, the girl at the door did not understand what
was being said, but she could not fail to gather that
some one was scolding some one. Could that “dragon-
faced” maid, as Mr. Dallison had called her, be venting
her wrath upon her young mistress? The tirade was


THE DAUGHTER OF THE HOUSE 23
being answered, not by words but by a low, irritating
laugh, followed instantly by a sound that made Jerry
gasp and halted the hand she had raised to knock a
second time. It was unmistakable—a sharp, vindic-
tive slap.


CHAPTER III
A BIRTHDAY DINNER
‘‘T TT is the dinner? Good. Mam'selle 'Colette is
ready! If Mademoiselle will give herself the
pain to enter?”
The black eyes snapped. Zélie held the door invit-
ingly open, a flicker of her yellow fingers indicated the
form of Nicolette at the dressing table. The girl's back
was turned to Jerry and she was closely examining her
pretty face in a gold hand mirror. Was it purely
imagination which suggested to the onlooker that one
of the rounded cheeks was redder than the other?
She was very lovely to behold, was Mr. Dallison's young
daughter. The stiff, almost awkward effect produced
by the shrouding cape and babyish hat had disappeared
with those garments. The plain gray dress had been
exchanged for a round-necked simple frock of forget-
me-not blue chiffon. The thick fair hair was still
quaintly dressed in the coronet of braids, with little
curls escaping here and there.
“Ah, Miss Jherrie, will I do?” Nicolette smiled at
Her companion's admiring gaze.
“Oh, you are lovely!”
Miss Dallison laughed, eying her maid. Jerry recog-
nized the liquid mocking note, and intercepted the
venomous glance darted from Zélie's ratlike eyes. Ap-
24


A BIRTHDAY DINNER 25
parently the maid's ill humor did not affect her young
mistress, who still preened herself before the mirror.
“Ah, I am a fright,” she exclaimed. “The sun has
burned my poor face. . See, how red is my cheek!
Zélie, more powder!”
She stretched her hand for the puff, but the im-
pertinent Frenchwoman snatched it from under her
fingers.
“Non, nonſ” she snapped. “Absolutelee not!”
“Old stupide!” remarked Nicolette sweetly. “But
come, let us go down then, Mees—or is it indeed to be
Jherrie? Such a droll name?”
“Jerry, of course—if you will!”
“And me, Nicolette—that is better—eh?”
“Much prettier,” Jerry smiled. “It suits you per-
fectly. It's a sweet name and makes me think of
spring and old French romances. You've read the one
I mean, of course—about Aucassin and”— But here
she checked herself abruptly, noticing that Miss Dallison
was paying not the slightest attention to her words.
The dark eyes, hastily reviewing the appointments of
the luxurious room, had lit upon a hitherto unnoticed
object, a small gold clock upon a console table. An
exquisite French toy it was, its face ornamented by a
wreath of ivy done in emeralds. Nicolette pounced on
the clock eagerly.
“Zélie,” she cried, “do you see . . . how charming!”
With a muffled exclamation of anger, the maid
snatched the toy from her mistress's hand and set it
smartly in its place. “And do you see the hour?” she
snapped. “Does Mademoiselle forget Monsieur son
père who attends her? Descend, I pray you, instantly!”


26 OCTAGON HOUSE
“Yes, yes, we go. Calm yourself. I shall have a-
successful evening! And you, my poor Zélie, I hope
that you will enjoy your dinner in the kitchen, with
the maids. But do not forget to arrange all these
affaires!” With a haughty wave of her hand toward
the scattered garments and the general disorder, Nico-
lette yielded to Jerry's gently persuading arm, and
allowed herself to be led from the room.
“Is your maid always like that—so cross?” Jerry
ventured the question as, arm in arm, the two girls
descended the stair.
“Zélie? Oh, yes, she is like that all times. She is—
what you call it in English?—crossed—yes, crossed in
love! It is that which makes her yellow !” Again
came the liquid laugh. So merry it was that Jerry
could not help joining in, and the sound of their min-
gled voices brought Mr. Dallison to the foot of the
stairs.
“My little daughter!” he exclaimed. “Do you realize
that you haven't really kissed your daddy? I went down
the bay in the tender to meet this child, Miss Day, and
when I found my way to her cabin, there she stood in
the door, looking like some frightened chicken expect-
ing the hawk to swoop upon it. Come now, 'Colette,
a real one!”
“A l’Américaine?” Laughing gayly, the girl raised
herself on her toes, put her arms about her father's
neck, and their lips met.
Paul Morton had followed Dallison from the draw-
ing-room. Jerry noticed that he stood, as if fascinated,
his eyes fixed on the dark eyes that stared at him over
Dallison's shoulder. On his friend's summons Morton


A BIRTHDAY DINNER 27
advanced, put his lips in foreign fashion to the white
hand outstretched to him, and addressed the girl in
French as fluent as her own.
Dallison was delighted but immediately raised a
protest. “Here, Paul, I can't have this! No man's
going to be allowed to say things to my daughter that
I can't understand. Jerry, you're the chaperon, can
you keep tabs on these two?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” his secretary meekly answered;
“but I'm afraid my French would make the frogs
laugh.”
Dallison chuckled. “Nicolette has just got to drop
it, that's all, and talk plain Yankee. But come on,
for the Lord's sake, let's get some dinner!”
It was with a certain attempt at ceremony most
foreign to his nature that Nicholas Dallison led his
daughter to her place at the foot of his table, making
what was, for him, quite a graceful little speech.
“There!” he announced. “You are in your right
place at last, my dear. Remember—you're the lady of
my house and heart!” At this Jerry and Mrs. Good-
leigh clapped their hands in gay approval, and the
doctor uttered a hearty “Hear!”
The dinner, started to this lively tune, proceeded
briskly enough, in spite of the fact that the heroine
of the occasion did not seem inclined to take much part
in the conversation. She made brief, polite responses
to the inquiries of her father and Mrs. Goodleigh, but
kept her pretty eyes for the most part modestly on her
plate, only raising them now and then for a quick,
searching look about the room. Jerry noticed that these
glances ignored herself, passed over Mrs. Goodleigh and


28 OCTAGON HOUSE
Mr. Dallison, but rested very often on the doctor's
face.
“And how are your poor people at Octagon House,
doctor?”
The conversation seeming about to languish, Mrs.
Goodleigh took it upon herself to choose a new topic.
“I hope your patients are doing nicely?”
“Splendidly, thank you, Mrs. Goodleigh,” Morton
replied; “but I wish you wouldn't call them that.” He
laughed, but there was a note of irritation in his voice.
“Be careful, Goody,” Mr. Dallison chuckled, “or
you'll be treading on the doctor's toes. You ought to
know his little peculiarities by this time!”
“I do not call my people ‘patients,’” Dr. Morton
explained, “because I do not regard them in that light.
These poor—or rather exceedingly well-to-do friends
of mine—are my guests, my family. I try to make them
at home, to study their whims, to put up with the
trifling peculiarities that make them unpopular in their
own circles. In return they provide me with my bread
and butter and a trifle of jam. Sometimes,” he added,
“an outsider will ask me about my “sanitarium,’ as if
I were a keeper of lunatics!” Morton laughed, but
shortly, and not attempting to conceal his indignation.
Jerry, turning toward the doctor, flashed him her own
variety of smile. “I don't wonder that sort of thing
annoys you, Dr. Morton' I have seen one or two of
your people shopping in the town and I certainly thought
them as agreeable-looking people as some of our sum-
mer visitors, and quite as normall”
“I should think, doctor,” remarked Mrs. Goodleigh,
“that the queer old house would have needed a good


A BIRTHDAY DINNER 29
many changes before you could adapt it to your uses?”
“It needed more than it got,” Morton good-humor-
edly admitted. “As it will probably have to be torn
down some day and a modern building erected in its
place, I did as little as I could. The two lower floors
are sufficient for my needs, and I simply shut off the
rest.”
Jerry, remembering certain village gossip, as well as
Celia's tales, nodded wisely. “What you really mean
is that you leave the attics to the ghosts ſ”
It was just a haphazard remark inspired by a girlish
wish to brighten the conversation, but apparently it was
ill timed, for Morton shot a strangely startled look at
the speaker.
“Ghosts” he exclaimed. “What do you. . . .”
“Ghosts?” echoed Nicolette suddenly. “I am afraid
of ghosts—me!” She gave a shrill, hysterical laugh
that drew the attention of the party upon her.
“Oh, it's just a foolish story that's going about the
village,” Jerry hastened to explain, “about old Peter
Foule who built the house—they used to call it Foule's
Folly, you know—and of course his ghost has to haunt
the house because he died up in one of those. . . .”
“Oh, that story,” the doctor interrupted cheerfully.
“Now I know what you mean, but alas—there's noth-
ing to it! I'm tremendously interested in spooks and
spook tales myself, and I’ve tried to track down these
stories and find out some one who has seen or heard
anything really queer of late years. All in vain—I
can't get a complaint, and fear my very prosaic occu-
pation of the house has put the ghosts to flight. Too
bad it should have lost its reputation—”


3O OCTAGON HOUSE
It was at this moment that a jangle of silver made
Jerry look up in time to catch the eye of Celia, the
housemaid. In attendance near the pantry door, but
overinterested in the conversation of her superiors, the
girl had let fall her tray and was at this moment being
dismissed from the room by an imperious motion of
the butler's finger. Jerry could not but recall the
housemaid's tale of the departing servant and her com-
plaint. Was the doctor—prevaricating? Did he really
think such rumors would harm his establishment, or
that any one at this table would be so childish as to be
frightened by them? . .
“If Mrs. Goodleigh will bring you to tea with me
some day,” Morton was remarking to Nicolette, “I will
guarantee to have all spooks exorcised for the occasion.”
He smiled at the girl, who returned the glance with
a long slow look from under veiling lashes, a look that
made her alert young companion grow suddenly hot
with indignation. Could it be possible that this convent-
bred child in baby blue was already attempting a flirta-
tion with her father's friend? Jerry hated herself for
the thought, hated remembering that it was now her
duty as “guardian angel” to observe such things. She
was glad when, dinner, lavishly planned to tempt a
schoolgirl appetite, came to a triumphant close, a grand
finale of pink ice cream roses, champagne, and a huge
white cake with eighteen candles. This overdecorated
creation was borne solemnly round the table by Law-
rence himself, and as Nicolette—under the butler's
deferential tuition—was plunging a knife in the snowy
mound, Jerry became suddenly aware of an apparition
behind the girl's chair, the thin, dark figure of the


A BIRTHDAY DINNER 3I
Frenchwoman, Zélie. With a murmured excuse, she
dropped a wisp of white chiffon over her young mis-
tress's slim shoulders, spoke a few words to her in a
low voice, and was gone from the room before most of
the party had perceived her entrance. Dallison had
noticed it, however, and frowned.
“I hope you'll never have to pass another birthday
with no better companion than that sour-faced maid,”
he grumbled. “Does your Aunt Adéle really want you
to keep her on?”
“My Zélie?” Nicolette arched delicate eyebrows
with an indication of gentlest reproach. “But why not?
She is an angel—entirely good!”
To Jerry, in whose ears the echo of the “angel’s”
slap still rang, the answer was not altogether convincing.
A slight chill of disappointment crept over the young
secretary as she surveyed her employer's daughter.
Perhaps, though, Jerry was not making sufficient al-
lowance for the foreign rearing. Of course the girl
ought not to be judged this very first night—and yet—
there was something not altogether satisfactory from an
American viewpoint about this eager-eyed young per-
son with her meek ways and her sly glances. Jerry
had to admit to mystification, a sensation that only
deepened as the evening proceeded.
Nicholas Dallison had quickly yielded to the spell
of his daughter's fascination. When the party ad-
journed to the garden after dinner to show Nicolette
what her father insisted on calling her “first real
American moon,” Dallison drew the slim arm through
his own and led his daughter away from Jerry and the
doctor, who were left to their own devices. It was an


32 OCTAGON HOUSE
arrangement that suited Mr. Dallison's secretary no bet-
ter than it did his daughter. Her laughter and her
extravagant exclamations of admiration floated back to
the others, but also her protests when her father tried
to hasten her footsteps. How could she proceed to the
fountain when she had not as yet fully admired the
moonlight on those white marble steps? She hung
back, allowing Jerry and Morton to pass ahead. Next
they heard a coaxing voice begging “mon père" to
“regard if my little white scarf was not left upon the
terrace?” The two ahead had barely rounded the next
curve in the path before a hurrying figure joined them
and a sharp voice addressed Jerry.
“Mademoiselle, I have cold. Will you bring to me
a cloak from my room?”
The voice was peremptory and Jerry hastened back
to the house, quick to obey, though she could not but
wonder how it was that Nicolette should need both a
scarf and a cloak on such a balmy evening. A knock
upon the door of the rose and golden room was unan-
swered, and as the knob refused to turn, Jerry concluded
that the maid had locked the suite before going down
to the kitchen for her dinner. For a moment she hesi-
tated, then stepped into her own room and through the
window to the balcony. The door to the screened
sleeping porch being unlocked, she passed through and
thence into Nicolette's bedroom. Here she halted,
amazed by what she saw. On Nicolette's day bed,
sprawled among the rose-frilled satin cushions, Zélie lay
asleep, a cigarette drooping from her yellow fingers, a
half-drained glass on the table at her elbow. Jerry's
quick nose guessed at the contents of that glass—


TA BIRTHDAY DINNER 33
brandy! Poor Mr. Dallison! The girl could not but
smile as she imagined the storm that would burst when
he discovered the type of woman to whom his innocent
young daughter had been entrusted.
Moving softly, so as not to disturb the Frenchwoman,
Jerry looked about the disordered room for the little
blue cloak. There it lay, tossed across a traveling bag
at the far end of the room, and beside it a plain dress
of cheap black cloth and a widow's veil and bonnet of
equally rusty black. How curious? Was Zélie a
widow? No, Jerry remembered the maid's smart ap-
pearance as she stood in the doorway on arriving, the
close brown hat and neat taffeta suit. Zélie would never
wear such clothes as those. Perhaps. . . .
A clutch of steely claws upon her shoulders, a volley
of furious French expletives in her ear. Jerry was
whirled round to meet the murderous stare of two
black, ratlike eyes.


CHAPTER IV
PEARLS AND A PORTRAIT
6 & PY!” snarled the maid. “You come creeping
S here—spy!”
“I didn't come to spy” Jerry's voice was
indignant, as she shook herself loose from the French-
woman's grasp. “I came because Miss Dallison asked
me to fetch her wrap. I knocked, but you . . .” She
broke off with an eloquent glance toward the brandy in
the glass—a glance which Zélie faithfully construed.
“Ah—I slept! Mademoiselle will excuse? Made-
moiselle will comprehend? A thousand pardons!” The
woman was suddenly abject. “See, then, Mademoiselle,
I will explain. The fatigue—the mal-de-mer—the
strangeness—my poor heart which is not strong! De-
sirous not to fail in the service of my petite, I did but
strengthen myself with one so small taste of eau-de-vie,
and the result upon an unaccustomed stomach . . . but
Mademoiselle comprehends? She will not inform. ... ?”
Jerry again evaded the hand which clutched her
sleeve. “I shall not trouble Mr. Dallison to-night,”
she said; “but I shall certainly tell him to-morrow that
I do not think you are a suitable attendant for his
daughter.” The girl moved towards the door, half
afraid to turn her back upon the Frenchwoman, but
Zélie, smiling now, hastened to unlock it for her.
“Mademoiselle is indeed good,” she murmured. “I
34


PEARLS AND A PORTRAIT 35
have her promise—not till to-morrow. Ah, to-mor-
zozowſ”
It was not till she heard the key turn in the lock
as the door closed behind her, that Jerry remembered
her errand—the blue cape! Having no desire to tackle
the sharp-tongued Frenchwoman again, she ran into her
room, caught up her own white coat, and hurried down-
stairs. As she passed the library door she heard her
chief's voice storming over the telephone, and gathered
that he was being detained by some message from his
superintendent. The garden was very lovely under a
flood of moonlight that played upon the falling waters
of the fountain and turned the graveled walks into sil-
ver ribbons winding here and there among the sleeping
flowers. Possibly—Jerry thought—the young person in
the small Grecian temple at the far end of the garden
did not realize how clearly the flooding light revealed
her pose, as she stood with both hands clasped about
her companion's arm, pretty head thrown back, mocking
eyes gazing daringly into his. To Morton's low-spoken,
insistent words there was vouchsafed but a shake of
the blond head, a few notes of the liquid laughter.
“No,” Jerry heard her say, and again, “No!” -
“He’s annoyed with her,” she decided. “I wonder
why 2” - O
It was Morton who first became aware of the secre-
tary's approach, and coolly withdrawing his arm from
Nicolette's grasp, he turned toward her.
“Ah, Miss Jerry, I was just remonstrating with this
young lady because she refuses to go indoors, although
she is shivering with cold. The weather has changed
very suddenly, and I fear these fine dahlias may be


36 OCTAGON HOUSE
frost-touched before morning. Let me take that coat.”
He held her wrap toward Nicolette, but she pushed it
pettishly aside. “No, do you not see? It is not my
coat, but the coat of mademoiselle.” And then, as Jerry
hastened to explain, “It makes nothing—I have no
longer cold—only—Mr. Doctor must understand, if we
are to be friends, that I am a most decided person'
When I say no, it is a big, big no that I meanſ” A
sharp look, almost a sneer, gave emphasis to the light
words.
“It doesn't seem to me so cold,” Jerry began; but
was interrupted by Mr. Dallison's grumbling voice be-
hind her.
“Confound that ass, Westley; he's always phoning
me for some idiotic reason—no more judgment than a
child. Here's your scarf, daughter, you dropped it in
the dining room. Though what you want to bundle
yourself up for on a night like this I don't know.”
The doctor's calm voice intervened. “I think Miss
Dallison may have taken a slight cold.”
“A cold?” Instantly the perturbed parent was all
alarm. They must return to the house at once. Fred-
erick must light the study fire, and Goody would pro-
vide a dose of camphor. Anyway it was time for the
child to see her present.
In the study, Nicolette Dallison showed herself to be
indeed the decided young person she had claimed to
be, though “spoiled,” Jerry thought, would have been
a more appropriate word. The girl refused Mrs. Good-
leigh's proffered dose, turned her back upon the chair
which Morton drew to the fire for her, and proceeded
to concentrate all her fascinations upon her father.


PEARLS AND A PORTRAIT 37
“The pearls!” she coaxed. “I cannot wait to see them.
Are they not the jewels of my beloved mother? It is
because they were hers that they shall be to me so
precious!”
Dallison was deeply touched by his daughter's first
reference to her mother. “You shall not be kept wait-
ing, my darling,” he answered tenderly; “but first you
must see . . . her!”
Mrs. Dallison's portrait was a delightful thing to
look at, but from a modern point of view it was not a
masterpiece of art. The artist had not disdained to
flatter a strikingly handsome woman, painting the
delicate flesh as flesh, taking full advantage of the
sheen of satin and the glint of jewels. To Jerry, as
she studied the portrait, the likeness between mother
and daughter seemed superficial—they were of the
same rather unusual type of fair-haired, dark-eyed
beauty—yet it was evident that Mr. Dallison was draw-
ing the deepest satisfaction from a comparison between
the two faces.
Paul Morton, to whose fastidious taste this style of
painting made slight appeal, peered at the portrait in a
coldly critical manner.
“You are right, Dallison,” he finally conceded.
“Give her just a few more years, and she'll be her
mother over again.”
“Do you really think so?” Nicholas Dallison turned
delighted eyes upon his child. Nicolette also was in-
tently studying the portrait, but Jerry noticed that it
was not at her mother's face she was gazing, her hungry
eyes were fixed in a fascinated stare upon the long rope
of magnificent pearls adorning Mrs. Dallison's neck.


38 OCTAGON HOUSE
The artist had cunningly contrived that the jewels,
without becoming unduly obtrusive, should catch the
light and make the central note in the picture.
Dallison laid a caressing hand upon his daughter's
shoulder. “Have you no recollection of her at all, my
darling?”
“Alas—only of the vaguest!” The blond head was
bowed, the low voice choked with tears.
Jerry, standing apart from the little group—father,
mother, and daughter—felt a sudden rush of sympathy;
for Nicholas Dallison, who had so needlessly deprived
himself of a daughter's affection; for Nicolette in her
orphaned childhood; for the mother so long dead—the
young-girl mother whose spirit must surely make one
of the company in this quiet room to-night.
Dallison turned abruptly to his desk, unlocked a
drawer, took out a small gilded key, and going to an
old-fashioned cabinet in a corner of the room, he called:
“Come here, girls, and I'll show you a mystery!”
Nicolette hastened to obey, casting a jealous little
glance at her companion. Jerry would have hung back:
but Mr. Dallison, as usual, was demanding the attention
of every one in the room.
“Open these drawers, Nicolette, and see if you can
find anything interesting. Miss Day, I want you and
the doctor to examine the cabinet, too. And you, too,
Goody, if you like.”
Nicolette jerked one after another of the shallow
satinwood drawers out of the inlaid cabinet and dumped
their contents on the table. There were pretty trinkets
of ivory and mother-of-pearl, a baby's coral with its
silver bells, a tiny soft leather shoe, a painted fan, and


PEARLS AND A PORTRAIT 39
a scrap of yellowed embroidery caught in a mass of
rainbow silks, This was evidently the treasure house
of Nicolette's mother, and Jerry would have liked to
linger over the pretty things, but the young daughter of
the house, having pawed through the heap, pushed it
impatiently aside.
“What do you mean?” she cried, turning angrily on
her father. “You mock me—there is nothing!”
Dallison laughed indulgently. “Not in the drawers,
child. Try these little inlaid panels at the back.”
Nicolette's white fingers, shaking now with excite-
ment, flew at the region indicated. She picked and
pulled but all in vain, greatly to Dallison's amusement.
“Here, Miss Day,” he insisted, “you've got clever
fingers—see what you can do!”
It happened that Jerry had once before seen a cabinet
of much the same type as that in which Nicolette's neck-
lace was concealed; and she had, as her employer said,
extremely clever fingers. While Nicolette scowled, she
pressed firmly upon the third panel, which slipped neatly
aside, disclosing a cavity in which a narrow purple
leather box was fitted. At once she stepped back, al-
lowing the girl behind her to pluck forth her treasure.
Both the doctor and Mrs. Goodleigh had exclaimed
at the sight of the purple box.
“The Rajah's pearls—in there!” gasped the house-
keeper.
“Rather an odd place for them, isn't it, Dallison?”
his friend suggested.
The inventor looked a trifle sheepish. “Sentiment's
a curious thing, Morton,” he admitted. “I guess we've
all got some of it. My wife had a fancy for that


4O OCTAGON HOUSE
cabinet. It stood beside her bed during her long illness
and she kept the things she valued most in it. I had a
feeling to-night I'd like to take the pearls out of the safe
—the proper place for 'em—and let my little girl find
her gift in the very spot her mother used to hide her
treasure.”
Nicolette Dallison was tearing open the purple
leather box. She was watched by every one in the room
except by her young companion, for Jerry, moved by
an impulse she could not understand, felt her eyes drawn
from daughter to mother, from the eager flushed face
and the shining, covetous eyes to the portrait's calm,
maternal gaze. It was at this moment that the observer
became aware of a curious tension in the atmosphere of
the quiet room. All her imagination, of course, all
illusion. Yet the painted hand toying with the pearls
did seem to clutch them more closely, the smile upon
the lovely face grew hard and fixed, the dark eyes of
the portrait gleamed with an anger, voiceless, impotent.
Was the woman behind the glass protesting at the
rifling of her treasure house, the usurpation of her
throne? If so, the protest was in vain. .
As Dallison bent over his daughter, endeavoring to
adjust the clasp of the necklace, Paul Morton watched
the pair closely with an expression which irritated Jerry.
She disliked the man's attitude as he leaned indolently
against the wall, arms folded, dark eyes half closed, one
delicately kept hand half concealing the smile which
crept about his lips. Perhaps her chief was rather a
comic figure in his excitement, the nervousness that
made his brow damp and his clumsy fingers tremble,
but was there not something touching in such fatherly


42 OCTAGON HOUSE
fille; they are white like milk; but emeralds are green
fire—green like the eyes of the wild beast; they are for
la femme du monde! Give them to me—show them to
me!”
“Not to-night.” Dallison's tone was decided, his
expression slightly vexed as he gently detached the two
white arms that clung about his neck. “Greedy little
thing!” he exclaimed. “As if you hadn't had enough
excitement for one night. No, my dear, the emeralds
would be entirely unsuitable for you at present, you've
admitted that yourself. You don't want to be a ‘femme
du monde' just yet, I trust.” Dallison's accent was
execrable. “For to-night be content with your neck-
lace.” Then, moved by one of his sudden whims, the
big man turned from his pouting daughter to his silent
secretary.
“Here, Miss Day, you've helped quite a bit with the
affair of this necklace, one way and another, but you've
never had a real look at it. Nicolette, let Jerry try on
your pearls.” -
The dark-haired girl protested, and the blond one
seemed for a moment unwilling to yield up her treasure.
Then, with a sudden, disdainful movement, she pushed
her companion before the mirror and flung the rope of
pearls over her head. Jerry took but a brief glance
at herself—proud little head held high—slender neck
weighted with its borrowed finery—and caught at the
same time a flash of admiration from the eyes of Paul
Morton standing directly behind her. Then she re-
moved the necklace and handed it to Nicolette. “It is
much more becoming to you,” she said.
“That is certain ſ” Nicolette danced over to her


44 OCTAGON HOUSE
As usual, opposition merely stiffened Dallison's reso-
lution. He took the necklace from his daughter, laid
it back upon its satin bed, and slipped the purple box
into its snug crevice. The satinwood drawers were re-
placed and the cabinet relocked.
“There,” Dallison chuckled. “Suppose a burglar did
come burgling round here to-night? Would he think
of looking for a fifty-thousand-dollar necklace among
all that junk? He would not. The pearls can go into
the safe later, perhaps, but they're all right for to-night,
anyway. And now, you girls, be off with you!”
He kissed his daughter, then turned to Morton.
“You’re not to think of going yet, doctor. You and
I must have another cigar and a nightcap.”
But Morton was glancing at his watch with an ex-
clamation of dismay. “Sorry,” he remarked; “but I
had no idea it was so late. I have a call to pay. Good
night, ladies. Good night, Mr. Dallison. Thank you
all for a delightful evening!”
Dallison saw his guest to the door, and Jerry fol-
lowed Nicolette up the wide staircase to her bedroom
door. Somehow, the older girl felt a curious reluctance
to leave the nervous, weary-eyed Nicolette to the care
of the venomous-tongued Frenchwoman.
“Can't I do something for you?” she begged. “If
you should feel the least bit frightened, remember I'm
next door.”
“Frightened? And why should I be frightened in
the house of my father?” The eyes of Miss Dallison
shot an angry look at her companion.
Jerry was abashed. “I—I just thought,” she stam-
mered, “that as your maid seemed so upset to-night


PEARLS AND A PORTRAIT 45
and must be tired, you might want to send her to bed
and let me look after you. I'd be glad to.”
“I thank you, but my poor Zélie, she awaits me.
Good night, Jherrie!”
Before Jerry had time to respond, the door of
Nicolette's room was suddenly opened a little way,
showing the maid's grim face and bead-bright eyes.
Her thin, naked arm shot out and drew her mistress
abruptly into the room. The door was slammed in
Jerry's face and she heard the key rattle in the lock.
“And that's that,” the girl smiled to herself, mentally
phrasing words of a significance beyond her dreams.
“But just you wait, you yellow-faced thing! I've a
notion you won't last long in this house!”


CHAPTER V
THE TERROR BEFORE THE DAWN
T had been a wonderful evening. At the end of it
Jerry Day found herself in a mood of mingled
elation and despair. Had she been rash after all
in accepting this responsibility? Would she ever be
able to make a real friend of this strange, excitable
girl, this spoiled, petted darling of the house? Attrac-
tive Nicolette certainly was—like a little princess in a
story book with those big dark eyes and that wealth
of golden hair—real fairy-tale hair. Paul Morton had
paid her a great deal of attention this evening. How
solicitous he had seemed lest she take cold or overdo!
Dallison's subjection was already complete. Would
Michael, too, admire Nicolette if he should see her,
Jerry wondered? But he would not see her for a long
time, of course. He was not coming to Mill Hollow.
Just here an unexpected twinge of homesickness
pulled at Jerry's heartstrings, and she found herself
wishing she had not cut herself off from her pal so
completely. Probably he was enjoying himself on ship-
board at this moment—dancing attendance on some
pretty girl. Jerry hoped he was, hoped he would get
rid of his Delusion and settle down soon. But it must
be a very nice girl. As she shook the pins out of her
curly hair, Jerry Day mentally married Michael O'Boyle
46


THE TERROR BEFORE THE DAWN 47
to half a dozen of her dearest friends, though the
polygamous process yielded her little satisfaction.
There was a closeness even to the attractive blue
room on such a night as this. Slipping into her scarlet
kimono, Jerry hopped out through her window for a
breath of air. The balcony was not intended for her
use, she admitted, since there was no door opening on it
from her room, but with such a convenient window the
temptation was not to be resisted. She leaned upon the
rail, enjoying the coolness and quite oblivious to the
fact that the bright light in the room behind made her
figure visible to a passerby along the Park road which,
at this angle, approached the house closely. The pedes-
trian happened to be a young man supposed to be far
distant, a rash, curly-headed, snub-nosed young man,
who leaped the low wall and in three long-legged strides
crossed the lawn and stood beneath the beech tree.
So swift, so silent was his action that the girl on
the balcony started violently when his voice reached
her.
“Jerry! I say—Jeremiah 1”
“Michael O'Boyle—you villain! How on earth did
you get here?”
“I didn't swim, dear love, if that's what you mean.
I exchanged berths at the last minute with a chap who
wanted to stay over. I got in yesterday and spent the
day fixing things up so I could run out here to-night
and surprise you. Wanted to start our holiday a day
earlier. Then when I walked round to the office for
you, they told me you were here. Oh, Jeremiah, what
a low-down trick to play on a fellow !”
Michael's disappointment was so genuine that the


48 OCTAGON HOUSE
girl's voice softened as she answered. “I—I know—
I'm sorry, Mikey dear, but I really couldn't help it.
I wrote you a long letter to-day explaining everything.
I had it all arranged you were to stay in town. . . .”
“Oh, you did, did you? Thanks so much Am I
that easy to lose? Haven't I been looking forward
to this day since I left? Doesn't absence make. . . .”
“Oh, ssh ! Do go away! Aren't you ashamed—com-
ing here to get me in wrong my very first night? Just
like you! Do you want to get me fired?”
“I certainly do! The nerve of you, Jeremiah, to
settle down under the Enemy's roof without my per-
mission and. . . .”
“He’s not my Enemy!” Jerry Day planted both
elbows on the rail and stared sternly down into the
shadows below. “And I'll thank you to remember,
Michael O'Boyle, that I don't have to ask your permis-
sion for anything I do.”
There was a chuckle from the darkness. “Seems
kinder natural to be quarreling again, doesn't it, old
girl? But we're too far apart to do it with comfort.
Will you come down, or shall I come up?”
“Michael ! You go away this minute! Suppose any
one should. . . .”
“I’m hidden by this tree. Nobody can see me.”
“Idiot! Do you think everybody in the house is
deaf P Wait till I reconnoiter. . . .”
To the other end of the balcony Jerry crept and
opened the door of Nicolette's sleeping porch. The
lights were still bright in the bedroom, and though the
shades were drawn, one of the long windows was open
on the crack. From within came the girl's low tones


50 OCTAGON HOUSE
“On my way. But, look here—can't I see you to-
morrow?”
“Of course not!” Jerry's voice was full of exaspera-
tion. “And you know why you can't come here. Mr.
Dallison just hates the name of a reporter since your
article appeared.”
“Oh, shucks! Then come down—or open a window
downstairs so we can talk.”
“No.”
“Then telephone me at the Inn to-morrow morning?”
“Well—perhaps.”
“You see, I’ve got a lot to tell you, Jeremiah. About
Uncle Tony and the legacy. We could have that
bungalow.”
Bang! Jerry's window closed abruptly. If she had
not been in such haste and temper, if she had turned
her head ever so slightly, she might have seen the dark
figure behind the screen still crouching, still listening
intently.
After a warm bath it was good to snuggle into bed,
to know, as Mr. Dallison's young secretary thought
she knew, that a delightful day lay ahead of her to-
morrow. No early rising, hurried breakfast and dash
for the laboratory down the grimy street crowded with
factory workers. No tiresome typing and dictation.
Mr. Dallison must be warned about that impertinent
Frenchwoman. That one unpleasant duty over, she and
Nicolette would have a long day of pleasure, a drive in
the big car, perhaps—the opportunity to become really
friends. Later Mr. Dallison had promised his daughter
a trip to town, a visit to the theater, all the shopping
and selecting of pretty things that she wanted. Jerry


THE TERROR BEFORE. THE DAWN 51
supposed she would have to tag along. She wondered
if her mother was thinking of her, she wondered if
Paul Morton really—but thoughts began to float into
visions, visions fade to dreams. Faces, faces—her
mother's loving face—Mr. Dallison's so changed in its
fatherly felicity—Dr. Morton's smile—Nicolette's dark
eyes. Jerry slept.
The calm September night was fresh and still. What
was it that called the girl in the blue room so suddenly
from sleep? She sat up, rubbing heavy eyes. There
had been a sound—a queer, dreadful sound, like the
choked beginning of a scream. Could some one be
having a nightmare? She had been dreaming when
she heard the sound, a wonderful dream which had to
do with moonlight. She and Michael O'Boyle were
children again, paddling in a river that ran emerald-
green moonlight instead of water, green and golden
floods of liquid moonshine, and the banks were made
of pearls. But there were thorns among the pearls
that pierced Jerry's feet. She had cried out—that was
it—it was she herself who was having the nightmare.
How babyish She might have disturbed the whole
house.
Growing tired of tossing, Jerry sat up in bed.
Why was she worrying? What fear lurked at the
back of her brain? Now she had the clue to it—her
dream! Michael—the pearls—burglars! Michael had
joked about stealing the necklace. She had told him
it was in that frail old cabinet—a necklace worth fifty
thousand dollars. And she had spoken of the emeralds,
too ! But what was that? It sounded like a window
being opened downstairs. Queer—at this time of


52 OCTAGON HOUSE
night. Snapping on her reading light, Jerry looked at
her wrist watch. It was really morning—three o'clock.
Well, but Mr. Dallison occasionally worked or read all
night. Perhaps it was he downstairs? But if it
wasn't? . . .
Another moment's hesitation, and then—very reluc-
tantly—a nervous young chaperon crept from her bed,
reached for wrapper and slippers, and took a small elec-
tric flash light from her bed table.
The corridor was dark, except for a single shaded
light burning at the head of the stair. Jerry knew
that the servants slept in the kitchen wing, all but
Nicolette's maid, who was occupying her mistress's
dressing room. Mrs. Goodleigh had a couple of rooms
on the third floor. Jerry did not want to arouse any
one unnecessarily; above all, she knew she must not
disturb the tired young traveler. After a moment's
hesitation at the top of the stair, the investigator sum-
moned her courage to creep down as far as the first
landing and peer over the rail. All seemed quiet in the
entrance hall below, where a dimmed light still burned.
By this time the girl had her nerves well in hand and
went bravely on, determined to assure herself that her
fright was due to her dream or her imagination. She
would go just as far as the library door, perhaps take
a peep into the drawing-room, then back to bed—and
safetyl
At the foot of the staircase a huge potted fern
caressed with its feathery branches the feet of the
marble nymph poised upon the newel post. Jerry shud-
dered, realizing that a less timid burglar-chaser would
not fail to investigate the excellent cover this fern made,


THE TERROR BEFORE THE DAWN 53
would peer behind that great oak chest barely visible
in the shadows, would lift the silken hangings at the
right of the staircase. Well—perhaps later—but first
she would take a peep into the library. She crossed the
shining floor, the thick, soft rug, and came to the
threshold. The room was dark but now the girl could
feel a slight freshness, a breath of distant cool air. One
of the servants must have left a window in the study
open, a window that ought to be closed. The library
was certainly a long room, but at last Jerry reached the
study door and, raising her flash, peered into the room.
Afterwards she wondered why she had not dropped
the light or screamed. Instead she stood, frozen with
horror, staring down at the black, inert mass, the stiff
figure sprawled upon its back upon the study floor.
Jerry knew that face, swollen and discolored though it
was, knew that skinny yellow throat and the glassy,
protruding eyes, knew as surely as though some one in
the room had shouted the dreadful truth, that Zélie, the
Frenchwoman, lay dead at her feet.


ZéLIE 55
“Goody, be quiet!” Dallison's tone was harsh. “Get
something warm on,” he commanded; “then go and
wake Lawrence and Frederick and tell them to join me
in the study. Miss Day, come with me. Above all,”
he added, turning back to the housekeeper, “see that
Nicolette is not disturbed.”
On the second floor Jerry, who was obediently fol-
lowing Mr. Dallison, stopped and cast an anxious
glance toward a certain closed door. All looked so
quiet in the direction of that door, so deathly still I
Suppose. . . . The fear that flashed through her mind
evidently communicated itself to her companion, and
was betrayed by the sudden whiteness of his face. For
a brief moment they stood in silence, staring at each
other; then Dallison retraced his steps.
“Good God!” he murmured. “If–you go in, Jerry,
go softly. See if she is safe!”
The bedroom door was unlocked. Jerry cautiously
turned the handle and crept a little way into the dark-
ened room. There was relief on her face as, holding
the door wide, she beckoned to her employer. A mo-
ment they stood together in the darkness, hearing quite
distinctly the gentle, even breathing of little Nicolette.
Then, closing the door cautiously behind them, the two
hastened downstairs to the entrance hall, where Dalli-
son's first action was to switch on every light. He
turned to the girl at his side.
“Can you stand this? Hadn't you better go back to
Mrs. Goodleigh P”
For answer Jerry silently shook her head and led the
way through the long library to the study door. Dalli-
son's finger on the switch sent a flood of pitiless cold


56 OCTAGON HOUSE
light pouring down upon the ghastly face, the horrible
protruding eyes that stared at them from the floor.
Now that every corner was visible, Jerry noticed a cer-
tain disorder in the room. One window was partly
open, a chair was overturned, the velvet runner was
dragged off a small table and a vase tipped upon its side
so that the water was spilled and the flowers scattered.
And into the room from the outer darkness came a chill
breath of air, like a ghostly hand, to twitch at the
window curtain and toy with a loosened lock of hair
upon the Frenchwoman's brow.
In a mixture of amazement and perplexity so intense
as momentarily to dispel her terror, Jerry was studying
the entire figure of the woman whose head alone had
been revealed by the flash light's narrow circle. Close,
flat black hair, and that one loosened lock. Had that
been—no, that had not been her first impression | Was
there—could there be a difference? . . . Dallison's
awed voice broke in upon the girl's thoughts. He knelt
beside the body, lowered his head against the still
breast, lifted a limp hand, then looked up hopelessly at
his companion.
“I believe you're right,” he said. “She's dead!”
“Isn't there anything we could try to do—anything?”
Jerry's voice trembled. “I could help you to lift her to
the couch.”
“No. Better not touch anything till the doctor and
the police come.”
“The police! Oh, my God, Mr. Dallison, don't say
it’s murderſ” *
Mrs. Goodleigh's horrified appeal was so loud that
Dallison looked up angrily at her as she hovered on the


zéLIE 57
study threshold, the lean figure of Lawrence, the butler,
standing behind her.
“Hush, Goody! You've simply got to control your-
self. We don't know yet what's happened here, except
that some one has broken into the house—that much is
certain.” As he spoke, the inventor nodded toward the
inlaid cabinet at the far end of the room. Its lock
had been picked; and the shallow drawers were upside
down upon the floor, their contents in a jumbled heap
beneath them.
“The pearls,” Mrs. Goodleigh gasped.
“Gone, of course—stolen" Rather shakily, Dallison
rose to his feet, crossed the room, and thrust two fingers
into the secret recess, now gaping open, where the pur-
ple box had been. “Nicolette did not have her neck-
lace long, poor child . . . not that the loss will mean
anything to her compared to this.” He gave a quick
look at the body; then, getting command of himself
and speaking in his usual dictatorial tones, he turned
to the butler.
“Lawrence, go and telephone Dr. Morton to come
here at once. Use the phone in the servants’ wing.
Then get the police. Goody, I think you had better
rouse one of the maids—the one with the most sense—
and put her on guard outside Nicolette's door. This
thing is going to mean more to her than to any of
us. It's got to be kept from the child as long as
possible.”
“I’ll wake Celia, Mr. Dallison, she's the quiet kind,
but—oh !”
“Mind now, tell her no hysterics.” The admonition
was as much for housekeeper as for maid. Mrs. Good-


58 OCTAGON HOUSE
leigh's shoulders were shaking; and Jerry, forgetting
her own fright in her desire to calm the older woman,
put an arm about her and led her from the room.
“I’m not brave like you, dear,” sobbed the house-
keeper. “Oh, how did you stand it? To come down
here all alone in the middle of the night . . . and find
. . . that!” She cast a wild look over her shoulder to-
ward the study door, and then, with a shake of her
gray head, she tottered off in the direction of the
servants' wing.
Now that the horror in the other room was out of
sight, Jerry began to realize the sketchiness of her own
attire, her thin kimono and bare ankles. Slipping softly
up to her own room, she hurried into her clothes, twisted
up her hair, and—on her way downstairs again—met
Mrs. Goodleigh leading the huddled, frightened figure
of Celia, the housemaid, to her post outside Nicolette's
door. Jerry found Mr. Dallison at his desk telephone,
in the library, in conversation with the local chief of
police. She went silently past him back to the room
where Zélie lay, glad of an uninterrupted moment in
which to try to solve the problem which had presented
itself to her at her second view of the body. What was
it she had seen in that first awful moment? Jerry shut
her eyes and shudderingly tried to recall the exact
vision revealed by the flash light. The face, of course,
and the dreadful, twisted throat, but not that white
collar—no—there had been nothing but blackness—a
dark blur—an enveloping cloud—but, no, it couldn't
be—”
Dallison's entrance disturbed his secretary's thoughts.
She turned quietly to meet him. “Do you suppose,” she


ZéLIE 59
said, “that the burglars may be hidden somewhere in
the house?”
Nicholas Dallison looked at the girl in amazement.
“You're a nervy little thing, Jerry Day,” he remarked,
a slow, unwilling smile breaking through the bewildered
sadness on his face.
Jerry opened her lips to speak of the thing that was
troubling her, but was interrupted by the appearance of
Lawrence. He was, she noticed, as unperturbed and
even dignified in appearance as it was possible for an
elderly manservant to be when roused suddenly from
sleep to face such a situation as this. Even his gray
hair and side whiskers were neat and his spare frame
was amply covered by his striped bath gown and felt
slippers. Beside him his employer, with upstanding
locks and wadded silk robe awry, looked like a worried,
rumpled schoolboy.
“Can you stand being left alone a moment?” Dalli-
son asked the girl. “You had better go into the library
or stay with Frederick in the hall. Lawrence and I
must take a look about the house. I've called Peters,
the chauffeur, on the house phone, and he is searching
the grounds. The doctor ought to be here very shortly
now.”
Without waiting for an answer, Dallison departed
with Lawrence who, Jerry could not but be amused to
notice, had armed himself with an old-fashioned
revolver which he carried stiffly before him, much as
if it had been a wine cruet or a card tray.
It was very lonely in the long library, and cold with
the chill of dawn. Jerry's mind seemed in a whirl;
and she could not collect her thoughts, try as she would,


6O OCTAGON HOUSE
in the orderly sequence in which she wished to marshal
them, or keep them from melting into dreadful mem-
ories and even more terrifying premonitions. Soon,
she knew, the police would appear. There would be
questions which she must be ready to answer. For
she-Jerry Day—was that unlucky individual whose
adventures she had followed when skimming the pages
of a detective story, that unhappy person who arrives
first on the scene of the crime, and who—however
innocent—is sooner or later suspected.
The girl collapsed into a big chair, discovering that
her trembling knees would support her no longer. She
would not be an idiot and cry—she would not! But she
hid her head against the back of the big chair and
clasped both shaking hands about its velvet arm. It
was not, however, a chair arm that Jerry Day wanted
to cling to at that moment. She wanted—she was
amazed to discover how much she wanted—Michael
O'Boyle ! How excited he was going to be over this
affair. It would be startling news for Mill Hollow—
wonderful news even for Michael's city paper. He
would want all details—Jerry must help him. And he
could advise her about that question which had puzzled
her in the study. It might only make trouble to speak
to the police about a small thing like that unless one
were sure. . . . Better tell a straight story that would
leave nothing to haggle about. Let the police search out
their own clues and trace the burglars. Clues? They
were what Michael would ask about, of course. . . .
Slowly Jerry crawled out of the big chair and
dragged herself back to the study. Keeping her eyes
carefully away from the stiff figure on the floor, she


ZÉLIE 6I
walked over to the window, parted the heavy curtain
folds and, letting them drop behind her, stared out into
the darkness. It was still too intense to make it possible
to trace footprints. She doubted if even by daylight
any would be visible on the springy turf beneath the
window. It was a very slight sound, the softest of
footfalls which caused Jerry to turn with a start, real-
izing that some one had entered the study. Pushing
aside the heavy velvet curtain folds, she saw Paul Mor-
ton kneeling by Zélie's body. Never in her life, she
thought, had she seen a man so pale. The sweat stood
out in round beads on his brow, the hand with which
he felt for the dead woman's pulse trembled, broken
words burst from his dry lips.
“Dead!” Jerry heard him exclaim. “But how—what
has happened? My God, what . . .”
“Dr. Morton | Why—Doctor Morton!”
For the effect of Jerry's first word upon the kneeling
man had been instantaneous. In one bound he had
leaped to the window, seized the speaker by both wrists
and dragged her from the sheltering curtains into the
full light of the room. As quickly, however, Morton's
grip relaxed, the fury died from his eyes, and he pushed
Jerry from him so abruptly that she swayed and gripped
a chair to save herself from falling.
“I thought,” he muttered. “I supposed . . .”
“I was a burglar . . . lurking behind the curtain P
You needn't apologize, Dr. Morton. We have all been
considering the possibility that some one is hidden in
the house. Mr. Dallison and Lawrence are still search-
ing. I must send some one to tell Mr. Dallison you are
here. . . .”


62 OCTAGON HOUSE
With a half-stifled groan, the doctor turned again
to the body on the floor. “I have told Frederick to
let him know. But what does this mean, Miss Day?
This woman is dead—do you realize it—dead!”
“I know.”
“And you—I find you alone here?”
Jerry looked at him calmly. “Dr. Morton, it was I
who found her. I heard a noise and I thought of
burglars—coming after the pearls, you know—and I
came down and—found her. . . .”
“Like this?”
For just a second Jerry. hesitated, then nodded her
anSWer.
“What were you doing when I came in?”
Jerry looked at Morton in surprise, resenting the
sharpness in his voice. “Why—just waiting,” she re-
plied. “Mr. Dallison and Lawrence are searching the
house. I was told to stay in the library. . . .”
“This isn't the library 1”
“I came back here to search for—for—but why do
you look at me like that?”
Paul Morton rose to his feet, pocketed his case of
instruments and again crossed the room to Jerry's side.
Once more his long fingers closed upon her arm in an
almost cruel grasp, his blazing eyes bored into her
frightened ones. “Tell me—before the others come,”
he whispered, “what do you know about this? What
happened here—?”
“Burglars—we suppose. The necklace is gone—”
“The pearls? Impossible—”
“It isn't impossible at all—they simply aren't there.
You can see for yourself.” And Jerry nodded towards


64 OCTAGON HOUSE
fully. It wasn't till I questioned Frederick as I came
in that I was sure it wasn't you who . . .” The doctor's
voice broke with a sudden emotion, and he put out
a hand to Dallison, who took it and wrung it so vig-
orously that his friend must have been glad to be re-
leased.
“My dear chap! Well, we've all had shock enough
here, especially this poor child who heard some sound
or other and came down to see . . . that!”
“Miss Day tells me this poor woman was Miss
Dallison's maid?”
“Yes, that makes it all the worse. What my poor
little girl will say when she finds it out . . .”
“You are right to keep it from her as long as pos-
sible, but . . .”
Here Morton was interrupted by the entrance of
Lawrence, who announced the arrival of the police.
Alec McArdle, the stocky, broad-shouldered, sandy-
haired Mill Hollow chief of police, was no stranger to
Jerry Day. She and Michael had faced him together
on a certain occasion when a severe rebuke had been
administered in connection with a misadventure of
Michael's car, the Lazy Mary. Chief McArdle's com-
panion, however, was unknown both to Jerry and to
Mr. Dallison. An ugly, eager-eyed little runt of a
man, he entered the room with a look of lively antici-
pation on his face, very much like a fox terrier—Jerry
thought—on the trail of a favorite scent.
Dallison came forward. “McArdle, this is a terrible
business!”
“Looks like it, sir. Let me make you acquainted
with Lieutenant Heslin, Mr. Dallison. He's a county


ZELIE 65
detective who happened, by luck, to be in town here
overnight, on some business for the county prose-
cutor.”
“Glad to meet you, lieutenant. Very fortunate you
were on hand. I'm counting on you fellows—and the
medical examiner when he comes—to throw some
light on this thing.”
McArdle moved slowly over to the body beside
which the little detective was already kneeling.
“Nothing's been disturbed round here, I hope?” he
asked.
“Nothing. It only took a look at that wrecked cabi-
net to tell me the pearls were gone. Everything in the
room is just as it was when Miss Day came down
and found the body.”
The keen eyes of both McArdle and Heslin were
now turned on Jerry Day. A volley of questions fol-
lowed. What had roused her? Why had she come
down? How many minutes had elapsed between the
time when she heard the sound and the time when
she entered the study? What kind of a sound was
it? All the questions she had been expecting to be.
asked and many that she had not, until the girl was
so weary and bewildered that she hardly knew whether
she was answering truthfully.
When her story was at last told, it was Mr. Dalli-
son's turn to face the inquisitors. With no variation
of his usual pompous and deliberate manner, the in-
ventor described his actions since viewing the body,
the tour of the house he had made in the company
of Lawrence, his butler, the fact that all door and
window fastenings—with the sole exception of the


66 OCTAGON HOUSE
window in the study—had been found intact. None
of the dining-room silver or other valuables about
the house appeared to be missing nor had there been
any attempt to break into the safe in the study, a safe
containing a valuable set of emeralds, an heirloom in
his wife's family and even more precious on that ac-
count than the pearls. Evidently the burglars had
been interrupted by Zélie's appearance before they had
had a chance to accumulate their loot. . . .
The two police officers listened with the utmost pa-
tience to Dallison's report and to his theories about
the affair. The contrast between their deference
towards him, and their suspicious, somewhat bristly
bearing towards herself, was to Jerry faintly amus-
1ng.
The few facts that Dallison could furnish regarding
the dead woman were scanty enough:
“She was a trusted servant of my sister-in-law, Ma-
dame Fouquert,” he explained, “and her name was
Zélie-Zélie Mançon—Lançon—something like that. A
Frenchwoman but with a fairly good knowledge of
English—had English connections, I believe. I can find
out more—but not much more about her—by refer-
ring to Madame Fouquert's letters. This much I know.
When the friends who had expected to escort my
daughter over were prevented from coming, Madame
Fouquert let Zélie bring her. Therefore she must
have been of a dependable character. . . .”
“But she wasn't dependable—I’m sure she wasn't!”
It was Jerry's eager voice that broke in. “She wasn't
a good woman, Mr. Dallison, I'm sure of that. She
had a terrible temper. When I went up to your


zÉLIE 67
daughter's room before dinner, I heard her storming
at Nicolette, and later I went up to the room again
and she flew at me like a mad thing. Yes, and there
was brandy in her glass—I smelled it—”
Somehow in the presence of that stark heap upon
the floor, it was difficult to go on. Yet Jerry was
infuriated to see how little impression her remarks had
made upon the four men. Amusement verging on
contempt lurked in Morton's eyes.
“My dear Miss Day,” he said gently, “I don't think
you understand the French temperament. People of
this woman's class are notoriously excitable and are
apt to depend on a little pick-me-up, especially when
overtired. I remember now that Miss Dallison com-
mended, this woman to her father at dinner last night.
It seems to me. . . .” The doctor hesitated, turning
courteously towards the chief of police. “I don't
know whether you care to hear an outsider's theory,
especially so early in the case?”
McArdle waved a hand. “Go on,” he insisted, “let’s
have it.”
“It seems probable that Miss Dallison told her maid
about the necklace, and that it was hidden in the cabinet.
Later—before Miss Day was aroused—this woman
may have heard something that suggested burglars, and
come down—to meet her death at their hands. You
have noticed the open window?”
“Oh, yes! The matter of foot- and fingerprints will
be looked into. I won't say you're not right, doctor
—think it's quite possible you may be—but it's all a
matter for investigation. We are waiting for Dr.
Crosby, the county medical examiner—ah—I think.


68 OCTAGON HOUSE
I hear some one in the hall now! By your leave,
Mr. Dallison . . .”
As McArdle turned to the library, Dallison nodded
to Jerry. “You’d better slip away—through that
other door. Take a few moments' rest anyway, be-
fore you have to go all over this again. Go find
Goody—she's making coffee. Tell her to send us some
in the library—and something stronger with it.”
Gladly enough Jerry obeyed. Reaching the dining
room she encountered a pale, disheveled Frederick
with a coffee tray and directed him to the library.
Lawrence, at the same moment, arrived with a mes-
sage from Mrs. Goodleigh, hoping Miss Day would
join her in the peacock parlor.
After the strain of what she had been through, the
warmth and light of the beautiful little room made
it seem a haven of rest to the tired, excited girl. Mrs.
Goodleigh sat beside a newly kindled fire, its cheery
flames dancing again upon the dull gold walls with
their frieze of gorgeous, long-tailed birds in green
and blue and tawny bronze. It was good to sink into
a deep chair, sip a cup of steaming coffee, and listen
to the housekeeper's voluble sympathy. Jerry did not
have a long respite, however, for Mr. Dallison soon
joined them, bringing with him the police officers;
the two medical men, Crosby and Morton, having been
left to make their examination in the study.
Heslin, it appeared, had still other questions to put
to Miss Day, and was also anxious to know what
opinion the housekeeper had formed of the dead
woman. But Mrs. Goodleigh, though she said much,
could tell little. She had accompanied the travelers


zÉLIE 69
to their rooms to see that they were comfortably in-
stalled. No, she had certainly not noticed any rude-
ness on the part of maid to mistress—the woman had
appeared devoted. Later, Zélie had requested to have
her dinner sent up, as she was very tired. A nice,
respectable sort of woman, though very French, Mrs.
Goodleigh thought. She had had her last glimpse of
the poor creature when she slipped into the dining room
with her young mistress's scarf.
Little Heslin closed his notebook with a snap. “The
rest we’ll have to find out from Miss Dallison,” he
said. “I suppose I can have a little talk with her first
thing after breakfast?”
Dallison, who had been prowling up and down the
room like a lion behind bars, his nerves on the raw
between anxiety and fatigue, turned angrily on the
detective. “Certainly not! My daughter is going to
be terribly upset about this thing. I’ll find out what
she knows about the woman, and that will have to
do. I’ll not have my little girl dragged into this mess
—publicity and all that. Good Lord, what a noise
those fellows are making—they'll wake her surely—”
The two doctors were apparently crossing the hall,
for their voices, raised slightly in argument, were
plainly audible, the deep pleasant voice of Dr. Morton
and the high querulous tones which, Jerry was soon
to learn, were a characteristic of old Dr. Crosby, the
medical examiner. Dallison moved impatiently to meet
them and warn them to silence, an admonition not
immediately heeded by the older man, who was ap-
parently a good deal excited by this break in the sordid
routine to which he was accustomed. For all his


7o OCTAGON HOUSE
nervous volubility, he seemed keen and knowing
enough, and poor Jerry soon found herself the target
of his questions. She was forced to repeat her story,
with the uncomfortable feeling that both Heslin and
McArdle were listening intently, hoping to note some
contradiction or omission on her part. Towards the
end she hesitated, trying to decide whether after all
she might not better declare to them her queer illusion
in regard to the appearance of the dead woman; but
it seemed as if Fate had determined to close the
girl's lips on this particular point, for just as she was
about to speak, the frightened figure of Celia, the maid,
appeared in the doorway of the peacock parlor.
“Oh, Mr. Dallison, sir,” she began. “She-she's
awake. . . .”
“Awake? Good Lord. . . .”
Dallison turned angrily to rebuke the girl; but Paul
Morton, with his usual gentleness, intervened.
“You say Miss Dallison is awake? Have you told
her. . . .”
“Oh, no, sir, I didn't tell her, that is, I didn't mean
to, but she woke up and called Zélie, and I. . .”
“Fool!” Dallison brushed the girl aside and started
for the door. Paul Morton was at his heels as he
crossed the threshold and Jerry close behind the
doctor.
“Be careful, sir,” Morton begged. “This is a seri-
ous matter—breaking such news. Your daughter is
nervous—very sensitive organization—I noticed that
last night. Better let me go up with you—she may
need medical attention. . . .”
“Good Heavens, yes. You'll have to help me out,


zÉLIE 71
Morton. Jerry, you come along, too. You may be
of more use than either of us.”
Jerry, following the two men up the wide stair,
thought that the doctor threw back rather a doubtful
glance at her.
The upper corridor was still only dimly lit by the
one shaded lamp at the head of the stair. Moving
along it in the semidarkness the three were suddenly
startled by a cry, a voice that cut the stillness like a
knife.
“Zélie!” it called—“Zélie” And again, despair-
ingly—“Zélief”
A strange thing, a dreadful thing to hear the living
call so loudly upon the dead, to hear one sum-
moned who never in this world will answer to any
call again! For a second the three hesitated in the
corridor; then the door opposite which they had halted
was thrown open, and the lights from the rose and
golden room showed them a vision, a swaying form
in filmy white, mantled with waves of golden hair,
a pale little face, blue eyes streaming tears, arms clutch-
ing at Dallison's coat.
“Zélie!” cried Nicolette again. “Where is she?
Who has hurt her? Who has hurt my Zélie?”


CHAPTER VII
JERRY ON THE JOB
W M YHAT an endless night it seemed, for it was
folly to call morning the weary stretch of
time since Jerry's little wrist watch had told
her it was three o'clock. Now, from Nicolette's rose-
veiled window she was looking out upon the smooth
lawns silvered with the dew, watching a flock of eager
sparrows gather for their early dip in the shallow
waters of the fountain. The sound of their vulgar
little bickerings heartened the tired girl. Morning, sun-
shine, the ordinary traffic and intercourse of daily life
—how she longed for it, yearned to be back at fa-
miliar tasks among those she knew and loved, where
she could forget the horrors she had known. The
last hour had seemed the worst of all—at least the
most trying—when she had listened in pitying help-
lessness to those wild hysterical appeals, had man-
aged, at last, to coax the shivering Nicolette back into
her bed where she crouched, white-faced and wide-
eyed, staring at her father and the doctor, unable—
at first—to understand what they were saying to her.
Dallison had been anxious to smooth things over,
to hide details, but the doctor's treatment of his pa-
tient had been more drastic. Indeed, to Jerry, it seemed
harsh. Putting his friend aside, he had taken the
girl's cold hands in his, and forced her to meet his
eyes.
72


JERRY ON THE JOB 73
“Be quiet, Nicolette,” he said sharply; “listen to me.
There were burglars, but they have gone—escaped.
Yes, it was a burglar who broke into the house and
killed Zélie while you were asleep. You were asleep?
You heard nothing?”
“Nothing!” The shrill voice rose almost to a scream,
as Nicolette clutched at the doctor's hands. “I was
asleep . . . asleep . . . and then I woke . . . and she
. . she was. . . .”
“Gone . . . yes . . . she must have gone down—
gone softly so as not to wake you . . . and then. . . .”
“Doctor! These details—is it necessary?” Dalli-
son made a protesting movement, but Morton ignored
it, keeping his attention fixed upon the trembling
girl.
“Control yourself,” he continued sternly. “Oh, yes,
you can—you must! You will grieve, yes, but remem-
ber, you are safe—you are with your friends—you
have nothing to fear!”
The vibrant tones of the doctor's deep voice, the
peculiar fire of his strange black eyes, the force of
his dominating personality seemed to have an influ-
ence almost hypnotic upon the terrified Nicolette.
Gradually the symptoms of hysterical disturbance
abated, and she lay limply on her pillows permitting
her father to caress her cold hands, finally manag-
ing to swallow the soothing medicine which Morton .
administered. Then, maintaining that absolute quiet
was necessary if the drug were to take effect, the
doctor sent both Dallison and Jerry from the room,
and himself kept watch beside the bed for about an
hour longer.


74 OCTAGON HOUSE
Jerry, who was dozing in a chair not far from
Nicolette's door, was aroused by the touch of Morton's
hand upon her shoulder. She straightened her tired
body, looking up into his face in bewilderment, fright-
ened by the merciless probing of his eyes.
“Now,” said the doctor, “tell me again—do you
know anything more than you told downstairs?”
“Of course not!” The girlish voice was indignant,
but the sudden flush on her white cheek did not escape
those piercing eyes.
“Are you sure—isn't there something . . . .”
Jerry got out of her chair, assuming all the dignity
possibe to so weary and disheveled a young person at
six o'clock in the morning. “If I knew anything—
anything worth mentioning—I should go straight to
the police with it. It would be none of your af-
fair. I don't see what right you have to bother me
like this!”
“My dear child! Forgive me, but haven't we an
equal interest in this affair which concerns our friends?
In the study a while ago you spoke of ‘coming back
to look for something.” Won't you tell me what you
meant?”
A shake of the curly head was his sole answer.
“I’ll tell you this much,” Jerry grinned at him. “I
found it!”
“Found it! What? If you are concealing anything
of importance, Miss Day, it will be my duty to report
you to Mr. Dallison or the police.” The doctor's
voice was harsh, his look indicated suppressed irrita-
tion amounting to fury, but Jerry faced him fear-
lessly.


JERRY ON THE JOB 75
“Do you think I'm afraid—have reason to be afraid
of them—of any one?”
The dark eyes met hers for a moment in open chal-
lenge, then caressed her with a look of amused ap-
preciation. “Don’t imagine I'm questioning your
courage,” Morton remarked. “It’s your judgment I
take the liberty of doubting.”
“Well, it is a liberty!” Jerry turned her back on
him and walked to the door of Nicolette's sitting
TOO111.
“Where are you going? Miss Dallison is asleep.
I can’t have her disturbed l’’
“Mr. Dallison's orders were that she should not be
left alone. I shall sit in the next room, so as to be
within call, till he or Mrs. Goodleigh can relieve me.”
And without waiting for another word from Morton,
Jerry entered the blue boudoir and closed the door
behind her. Later, looking from the window, she
saw the doctor's car pass down the drive.
By peering through the crack of the door, it was
possible to ascertain that the pretty young inhabitant
of the rose and golden room was lying peacefully,
with closed eyes, upon her pillows. Jerry felt that
she might at last claim a moment for herself. Hastily
removing the Marie-Antoinette lady in satin and gilt
which masked the telephone receiver on Nicolette's
ornate little desk, she called the Inn, and was soon
communicating her news in as low a voice as she
could make audible to the excited young man at the
other end of the wire.
“Good scout !” came Michael's enthusiastic comment.
“It’s great to have a scoop like this, Jeremiah, but


76 OCTAGON HOUSE
all the same I wish you weren't mixed up in a thing
like this; it's—”
“Well, I'm not exactly enjoying it myself, old dear,
but I've got to stick here now and do what I can
for this poor girl, only—only, Mike dear, you know
how it is in the books. The person who finds the
the-body is always suspected. You don't suppose
they . . . .”
Bracing was the familiar chuckle over the wire.
“Oh, Lord, yes, they'll have you behind bars in no
time!” -
“Oh, Michael, don't laugh—they might think I took
the pearls.”
A movement, a creeping step, a softly closing door
—it was barely audible but enough to attract Jerry's
attention in her present nervous state. She cut off
Michael in the middle of a sentence, replaced the re-
ceiver, and stood a moment in thought. Then she
went softly back to the bedroom and looked in. To
her surprise, Nicolette Dallison was crouched before
the fireplace where a few moments ago no fire had
been burning. Now a handful of papers were charring
into ashes.
“Miss Dallison—Nicolette—oh, my dear, what are
you doing?”
“What am I doing—me?” The voice was shrill,
the beautiful eyes ablaze with anger. “And is that
your affair, Mademoiselle? What do you do, you who
come creepy-creeping like a cat from my boudoir?
You who use my room for secret communication with
your lover. Ah!”
Too dumbfounded to speak, Jerry put out an en-


78 OCTAGON HOUSE
knocking sounded at the bedroom door. Jerry, an-
swering it, had to meet the annoyed, reproachful gaze
of Nicolette’s father.
“Good Heavens,” he exclaimed. “I thought the child
was resting. What's happened? What have you been
saying to her, Miss Day?”
Before Jerry could answer another wild peal of
laughter came from the bed, where Nicolette sat among
her pillows, pointing a shaking finger at her com-
panion.
“I will tell you what has happened,” she cried. “My
pearls—they are gone. It is she who stole them—I
heard her tell it to her lover. She is a thief, a thief
and. . . .”
With a moaning, gurgling cry, the girl collapsed upon
her pillows; and Jerry, feeling perfectly hopeless,
walked from the room.


CHAPTER VIII
CLUES
LONG-STEMMED rosebud on the snowy nap-
A kin, crescent rolls, crispy bacon, steaming choco-
late. It spoke well for Mrs. Goodleigh's house-
hold discipline that such a breakfast tray could ascend
on such a morning. Jerry was surprised to find how
greatly her three-hour sleep had refreshed her, how
welcome was Celia's arrival.
“She’s better now, Miss Day; she's had her break-
fast,” the girl answered in reply to Jerry's anxious in-
quiry for Nicolette. “But, my land, how she was
takin' on when Mr. Dallison rang for me! He was
just goin' to telephone the doctor when Miss Nicolette
came round quite suddenlike, and as nice as you please.
Hysterics are awful, aren't they, Miss Jerry? She
looks terrible pale to-day, but—oh, my—she's pretty
enough to eat!”
“Mmmm . . . yes, indeed.” Jerry's acquiescence
was qualified by the vicious manner in which her white,
teeth met upon a crust. s
“Her father's terrible upset, and no wonder,” Celia
chattered on. “He told Lawrence he wouldn’t have
such a thing happen in his house not for a hundred
thousand dollars, not for all the pearls that ever was.”
The maid moved briskly about the room, picking up
scattered clothing and setting things straight. Paus-
79


8O OCTAGON HOUSE
ing, she lowered her voice dramatically. “Do you know
what they're saying in the kitchen, Miss Jerry? Katy,
that's the cook, has it from Frederick that one of the
police said maybe Miss Nicolette told Zélie about the
jools and maybe the French lady had a gentleman friend
that was a crook and . . .”
“Now, Celia!” Mrs. Goodleigh's bustling entrance
put an end to the housemaid's gossip. “I told you
not to talk to Miss Day about this awful thing,” she
scolded. “She simply must have a rest, so as to be
ready if Miss Dallison should need her. Oh, yes, my
dear”—she nodded reassuringly to Jerry—“the poor
child is quite herself again now. I've just been in to
see her and she sent you the sweetest message, begging
pardon for her foolish words.”
Jerry began to feel a little ashamed for the resent-
ment that still hardened her heart against Nicolette.
“Oh, of course—I understand,” she hastened to say.
“We must all of us be patient with her,” prosed
the kind-hearted Mrs. Goody. “We must remember
what a terrible misfortune this is for our poor little
girl. She came here—after all—almost as a stranger
to a strange place, and then to have her trusted maid,
her traveling companion, killed the very first night—
oh, isn't it horrible!”
Ignoring the fact that she herself was doing that
for which she had rebuked Celia, the stout woman sank
forlornly into the nearest chair, and put her handker-
chief to her round blue eyes. Jerry, sipping her last
mouthful of chocolate, rebuked herself sharply that
she was not more moved by the recital of Nicolette's
woes.


CLUES 8T
“One thing is certain,” she remarked. “Zélie was
not the kind of attendant Mr. Dallison would have
picked out for his daughter.” -
Jerry was about to expatiate on her encounter with
the tippling Frenchwoman, when she was suddenly in-
terrupted by a loud squawk from Celia. The house-
maid had retired to a window embrasure out of reach
of Mrs. Goodleigh's eye and yet near enough to listen
to the conversation.
“Oh, look, look,” Celia gasped, “they're taking her
away!”
Curiosity is a vice inseparable from femininity. Up
jumped Jerry, forgetting her fatigue, and the three
women peered from the window upon a gruesome sight,
the undertaker's wagon, like a monster black beetle,
crawling down the drive to remove forever the re-
mains of Zélie, the Frenchwoman.
“Dr. Crosby, the medical examiner, said the body
could be removed to the undertaker's,” Mrs. Good-
leigh explained, in awe-stricken tones, “but there'll be
no thought of the funeral till after the inquest. That'll
be right here in the house to-morrow, I believe.”
“I certainly dread it,” Jerry confessed.
“You’ll have to testify, of course.” Mrs. Good-
leigh, for all her trepidation, seemed to be deriving
a certain relish from the excitement in prospect. “I’ve
just been pouring Mr. Dallison's coffee,” she continued
importantly, “and he prepared me for what we have
to expect. Poor little Nicolette is the only one who
can tell us anything about the woman—that's the
strange part of it—and she knows very little. She'll
have to make some sort of a statement to the police,


82 OCTAGON HOUSE
but Mr. Dallison says he'll not have her worried.
He'll take her right away if all this fuss upsets
her.”
Jerry sighed. The consideration of this household
for its spoiled child was natural, yet a little trying.
Nicolette, who had slept through the darkest hour of
that tragedy before the dawn, was to be shielded even
from the annoyance of questioning, while she-well,
Jerry Day felt very sure that if she stepped outside
the Dallison grounds without leave this morning she
could expect the escort of a blue coat and brass but-
tons, or perhaps a ride in that vehicle locally referred
to as “The Pie Wagon,” or the “Black Maria”
A knock at the door roused her from these dark
imaginings, and Celia, answering it, brought Jerry a
folded slip of paper which Frederick had handed into
the room. It proved to be a leaf torn from Michael
O'Boyle's notebook; and, scrawled in his familiar fist,
Jerry read: “Foot of the garden—wedding-cake
temple—hurry! M.”
With the murmured excuse that she really needed
a breath of fresh air, Jerry hastily finished dressing
and ran downstairs. In the hall, as she expected, she
encountered a stout policeman, and in the doorway
leading to the library she caught a glimpse of Heslin's
back. One glimpse was enough for Jerry. Silently
she effaced herself, melting away in the direction of
the kitchen wing. There was a side entrance open-
ing directly from the servants' dining room, and, once
out of the house, the girl sped along, a guilty feeling
of relief in her heart over even this brief moment of
freedom. Gardenwards she hastened, stopping only for


CLUES 83
a brief but loving greeting to Bruce, Mr. Dallison's
old collie. Reticent with strangers as a rule, the big
fellow evidently recognized a dog-appreciator, for he
acknowledged the girl's caresses by a playful bark and
a wag of his plumed tail before retiring in dignified
fashion to his commodious mansion near the kitchen
door.
Bright was the garden to-day, all sunshine and blue
sky creamed over with lamb-white, wooly clouds. Roy-
ally splendid still the crimson and gold of the heavy-
headed dahlias, the lemon and rose and russet of the
liardy chrysanthemums just coming into bud and all
the lovelier for the first faint silvering of frost. Yet,
in spite of the beauty that encircled her, the girl
felt none of the gladness she had known yesterday.
Now her world was darkened, blighted. It was a very
shaky, white-cheeked Jerry who flew to hide her face
in Michael's coat.
“Gosh!” cried the editor of the Mercury, “that's the
first real one you ever. . . .”
Jerry drew away from him. “Oh, but Michael, I
oughtn't to be here!”
“Yes, you ought, you're being interviewed!”
“Oh—is that the way you do it?”
Somehow it was impossible not to smile with that
wide grin, those honest, gray-green eyes so close, not
to feel clouds lifted and skies lightened by the very
curve of that protecting arm. The two conspirators
had an absorbing half hour in which Jerry poured out
her troubles, and Michael listened wisely.
“I’ve had a talk with Dallison already this morning,”
he informed her.


84 OCTAGON HOUSE
Jerry put a hand to his necktie. “Your head—such
as it is—seems still to be in place,” she remarked.
Michael caught the hand and kissed it. “It remains
intact,” he explained, “because even the Old Nick rec-
ognizes the inevitable. McArdle slipped me into the
house with him early this morning. The old police
chief has got a soft spot in his heart for me, Jerry,
in spite of my youthful misdeeds . . . and I had the
chance to snoop around a bit before Dallison ap-
peared. He was wild at first, especially when I told
him I had already phoned in the story to my paper,
but I had the typed copy to show and when
he saw I had written nothing but the plain truth,
he calmed down a little. Of course I was forbidden
the house, told not to show my nose round here again
—all that sort of stuff. I just let him rant a while and
then suggested that, as an expiation for my sins, I
might act as a sort of buffer between him and the crew
of reporters who will soon be raging round the place.
To my surprise the old chap fell for the idea. I am
not to hang about the house or grounds or annoy him
with questions, but I may use the garage as an office
in which to meet the newspaper men and hand them
Mr. Dallison’s own statement of what he wishes them
to know about this affair and what the police think
proper for them to publish. They will, of course, obey
—like the little lambs they are!”
Here Michael gave a wicked wink; and his sweet-
heart, knowing the ways of one at least of the gentle-
men of the press, smiled feebly in response. But a
sigh followed quickly on the smile.
“I think your job is one degree less enviable than my


CLUES 85
own,” she remarked. “If you're a buffer, I seem to
be a sort of doormat. But, Michael, I do hope you
didn't say anything about coming to the house so late
last night. You don't suppose any one saw you?”
“Nonsense! And what if any one did? I was only
waiting for your permission to speak to the Old Nick
about that. He knows how things are between you
and me. . . .”
“Indeed!” Jerry's eyes snapped a danger signal. “He
knows what a goose you are, but I don't care to
have him think of me in the same light. You are
not to dare to tell about last night. I'll tell myself
if I have to. And now about this affair. Have you
picked up any news from the police? Burglars are
generally caught sooner or later, aren't they?”
“Well, yes—if it was a burglar who . . .”
“Jerry stared at her young man in amazement.
“Whatever do you mean? Do they suspect one of
the servants?”
Michael shook his head. “It’s too soon to be sus-
pecting any one of anything,” he answered. “But one
good point about our subservient rôles, Jeremiah, is
that they afford us the opportunity for doing a little
amateur detecting. How would you fancy yourself in
that line P”
“I’d adore it. I've been racking my brains about the
whole affair ever since I got over the first shock. I've
even looked for clues. . . .”
“Clues? Ha!” Michael sunk his voice to a hoarse
whisper suggestive of the desperate conspirator. “Look
here!” He flattened a broad palm for the display of a
tiny black ball.


86 OCTAGON HOUSE
“Swop you!” exclaimed his inelegant companion,
and she dug into her sweater pocket, producing her
trophy, a small white pearl button. Innocuous, com-
monplace enough appeared the two little objects as the
amateur detectives eyed them. Michael was surprised
to see the eager manner in which Jerry pounced upon
his find. “Where did you get this?” she demanded.
“Under the edge of the curtain, near where the
body lay. I pinched it right under Heslin's nose.”
“And you never told him?”
“Not I, Jeremiah. I hope I haven't read a million
best sellers in vain. The amateur detec always pockets
his finds, forms his own theories, and wins out over
the sleuths. Seriously, I think we've got a right to
hang on to these things until the real police investiga-
tion begins. It's hardly under way yet, and the in-
quest—Heslin tells me—will be just a formality.
They'll adjourn almost immediately until they can get
fuller information about the dead woman. But about
your button, Jeremiah—I'll bet you didn't tell the police
about that?”
Jerry smiled. “No, I didn't, nor the doctor either
when he tried to make me tell him what I was looking
for.” Here she hesitated a moment, frowning, as the
unpleasant recollection of that interview occurred to
her. “Dr. Morton is Mr. Dallison's friend,” she con-
tinued, “but I can't bear him—I don't know why. But
never mind the doctor now. About your clue, Mikey.
It's a real one—it proves something. . . .”
“What do you mean, dear?”
“That I may have been right after all.”
“But aren't you always?”


88 OCTAGON HOUSE
long young man to his knees before she could feel
that they were safe from the ferret eyes of the de-
tective now advancing down the garden walk.
“There's light ahead,” he was boasting as he drew
a sustaining whiff from one of Mr. Dallison's best
cigars, “and I'm the man to see it. Match up them
fingerprints, I say, and you'll be on the way to find
the. . . .”
“Ker-chuff!”
To the furious Jerry it seemed as if Michael had
not even tried to suppress that silly sneeze. There was
nothing for it now, of course, but to spring to their
feet, their heads bobbing above the bush to meet Hes-
lin's stare and Mr. Dallison's reproving gaze. Anxiety,
annoyance, fatigue and bewilderment—these and other
bottled emotions had been seething within Nicholas
Dallison all morning. Seeing a pair of familiar vic-
tims, he concluded it was safe to let off steam.
“So-Miss Day,” he barked, “this is your idea of
duty, is it—strolling round the garden with that
young . . .”
“Miss Day and I were talking business. I–er—
requested an interview.” The sharp interruption was
O'Boyle's and did not tend to soothe Mr. Dallison's
wrath.
“I’ll thank you to remember your instructions, young
man! You'll take your interviews from me when
I want to give 'em to you, and when you're through
you'll clear out—no need to snoop around behind my
bushes, annoying a member of my household. By
George l’” The Old Nick, red of face, small blue eyes
snapping, ran a thick finger inside his collar rim and


CLUES 89
gave a snort as if he were in danger of choking.
“This kind of thing,” he continued in half-apologetic
tones to Heslin, “is a little more than a man can
stand. I’m doing all I can. I'll see this business
through, offer a reward for the apprehension of the
burglar or whatever scoundrel killed that poor woman,
send something handsome to her family and see she
gets a proper burial. I’ll do no grouching about the
loss of the pearls, I'll back you police fellows up in
every way I can, but, my Lord—I don't intend to
have my house and grounds invaded and my daugh-
ter's health endangered. I’ll close up my house, I'll
take her away.”
“That won't be possible for some time, sir. The
police. . . .”
“Damn the police!”
Jerry was thankful enough to have her employer's
wrath diverted even momentarily. With a murmured
excuse and a quick, merry glance at the fellow con-
spirator she was so meanly deserting, the girl slipped
away through the shrubbery in the direction, she sup-
posed, by which she had come. In her haste, however,
she took a narrower path leading by twists and turns
to a cluster of trees by the wall that divided the eastern
corner of the grounds from the park. Here a tiny
brook had been converted into a lily pool and sur-
rounded by a rock garden. At this season the pool
was almost dry, the mosses and rock plants past their
blooming. Unattractive as the corner was, visitors had
apparently been drawn to it, for Jerry heard voices
and saw figures in the little arbor just above the
pool. The screen of crimson ivy was still thick, but


90 OCTAGON HOUSE
here and there the falling leaves had left open spaces
like little windows. She caught a glimpse of a man's
dark-coated figure, a square, thick-set man with sleek
fair hair and an up-curling mustache; also she saw
the back of a slighter figure in a light dress. As she
halted, anxious not to intrude, the dark-coated form
disappeared among the trees at the far side of the
arbor. Supposing the second occupant of the shelter
would follow, Jerry waited a second longer. Then
Nicolette Dallison parted the curtain of vines and
came slowly down the steps towards her.
Jerry was too astonished, at first, to speak, but her
mind worked rapidly. What could have persuaded
Nicolette to leave her room so early, and who was
that man? There was nothing in Miss Dallison's ex-
pression to encourage questioning. Yet in spite of
her sullen look, her pallor, and the dark circles beneath
her eyes, the girl was amazingly pretty this morning.
There was something very youthful, very appealing
in her look, due—Jerry decided—to the childish man-
ner in which her mass of soft fair curls was caught
low on her neck with a knot of black ribbon. Her
dress of plain white linen was finished with touches
of most exquisite convent embroidery, yet made on
simple, almost childish lines and the merest trifle short
and scanty, as if the economical Mme. Fouquert had
been reluctant to admit that such a delightful little
frock could be outgrown. Slipping her arm through
Nicolette's, Jerry drew the girl from the shadow of
the trees into the open spaces beyond the lily pool.
“I’m glad you're feeling well enough to be out,”
she said, making her voice as cordial as she could.


CLUES g f
Nicolette yawned, then shivered a little. “That
room—I could not endure it longer. I dress quick
and run away from that Mrs. Goody who talks always.”
Jerry smiled sympathetically. “She is a dear, though.
You'll soon be as fond of her as I am. Shall we go
back to the house now?”
Nicolette drew her arm away from her companion's
and walked silently ahead of her down the path. That
her thoughts were not pleasant thoughts was betrayed
by the twitching of her lips and the way in which the
nervous white hands tore at leaf and stem along the
path, shredding them into fragments. Suddenly she
turned her head, flashing her strange smile, a smile
without warmth or sweetness.
“Forgive me, my Jherrie,” she entreated, “I am not
cross, but I must think. . . .”
“Oh, my dear—of course—but don't—try not to
grieve—not to worry more than you can help. Your
father. . . .”
“I do not worry, Jherrie, I decide . . .
“You mean . . . .”
“That ugly arbor so dark, and those thick trees A
table and green benches in the sunshine like to the
gardens of France—would not that be more agreeable,
my Jherrie?”
Jerry Day stared, too surprised by the girl's words
to answer them.
“It is so I tell the gardener,” continued Nicolette
gravely.
“The gardener? Oh, then it was. . . .” Jerry
stopped suddenly, flushing with embarrassment and
yy


92 OCTAGON HOUSE
furious with herself. What a pig she had been to
have suspected little Nicolette of a flirtation, even if
there had been any one for her to flirt with.
Miss Dallison looked her companion up and down
with considerable haughtiness. “He is a dull fellow,
the gardener of my father,” she complained. “He
would not understand!”
“Well, you see you were speaking French to him,
weren't you?”
“How sharp are the ears of my Jherrie!” Nicolette's
voice was sweet, but there was a nervous impatience
in her manner, as she stooped to tear at the laces of
her white suède shoe.
“Have you got a pebble in it?” Jerry sympathetically
inquired. Miss Dallison scorned to answer, but limped
on, nose in the air.
“The vain little goose,” Jerry reflected, “is ashamed
to confess that she's wearing shoes a size too small.
No wonder she's cross"
At last the little path terminated in the wider one;
the girls crossed through the formal garden and, pass-
ing the central fountain, reached the terrace steps.
Here they caught a glimpse of Mr. Dallison who, with
Heslin beside him, appeared to be giving sharp orders
to a pair of blue-coated policemen, pausing now and
then to hurl an angry word in the direction of Mrs.
Goodleigh, bobbing uneasily in the background. As
the girls came nearer they caught his words: “No
sense, any of you—can't trust any of you to look after
the child. . . . What the. . . .”
“She's all right, Mr. Dallison; she's here!” Jerry
had run ahead of Nicolette, who now slowly approached


CLUES 93
her father, looking past him, with curious eyes, at the
blue-coated figures.
“My little father!” she exclaimed, and going to him,
caught him by the hand, pulling his broad arm about
her slim shoulders. The quick change on Dallison's
face from angry anxiety to joyous relief was affect-
ing to witness. The eyes of the two red-faced, small-
town policemen bulged with admiration as they watched
the great man lead his daughter lovingly into the house,
Mrs. Goodleigh, Jerry, and Heslin following meekly
behind.
A little later that morning a certain amateur de-
tective, who might have been suspected of a desire
for violent death, rashly leaned from a window of the
upper corridor, watching two men on the lawn below.
“Celia,” she cried to the maid at her dusting, “how
many gardeners has Mr. Dallison?”
“Why, two, Miss—them two you see down there.
They're Wops—that is, Eyetalians.”
“Is there any workman about the place with light
hair, a thick-set fellow with a mustache . . . .”
“No, Miss Jerry. Lawrence and Peters are both
dark—what hair they've got—and Frederick's just a
boy. We haven't no extra help just now.”
Jerry smiled with the grim satisfaction of the true
sleuth, as she closed the window. She had detected
Nicolette, the darling of the house, in a flat lie.


CHAPTER IX
A FAMILY CHARACTERISTIC
EN o'clock was the time appointed for the in-
quest, but at an early hour the Dallison house-
hold was astir, pervaded by a spirit of rest-
less excitement. Jerry, at the typewriter near an open
window in the library, was busily tapping off the
letters which the master of the house had dictated
between his mouthfuls of toast and swallows of hot
coffee. She had left him in the dining room, occupied
with his second cup and the morning papers, his sus-
picious eye scanning certain headlines in which his
name figured, and had hurried to her desk to finish
the first batch of letters before a second should fol-
low. Too absorbed was she to notice a tall figure
crossing the lawn in her direction. It was not till
a long arm reached into the room and a hand dropped
a rosebud on the keys, that she turned with a half-
suppressed cry. Pushing away the hand, she eyed her
young man angrily:
“Michael, you villain, what are you after now?”
“Another interview, my love! Just one?”
“No, of course not! What are you doing round
here again? I thought you were to stay down at the
stables?”
“Stables indeed! Is thy servant a dog? Look here,
Jeremiah, I’m fed up with being treated as if I were
94


A FAMILY CHARACTERISTIC 95
a dangerous beast. And me wasting my precious holi-
day in solving your chief's murder mystery for him.
Mighty grateful he is! But look here, dear—joking
apart—you must understand I’ve got a right to at-
tend this inquest if I want to, in the interests of my
paper. Some press representatives will have to be
admitted. . . .”
Jerry nodded. “Johnson of the Mill Hollow Mer-
cury is here already, talking to Dr. Crosby, the medical
examiner, in the lounge. I do wish you could come,
Michael, but I'd rather you didn't insist, considering
the circumstances. Mr. Dallison can't forget his
grievance against you. I heard him tell Dr. Crosby
that he didn't want the kind of reporter present who
would ‘pry round the house and pump the servants
and maybe slip upstairs to favor the public with an-
other description of his daughter's silver bathtub l’”
Michael grinned. “Darn that old tub! I wish I’d
never met that chatty plumber on Main Street the day
the Old Nick turned me down! Some time I'm going
to get your chief in a corner, Jeremiah, and put a rock
on him to hold him down while I talk a little sense
in his ear. I came to him that day armed with the
best of credentials and intentions, but he wouldn't an-
swer a civil question. I didn't mind his abusing me,
but when he insulted the best and biggest paper in
the world, I–well—I retaliated. But now, dearest,
what do you want me to do? If you feel the least
bit nervous about this affair, and want me to butt
in, I'll butt. Just say the word!”
Jerry frowned. “No, it would only mean a row.
Things in this household are complicated enough as


96 OCTAGON HOUSE
they are. Heslin, that horrid little detective, got at
Nicolette last night when Mr. Dallison and I were
busy, and chatted with her quite a long time. He flat-
tered her, I suppose, and made her promise to come
down to the inquest. Her father and the doctor had
planned to have her excused, even if it meant an ad-
journment. She doesn't seem to know anything much
about Zélie, so I don't suppose her testimony matters
anyway. One thing I know, if Nicolette takes a no-
tion to come down, nobody will be able to keep her
away.”
“A spoiled child, eh? Chip off the old block?”
Jerry did not answer. She was not ready to admit
that the new job of which she had boasted was already
proving a failure. But her harassed look, the weari-
ness in her beautiful gray eyes told the man who loved
every line of her pale little face all, and more, than
he wanted to know.
“You poor kidſ” he muttered. “Lord, how I hate
to have you mixed up in this kind of an affair! Why,
Jerry darling, I’d like to pick you up in my arms and
carry you off with me—keep everything ugly and evil
away from you forever!”
Michael's blond head was inside the window, his
arms were round Jerry, illustrating his good intentions,
when the library door opened and Mrs. Goodleigh
bustled in.
“Don’t mind this lunatic, Mrs. Goody dear,” Jerry
explained as she removed the arms. “He’s harmless.
It's just Mr. O'Boyle, an old . . . enemy . . . of
mine and the hero of a limerick you may have heard.
Michael is the original young man so benighted—the


A FAMILY CHARACTERISTIC 97
one who came to the party and ate just as hearty as
if he'd been truly invited He came to my sixth birth-
day—by the pantry window—and made me help him
lick all the icing off the cake. From that day to this
he's been getting me into mischief.”
The housekeeper's troubled face relaxed into a smile
as she extended a hand to Michael. “Won't you come
all the way in, Mr. O'Boyle? It's not much of a party
we're holding here to-day, but I'm sure you'll be wel-
come. . . .” She paused, surprised by the dissent on
both young faces.
“Anything but welcome,” Michael sighed. “I’m
about as popular with the master of this house, Mrs.
Goodleigh, as a boil on the back of his neck. But if
I can’t help here, I can be of use elsewhere this morn-
ing. McArdle, the police chief, has had a mysterious
sort of message from Police Headquarters in New
York. He's going in there this morning and has
promised to let me tag along.”
Jerry's face brightened. “Has something turned
up? Do you suppose, Michael, that they've traced
the burglar?”
“I don’t know. McArdle and Heslin were both
sent for, but Heslin can't get off till after the in-
quest. It does look as if the New York authorities
had stumbled on a clue of some sort. I'll tell you
about it—if I’m allowed—when I come back. I'll be
out on the one-o'clock train, Jeremiah. Do you sup-
pose you could be strolling in the direction of the
garage around that time?”
As Jerry hesitated, the housekeeper answered for
her. “Of course she could, Mr. O'Boyle. She and


98 OCTAGON HOUSE
I will be out about that time with some nice hot coffee
and sandwiches and things for the police who are on
guard about the place, and you may be sure the garage
will be visited.”
The grateful Michael was with some difficulty dis-
missed, and Jerry turned back to her letters. But again
came interruption, and this time from Mrs. Good-
leigh.
“You will have to leave that, my dear. I was so
taken up with that nice young man of yours, I nearly
forgot to deliver my message. Nicolette wants you.”
“Wants me?” Jerry's tone showed some surprise.
Since their meeting in the garden yesterday, the daugh-
ter of the house had turned a cold shoulder on her
companion, almost ignoring her existence.
“Now don't mind anything she says,” warned Mrs.
Goodleigh. “I just looked in for a moment on my
way downstairs, and, my dear, she nearly took my
head off! Of course it was really my fault, I should
have knocked. I should have remembered the poor
child's nerves. . . .”
“And the poor child's temper!” Jerry wickedly
supplemented.
Mrs. Goodleigh sighed. “A family characteristic,
I'm afraid l’’
So extraordinary was the admission from the loyal
Goody that Jerry flew to administer a consoling hug.
“Cheer up, you dear,” she whispered. “This day
can’t last forever!”
It was indeed a day to be dreaded, the girl reflected,
as she knocked punctiliously at the door of the rose


IOO OCTAGON HOUSE
A curious remark, but Jerry, looking at the two
young faces reflected in the long glass, had to admit
that it was just. She was pale, hollow-eyed, she had
worked hard and slept little. Still, her hand did not
shake as Nicolette's did and the flush on that fair
lady's cheek did not entirely deceive her keen-eyed com-
panion. Those eyes traveled quickly over the bottles
and jars of Nicolette's toilet equipment. “She's
young,” Jerry thought, “to. . . .” But her cogitations
were interrupted by a sharp command.
“Sit down, please. There is a thing I desire to
say.”
Meekly Jerry took a chair beside the couch.
“Mademoiselle,” inquired Miss Dallison severely,
“why is it that you are in my father's house?”
Jerry stared at her in amazement. “Why, surely he
explained,” she began. “I am to be your companion—
I am supposed to go about with you—help you when-
ever I can. . . .”
“And obey me, eh? Is it not so?” Without heed-
ing the quick contradiction forming on Jerry's lips,
the girl continued: “There is a thing which I desire.
I desire that to-day at the inquest you shall defend
the character of my poor Zélie-that you shall not
repeat wicked lies against her. . . .”
Anger flushed Jerry's pale cheek to a color as bright
as Nicolette’s. “I don't tell lies,” she remarked stiffly.
“I realize how you feel about your maid, Miss Dalli-
son, and I am very sorry for you. But I must testify
at the inquest as to what I saw. The authorities will
decide later on, I suppose, as to whether your poor


A FAMILY CHARACTERISTIC IOI
Zélie had, or had not, any connection with the burglar
—or whoever it was—who stole your pearls.”
The fury flaming in the wide dark eyes dimmed
to a Sneer.
“Be careful, my Jherrie,” purred the sweet voice.
“It will not be long that you stay in this house,
if. . . .”
“I haven’t the slightest desire to stay in this house,
Miss Dallison.” Jerry's temper was tugging hard at
the leash, but she managed to look the other girl coolly
in the eye. “I shouldn't stay a day longer if it wasn't
for your father. This thing has not only been a
dreadful shock to him but has brought a mass of work
upon his shoulders, letters, telegrams, people to be seen,
all sorts of vexations. We had a talk last night and
he insisted I must stay until this business is cleared
up, but. . . .”
“Stay—he desires you to stay—yes!” Nicolette's
laughter rang with an insolent insinuation. “Oh, this
goody-good America where they tell to me everybody
is so prim! La p’tite amie—the little friend—the
pretty protégée of my father—she must be protected
from the police, no matter. . . .”
“What do you mean?” Jerry sprang from her chair
but Nicolette clutched at her sleeve.
“Do not be angry, my Jherrie,” she cried. “Only
obey me and I will reward you. It is not necessary
to say what is true. Keep silence—forget—and I, too,
will keep silence about. . . .” -
But Jerry was on her way to the door. “I don't
know what you mean and I don't care,” she flung
back. “I only know I shall make no bargain of any


1oz OCTAGON HOUSE
kind about anything, and I shall tell nothing but the
truth. . . .”
“The truth? You. . . .” The shrill peal of hysteri-
cal laughter was a danger signal Jerry should have
heeded, but for the second time since her arrival Nico-
lette Dallison had goaded her companion beyond en-
durance; and, heartsick, the girl turned from the room.
Again it was an irate parent who met her in the door-
way, reënforced this time by Dr. Morton, with Mrs.
Goodleigh bringing up the rear. Anger and annoy-
ance were written on the faces of both men, but Jerry
was quick to perceive that Paul Morton's wrath was
directed towards Nicolette as much as towards herself.
In two strides he reached the couch, narrowly escaping
a blow from the ivory-backed hair brush aimed in
Jerry's direction. A moment his firm fingers closed
around the white wrists, a moment his forceful gaze
bored down upon the quivering features; then, slowly,
the hysterical cries diminished, and his patient relaxed
upon her pillows. Jerry, in the background, uncorked
a bottle of spirits of ammonia and stood braced to meet
rebuke. But Dallison's attention was centered on his
daughter.
“Is it too late to get the child excused from that
affair this morning?” he inquired of Morton. “She
insisted last night to Heslin that she would be down,
but she's not fit for it. . . .”
Morton raised his fine eyebrows. “That is evident,”
he remarked. “Suppose you go down and inform Dr.
Crosby I refuse her permission to attend the inquest.
That ought to settle it. Let them adjourn if they
want to. And now, I believe if I were left alone with


A FAMILY CHARACTERISTIC IO3
my patient for a few moments I may be able to soothe
these overwrought nerves—perhaps get her to sleep.
A little mental suggestion. . . .”
He leaned over the couch; but Nicolette, sitting sud-
denly erect, pushed him vigorously away. With a
sharp cry she reached for her father's arm and
clung to it. “No, no, I am not ill—I do not need
Mr. Doctor. It is you, my father, I desire. I wish
all to go away at once—only you, my little father!”
Useless for Morton to protest, Nicolette simply hid
her eyes against her father's arm and refused to speak.
The spoiled child had her way, her flattered parent
being delighted to indulge her.
On her way back to the library Jerry was overtaken
by the doctor who drew her aside into the shelter of
the drawing-room doorway. She noted his extreme
pallor and look of tense anxiety.
“Tell me,” Morton whispered, “what did she want
of you that you would not do?”
Jerry looked at him in surprised appreciation. How
quick the doctor was at guessing a situation | His
was evidently the specialist's mind concerned with all
that touched his patient.
“Miss Dallison was very devoted to that poor
woman,” she answered thoughtfully. “She does not
want anything to come out at the inquest that may
reflect upon her character, and she was trying to get
me to keep back certain things I saw. . . .”
“And you consented?”
“Why, doctor, how could I? I have to tell the
truth.”


IO4 OCTAGON HOUSE
“But the truth is cruel—often—and you, dear
child. . . .” -
But Jerry Day was not in the mood at that mo-
ment to be affected by the tender note in Morton's
voice or by the magic of his eyes. “Please don't keep
me,” she begged. “There is so much to do. . . .”
She was turning resolutely away when the doctor's
hand grasped hers and drew her back into the shadow
of the curtains.
“There is something you will have to know,” he
said, “in order not to judge that poor girl too
harshly. . . .”
“Whoever do you mean—Zélie?”
“I mean Nicolette Dallison.” Here Morton low-
ered his tone and looked cautiously about him. “I
speak entirely in confidence,” he whispered. “I have
barely hinted to Dallison of this matter, but I shall
soon have to speak to him in earnest. To you I will
admit that I have reason to fear for his daughter's
mental condition.”
Jerry stared at him in shocked surprise. “Oh,
doctor, this is too dreadful! Are you sure? Is it
really serious?”
“So serious that I want you to leave this house
at once. I know you won't be sorry to go.”
Sorry! Jerry cast a longing look toward the great
windows with their lowered blinds, where just a single
sunbeam crept in between the heavy, gold-colored cur-
tains. To leave this house, this haunted, troubled
house and all its sorrows behind her!
“Have your things ready,” Morton continued, “and
once this inquest affair is over, you can slip away to


A FAMILY CHARACTERISTIC IO5
your friends. You needn't worry about Dallison—I'll
fix things with him. . . .”
“But Dr. Morton, you don't understand. . . .”
“I understand that it is not safe for you to be
here—it is you I am thinking of. This poor girl has
taken an aversion to you—that was shown by her ac-
tions just now. She may try to do you an injury.
At any rate you can do nothing for her. Now promise
me you will go at once.”
Morton's hands held both of Jerry's, all the fire of
his strange masterful gaze concentrated itself upon
her. Just for a moment the girl's resolution faltered,
her head swam, she felt herself dominated, something
in her cried to her to yield, her lips moved of them-
selves to grant this man's request—then, with a queer
little gasp, she shook herself free.
“No,” she cried. “I shall stay here as long as Mr.
Dallison wants me. I came to be of use, not to sneak
away at the first sign of trouble. What you advise
is cowardly—despicable !” -
With this frank expression of her opinion, Jerry
departed, and it was as well, perhaps, for her peace
of mind that she could not see the expression in Paul
Morton's eyes as they followed her vanishing figure.


CHAPTER X \
THE INQUEST
T was with considerable trepidation that Jerry Day
I joined the group assembled in the Dallison library
on this second morning after the Frenchwoman's
murder. Her only knowledge of inquests having been
derived from an occasional dip into a detective story,
she had all the awe of the inexperienced for proceed-
ings of this type, coupled with a quite unreasonable
premonition of trouble ahead. The number of out-
siders present was larger than she had expected. Sev-
eral among them Jerry knew by sight, a few were well
known to her. She recognized Mr. Morrison, Mr.
Dallison's lawyer; Hart, his superintendent at the fac-
tories; the agent with whom the matter of insuring
the pearls had been arranged; the president of the Mill
Hollow bank; a neighbor; and several others. At a
table placed near the medical examiner's desk, old Mr.
Johnson of the Mercury bent his silvered head above
his notebook, and a stout young man in a brown suit
lounged opposite him, evidently a city reporter and
distinctly bored.
A feeling of loneliness and disillusion swept over
Miss Dallison's companion. If only Michael had been
at that table, heartening her with his cheerful look, his
familiar smile! With the idea of distracting her
106


THE INQUEST 107
thoughts she fixed her attention on the jurymen just
filing in from the adjoining room. Respectable Mill
Hollow tradesmen they were and well known to the girl
in everyday life, but presenting a new aspect as invested
with the dignity of their present office. In the study,
under Heslin's tutelage, they had inspected the scene
of the crime. On their way from the town they had
been escorted to the morgue and been made to gaze
upon the revolting features of the dead woman. It was
the solemn, shocked expression of these commonplace
men, even more than the formal air of Dr. Crosby pre-
siding at Mr. Dallison's big desk, or the sharp look of
Lieutenant Heslin seated next him, that made Jerry
begin to realize what was before her.
No sooner had the flutter caused by the arrival of the
jury subsided than fresh interest was aroused among
the spectators by the entrance of Mr. Dallison's daugh-
ter. Nicolette's whim had prevailed over her father's
wishes, and she had carried out her intention of being
present at the inquiry. To Dr. Morton her appearance
was evidently an unpleasant surprise; indeed, his dis-
approval showed plainly on his face.
Walking rather feebly, clinging to her father's arm
and attended by the nervous Celia who bore a fan and
smelling salts, Nicolette passed down the long room
to her seat. Modestly she bent her bright head beneath
the stare of the spectators, slowly she raised her dark
eyes to look wistfully from one to another, her gaze
finally resting upon the jurymen with a kind of child-
ish awe. Under that look these gentlemen fingered
cravats, settled coat tails, and smoothed whiskers, be-
thinking themselves of the questions their wives would


IO8 OCTAGON HOUSE
ask that evening, and returning the girl's gaze with an
overflowing measure of admiration and sympathy.
Appealing indeed in her delicate fair beauty was
Mr. Dallison's daughter. She looked no more than a
child, Jerry thought, in her simple schoolgirl's frock
of dark serge with its wide white collar that left bare
her beautiful throat. A child, lonely and in grief, de-
prived of her faithful companion, menaced—if her
physician were correct—by the horror of nervous col-
lapse! Reproach smote Jerry's heart as she too gazed
at Nicolette. Surely she had been unjust, unfair to her
chief's daughter, and yet—so involved were Jerry's
thoughts that the proceedings had begun and the pre-
liminary formalities were over before she could rouse
herself to heed Crosby's address to the jury.
“You are aware, gentlemen,” the medical examiner
was saying, “that in such a case as this, our duty is
practically a formality which can be quickly dispatched.
It need have in no respect the character of a police in-
vestigation. Yet, as it happened—very fortunately—
that Lieutenant Heslin, a representative of the County
Prosecutor of the Pleas, was in town on the night of
the crime and accompanied the local police to the house,
and as the lieutenant must leave by the evening train,
we are anxious to have him hear again the stories of
those members of the household whose testimony can
help in our investigation. For this reason we will have
the testimony repeated that was given, perhaps incom-
pletely, at the time of the excitement. Miss Day. . . .”
Jerry took the chair which served as a witness box
and soon found herself repeating the account of her
experience, a tale which for all its horror was growing


THE INQUEST Io9
stale upon her lips. She described how she had awak-
ened on hearing that distant scream, how she had come
down to the study, and the dreadful sight which
awaited her there. Crosby listened in silence to the
first part of the account, then interrupted the witness
with a question.
“Miss Day, you say you instantly recognized the
dead woman. Now you yourself, I believe, had only
arrived in this house a few hours earlier than she
did. Had you talked with her, made her acquaintance?”
“Yes, I saw her when she arrived and again for a
moment in the dining room. I talked with her later
in Miss Dallison’s room.”
“Please describe what took place.”
Jerry hesitated, casting an anxious glance at Nic-
olette, who had so expressly desired her to slur over
this matter. Would the girl protest aloud at the defa-
mation of her favorite's character? Was there danger
of a public scene, another outburst of hysterical weep-
ing? She saw that she was not alone in anticipating
such an occurrence. Morton's eyes were scanning his
patient's face with an expression of intense anxiety.
Dallison slipped an arm about his daughter's shoulders,
Celia's hand trembled as she manipulated the fan. But
apparently the erratic little beauty had determined to
control herself. She sat motionless now, erect and com-
posed, listening thoughtfully yet with a kind of delicate
detachment to all that passed.
“I went up to Miss Dallison's room,” Jerry began.
“For what reason?” The sharpness of the interrup-
tion was noticeable, also the searching glance of the


I IO OCTAGON HOUSE
interrogator, and neither tended to decrease the nervous-
ness of the girl in the witness chair.
“She wanted a wrap—I went up to get it,” Jerry
continued. “The bedroom door was locked so I went
around by the sleeping porch and got in through the
French window which had been left unfastened. Zélie
was asleep on the couch. There was some brandy—
at least, it smelled like brandy—in a glass on the table
beside her, and she had been smoking a cigarette—the
ashes were all over the white rug. . . .”
Looking toward Paul Morton at that moment Jerry
saw a quiver of somewhat scornful amusement pass
over his worn and weary face. How provincial, how
childish he must be thinking her to dwell on such small
points' Could he be right? Had she indeed received
a faulty impression of an innocent woman? Her em-
barrassment showed itself in her voice as she continued
her testimony.
“Zélie woke up suddenly, as I was getting the cloak,
and sprang at me like a mad thing. She clawed at
my shoulders and I had hard work to shake her off.
I could not understand all that she said, but she called
me a ‘spy' and wanted to know what I was ‘creeping'
into her mistress's room for. I explained and she
apologized for her behavior, but I was very angry and
I told her I would report her to Mr. Dallison.”
“Did you do so?”
“No. I did not want to trouble him that evening.
I meant to speak to him in the morning. I did tell him
about the affair after—after she was—dead!”
Jerry's voice quavered, and she was annoyed to find
that her hands were shaking so that she had to clasp


THE INQUEST II),
them closely in her lap. Her emotion was little noticed,
for the sympathetic attention of the spectators was now
centered upon Mr. Dallison's daughter. The large
eyes had filled themselves with tears during the wit-
ness's recital, had turned bewildered, indignant looks
upon the speaker. Then the blond head was bowed,
the quivering face hid itself for a moment against the
paternal shoulder. Nicolette did not look up again till
Dr. Crosby's questioning showed that the examination
had taken a different trend.
“Miss Day, is there anything else that you can tell
us? Do you know anything more—anything whatso-
ever about this affair?”
Jerry sighed. She had been hoping to be dismissed
without further interrogation, wished now that Cros-
by's question had been less sweeping.
“There is one thing I have not mentioned because
I wasn't quite sure about it—it is so strange. I sup-
posed at first I must have been mistaken. . . .”
“Ah, what is that?”
“I can only describe it as an impression I had—I
thought I noticed a difference in the appearance of the
dead woman's head and shoulders between my first and
second visits to the study.”
Without removing her attention from her inquisitor,
the girl sensed the tension in the room which her state-
ment had caused; saw the small, keen eyes of Heslin
snap with surprise.
“Kindly explain more fully.”
Jerry described as she had described to Michael the
dark frame—“a kind of black cloud” she now phrased
it—which had seemed to her to envelop the head and


T I2 OCTAGON HOUSE
shoulders of the corpse on her first horrified glimpse
of it. Crosby raised his bushy white eyebrows as he
listened.
“And how do you account for the fact that, accord-
ing to the police, the body was found dressed in ordi-
nary indoor clothing with no headgear of any kind?”
he asked.
“I don't account for it at all,” said Jerry meekly.
“And why,” continued the medical examiner, “did
you say you at first supposed you were mistaken?
What strengthened your impression?”
The witness flushed, thrusting one nervous hand into
the pocket of her dress where, safely hidden in a
small change purse, lay a certain round black object.
Should she show it? Should she tell of certain gar-
ments she had seen among the maid's belongings? How
could a poor little ingenue detective ever expect success
if she showed her best cards to the astute professional?
“I cannot tell you,” she floundered. “The-the im-
pression seems to stick, but I am really not sure of
anything. . . .”
“Then, Miss Day, you have been jesting, wasting
our time this morning on a fancy, a delusion. . . . .”
Jerry fell into the trap thus neatly laid for her. “Of
course I am serious,” she protested.
Crosby leaned forward impressively with an air of
severity that sat oddly upon his round, good-humored
old face, brown as a wrinkled apple. “Miss Day, do
you realize what this would mean—the thing you are
implying?”
“Yes, I know that it would mean some one, for some
reason, must have removed the wrap from the woman's


THE INQUEST II3
head during the interval of my absence from the room
—while I went for help.”
“And how long were you gone?”
“At least five or six minutes—maybe more. I had
only arrived in the house that day, you know, and I
had never been on the third floor. I hesitated a mo-
ment or so, trying to remember what Mrs. Goodleigh
had told me about the location of her room. And when
I got to her door I could not rouse her. She is a
heavy sleeper. It was Mr. Dallison who heard me
knocking. I told him what had happened, and then at
last Mrs. Goodleigh came and he gave us some direc-
tions. After that she went off to rouse the servants,
and he and I stopped to look in at Miss Dallison—to
be sure she was safe. We found her sleeping, so we
came on down to the study.”
“You did not see or hear anything to indicate the
presence of an intruder in the house at that time?”
“I did not.” Jerry spoke firmly, resolved not to de-
tail any more impressions which did not seem to be
acceptable evidence. Her memory flashed back, never-
theless, to the crawling dread she had experienced in
passing the great branching fern at the foot of the
stair, the oaken chest, and the dark tapestries and cur-
tains which might have afforded shelter to the stoutest
of burglars. Let the astute old doctor and that tire-
some Heslin draw their own conclusions. Jerry was
resolved she would help them no further.
She was now dismissed and Mr. Dallison took her
place, proving a headstrong and easily irritated wit-
ness. Not only did he ratify his secretary's account
of what had happened but insisted in including in his


II.4 OCTAGON HOUSE
testimony far more than was requested. He read from
Mme. Fouquert's letter recommending the French-
woman for her character and ability, he stated the value
of the pearls and the reasons which had seemed to
him sufficient for replacing the necklace in the cabinet
instead of locking it into the safe, where he kept other
jewelry—a set of emeralds—Peruvian stones of great
value. He emphasized most particularly the entire con-
fidence which he placed in his servants, most of whom
had been with him for years, stating he had no reason
to doubt the honesty of any member of his household.
He might have gone on indefinitely if he had not been
politely but firmly requested to vacate the chair.
After the testimony of the housekeeper and one or
two of the servants—none of which proved particularly
illuminating—came the turn of the medical men. It
seemed that there was some controversy among them
as to the actual cause of death. The foreman of the
jury had to request more than once the use of
less technical language, but finally it was made clear
that, on account of a cardiac malady from which the
victim suffered, death might have been due as much
to shock as to the actual clutch of the murderer's cruel
fingers. This accounted for the fact that the prints of
those fingers were not deep enough to make them of
use in tracing the murderer. At this point certain pho-
tographs of the corpse were produced and passed among
the jury who, having had their fill of horrors during
their brief visit to the morgue, quickly returned them
to Dr. Crosby. The medical examiner took the prints,
sorted them carefully, and laid them in a neat pile on
the outermost corner of the desk.


THE INQUEST II.5
It seemed to Jerry that the testimony of the medical
men, gruesome as it of necessity was, was softened
and abbreviated as much as possible out of deference to
the presence of Miss Dallison. That the nervous, high-
strung young daughter of the house was suffering
acutely, it was not difficult to guess. Dr. Morton, even
while himself in the witness chair, turned his head
frequently, seeking a glimpse of her face.
Heslin, the detective, now took the chair.
“Lieutenant Heslin,” the examiner asked, “did you
search the clothing of the dead woman and the room
in which she lay for clues which might lead to the
solution of this mystery?”
“I did, sir, and more than once. There was noth-
ing unusual about her clothing nor did I find any
wrap, veil, or headgear such as Miss Day—er—imag-
ined " Heslin permitted himself a glance in Jerry's
direction and a faint, superior smile.
“Anything peculiar about the room?”
“Yes, sir, several things.”
At the serious tone, the significant look, a stir ran
round the room, a revival of the emotion which had
flagged since the doctors had finished the more lurid
part of their testimony.
“Give details, please,” Crosby ordered.
“Well, sir, you will remember that there was some
disorder in the room beside the breaking open of the
cabinet. A chair was tipped over, the cloth dragged
partly off a small table, a vase upset. . . .”
“From which you deduce . . . .”
“Either that there was a struggle, or that some one
wished it to appear that there had been a struggle.”


II6 OCTAGON HOUSE
The shrewd little eyes of the examiner sparkled. He
puckered his brows, removed his glasses and rubbed
them reflectively. Evidently this was a new twist to
him. Heslin's investigation had gone a step further
than his own.
“How do you support that latter idea?”
Heslin smiled. “I may be mistaken, but it would
seem that in a struggle between a burglar—or burglars
—and their victim, a light chair standing directly in the
way is more apt to be overturned than a heavy arm-
chair not quite so close. Yet, as I pointed out to the
jury just now, the small gilt chair close to the body
was in place when the scene of the crime was first
investigated, the large stuffed armchair nearer the
center of the room was tipped on its side. Also, though
the vase was overturned so that the water was spilled
and some of the flowers scattered on the cloth, a silver
candlestick nearby was not upset. But my chief reason
for thinking the effect may have been contrived was the
condition of the window. It wasn't open more than
that—” The detective indicated a small space with
spread fingers. “A man could hardly have crawled
through that window.”
“And you conclude . . . .”
“That it may have been a blind, a stall, an effect
arranged by somebody in a little too much of a hurry
to open it wider, somebody who knew enough to go
straight to the cabinet without wasting time on the
safe.”
“Could the invader have not closed the window part
way after he passed out?”
“Well—no, sir. There were no footprints or marks


THE INQUEST 117
of any kind on the turf, though I admit these would
be difficult to trace. I base my idea chiefly upon the
fact that I found certain fingerprints inside the glass.”
The medical examiner lowered his bald head for a
moment in intense thought, ignoring the slight con-
fusion in the room caused by the impression Heslin's
words had made. Finally he lifted a hand, motioning
for silence. “Lieutenant Heslin,” he said impressively,
“what do these suspicions of yours amount to?”
The little detective swelled visibly with importance
as every eye in the room turned towards him, every
ear waited for his answer. He spoke deliberately in
sharp tones freighted with a sense of their own im-
portance:
“It looks to me, sir, as if this thing were an inside
job!”


CHAPTER XI
IN WIRONG
LULL in the proceedings followed Heslin's testi-
A. mony; and for a moment or so the witness chair
was vacant, the authorities being engaged in
low-toned conference. Jerry, safely ensconced beside
Mrs. Goodleigh, was thankful for the brief delay.
“Fingerprints!” The word rang in her ears with a
horrid significance. “Fingerprints inside the glass. . . .”
In the stories she had read, it was always by the
identification of his fingerprints that the villain's goose
was cooked. “Match up them fingerprints,” Heslin,
coming down the garden walk, had said to Mr. Dal-
lison, “and we'll find. . . .” But whose could they
be? The scene in the study rose again before Jerry's
eyes. The dead woman, stiff and stark upon the floor,
her own figure at the window peering out into the dark.
While searching the room a moment before she had
remembered Mr. Dallison's admonition, had been most
careful to avoid fingering anything. But when she
turned, startled by the slight movement Paul Morton
had made, what then? How easy to lay a hand against
the glass, grip the sash for support? Had she done
so? Jerry's fluttering heart assured her that she cer-
tainly had. She remembered that on her way down
to breakfast that morning she had heard Mr. Dallison
tell Lawrence, the butler, that the fingerprints of the
118 -


IN WRONG II9
servants would be taken by an expert whom the police
had sent for. That would mean the whole household—
probably. But Dr. Crosby's voice broke in upon her
thoughts:
“It has been decided to recall a witness. Miss Day,
please take the chair again and answer the questions
which Lieutenant Heslin has asked my permission to
put to you.”
The eyes of all present turned upon Jerry as very
reluctantly she moved forward to obey. Heslin's gaze
was particularly eager, his small sharp eyes were bright,
and his mouth a little way open in a grin that bared
his big white teeth.
“He looks like a terrier after a cat,” Jerry inwardly
groaned. “And I suppose I'm the unfortunate puss!”
“Miss Day,” the detective began, “you have given
us your version of your interview with Miss Dallison's
maid in her mistress's room. Is there anything you
wish to add to your story? Anything you—er—omit-
ted P”
The question with its insolent suggestion stung Jerry
so that her cheeks flushed scarlet. “I do not know
what you mean by “my version' of the interview,” she
said. “I told you the truth as to what happened.”
“Very well. Now, did you see the Frenchwoman
again—alive?”
“Yes, I saw her when she opened the bedroom door
for her mistress.”
Heslin hesitated, then spoke sharply. “Miss Day,
why did you follow Miss Dallison to her room?”
“I thought perhaps I could help her. . . .”


'I2O OCTAGON HOUSE
“But she had her maid, and you were a stranger.
Why should she have desired your attentions?”
“I—I thought she might be lonely. Poor Zélie
seemed so irritable—so strange. . . .”
Heslin nodded, as if well satisfied by the reply.
“She seemed irritated—upset, eh? Now, Miss Day,
Miss Dallison did not permit you to accompany her
into her bedroom, did she?”
Jerry stared at him scornfully. “She thanked me
and said that Zélie was waiting for her.”
“How did the maid look when she opened the door?
What did she say?”
“She had on a dark wrapper and her face looked
drawn and pale. I suppose she must have been feeling
ill or—or cross—for though she said nothing she gave
me a very angry look. She drew her mistress into
the room and slammed the door in my face.”
“Indeed! And can you suggest any reason for such
conduct, Miss Day? It would seem—it would almost
seem”—there was a mocking quality in the detective's
emphasis—“that this unfortunate woman had taken a
sudden dislike to you, would it not, Miss Day?”
Jerry looked puzzled. “Well, yes, I suppose she had
not forgiven me for what happened in Miss Dallison's
room.”
The detective nodded again gravely. “Just so. It
looks as if you were right about that, Miss Day. I am
afraid she had not forgiven you for what happened
in Miss Dallison's room. And now, if you please, what
came next? Did you go to bed at once?”
“Well, not—not right away—”
Jerry hesitated, embarrassed and nervous—the very
**
t
k-


IN WRONG I2 I
situation, it appeared, into which her interlocutor de-
sired to drive her. The kitten was certainly treed, but
determined to defend herself. She had so hoped to
avoid mentioning that foolish balcony affair! Well, it
would have to come out now, but—oh—if Michael
were only here to take his sins on his own shoulders—
his folly had forced her into this fix, why wasn't he
here to help her out of it?
“Please go on, Miss,” Heslin was urging.
“I went to my room,” Jerry said, “and then out
to the balcony, because. . . .”
“Just a moment!” Heslin turned to the jurymen.
“The jury will please note that the witness is referring
to the second-story balcony at the back of this house.
“Well, Miss Day, you say you stepped out on this
balcony because you were—expecting some one?”
“I was not!” Jerry made the mistake of losing her
temper. “I went out because it was hot,” she snapped.
“I only stayed a few moments, and then I came in and
went to bed.”
“Ah, but while you were there—you were alone, of
course?”
“No. Mr. O'Boyle happened to be walking along
the Park road which passes very close to the house
at that angle, and he—”
“Who is Mr. O'Boyle, please?”
“An old friend and school fellow of mine, who is
now a reporter on the New York Herald. He has been
in England for a few weeks—he went over on business
—something to do with the death of a relative there—
and only got back the day before yesterday. . . .”
The detective considered for a moment, “Did he


I22 OCTAGON HOUSE
by any chance return on the same steamer as Miss Dal-
lison P”
“No, he sailed from Southampton. Miss Dallison
from Cherbourg.”
“I see. And now about this little—er—Romeo-and-
Juliet incident! Purely coincidence, I suppose?”
Jerry's hands twisted uneasily in her lap. She spoke
slowly, trying to think ahead, to foresee what new
torment was in store for her. “Mr. O'Boyle did not
know that I was here, in Mr. Dallison's house,” she
explained. “He came out late from town expecting to
see me. When he heard in the village where I was, he-
he was disappointed and he walked up here in the
evening. . . .”
“Quite late for a walk, wasn't it? Must have been
ten or eleven P”
“It was only half past ten,” Jerry said. “Mr. O'Boyle
had not really meant to try to see me, but when I came
out on the balcony—the light behind me was bright
enough for him to recognize me—he naturally wanted
to talk. . . .”
“I see l’” Heslin's smile was indulgent. “And you,
of course, were glad to see your friend after his long
absence?”
Jerry stiffened in her chair. “No, I was not. I told
him he had no business to come at that hour. I wanted
him to go at once, and he did not stay long—just a few
moments. . . .”
“Ah, yes,” Heslin nodded wisely. “Just a pleasant
chat, eh? But from the balcony to the road would be
quite a distance, even at that angle of the house. Did
you shout?”


IN WRONG: I23
The witness flushed again. “No,” she admitted.
“Mr. O'Boyle jumped over the low wall, crossed a
strip of grass, and stood under the balcony.”
“What did he talk about?”
“Oh, he just asked how I was getting along, and I
told him.” -
The detective frowned. “Miss Day, you will kindly
answer my next questions by yes or no. In this con-
versation between you and O'Boyle, was Miss Dal-
lison mentioned?”
“Yes.”
“Her pearl necklace—and its value?”
“Y-yes p'
“Did you tell him the necklace was hidden in a
cabinet which was easy to open?”
Jerry considered for a moment. Then her own
laughing words came back to her, and the color drained
from her cheeks as she realized what significance might
now be attached to them.
“Yes,” she admitted, “I did, but. . . .”
“As Mr. Dallison's secretary, you knew a good deal
about this necklace, didn't you? That it was to be
presented to Miss Dallison on her arrival?”
“Yes, I knew that.”
“You were in the room when the necklace was pre-
sented; and it was you, I believe, who guessed the
trick of the secret recess and opened the panel.”
“Yes.”
“Did Mr. O'Boyle, in the course of conversation,
remark that the pearls might be becoming to some
other young lady than Miss Dallison?”
“I don't know what you mean?” The exclamation


I24 OCTAGON HOUSE
broke from Jerry's lips, her indignation being no longer
possible to suppress. “Mr. O'Boyle is very fond of
what he considers a joke. He talked nonsense about
the pearls as he does about everything. Our whole
conversation, which only lasted a few moments, was
one string of nonsense. I recall now that he did say
some foolish thing about ‘nipping in' and getting the
pearls for me, but. . . .”
“Aren't you mistaken, Miss Day? Wasn't the word
stealing?” f
“I don’t see that it matters, since. . . .
“Oh, you don't see that it matters? Well, well!”
Close was the pursuer now, but this kitten could
scratch, and she proceeded to show her claws.
“I do not know by what methods or from what low
sources you have obtained your information, Lieu-
tenant Heslin,” she answered, “but what you have im-
plied is entirely untrue. The interview between Mr.
O'Boyle and myself was foolish, perhaps, but quite
harmless. I sent him away as quickly as I could, and
was much annoyed because he had come.”
The examiner, who had for some time betrayed signs
of impatience, now addressed the detective.
“Is this your final question to the witness, Lieutenant
Heslin P”
With relief Jerry sensed the coldness in the tone of
Crosby's voice, and Heslin, perceiving he had over-
reached himself, immediately lost his temper.
“I resent the attitude of the witness, sir,” he stormed.
“And I refuse to have this thing considered as a joke.
Here we have on the very night of the murder—just
four or five hours before the death of the victim and
92


IN WRONG: I25
the theft of the jewels—a secret interview between
an intruder and the object of his affections, a dependent
of this household who knew all about the value of the
jewels and the simple matter it would be to get at
them. I'm well aware that this is not the time or
place for accusations, I'm not accusing any one, but
I am reminding the jury that. . . .”
“That will do, thank you, lieutenant! The wit-
ness is dismissed. And now, Miss Dallison, if you
please! . . .”
Very courteous, entirely deferential were the tones
of the kind-hearted old physician as, after the pre-
liminary formalities, he requested Nicolette's state-
ment. “Miss Dallison,” he said, “I am sorry to have
to trouble you and will make my questions as brief as
possible with justice to the seriousness of this oc-
casion.”
Nicolette smiled, a touch of sadness haunting her
dark eyes. It was plain that the girl, while deeply
moved, was making a brave effort to be calm. She
told her story brokenly, with piteous little glances that
mutely pleaded for a sympathy impossible to withhold.
She described to Crosby the shock that Zélie's death
had been to her, what it had meant to her—after bid-
ding the maid good night as usual—to wake, lonely
in the darkness, hearing strange disturbance in the
house, to call—and call in vainl Always she had
been fond of Zélie, who had been her personal attend-
ant during the holidays she had spent with her aunt
at the chateau. Such a good woman, was this poor
Zélie, so faithful! A trifle brusque, yes—elle aimait
gronder. . . .”


I26 OCTAGON HOUSE
“What was that, if you please?” Crosby's tone
implied an apology for his linguistic limitations.
Nicolette explained that Zélie loved to scold. It
was her one great fault, this hot temper and sharp
tongue. She would forget that Nicolette was now
grown up—une demoiselle—not the little girl whose
torn frocks she had mended. Alas, she would not
mend them again—never any more! Here Nicolette's
voice dwindled to a sob and she applied her handker-
chief to her eyes. Jerry saw Mr. Dallison twist in
his chair, saw Dr. Morton send a sharp glance toward
his patient. A little ripple of emotion swept the room.
The kind-hearted Mrs. Goody, whose comforting hand
had clasped Jerry's since the girl had resumed her
seat, now turned tearful eyes toward her employer's
daughter. Jerry herself sat very still, too mentally
occupied for sympathy with Nicolette's emotions. She
was recalling the angry tirade, also the slap, which
she had overheard at the bedroom door before the
birthday dinner, was feeling again the violence of those
claw-like yellow hands upon her shoulders when she
had gone to look for the wrap, remembering the ex-
pression of those black, bead-like eyes when at bedtime
Zélie had unceremoniously jerked her young charge
into the room and locked the door.
Any hopes the examiner may have entertained of
obtaining real information from Miss Dallison in re-
gard to the dead woman's past history were doomed
to disappointment. Nicolette regretted deeply that she
had no knowledge of Zélie Lançon's family, that she
could not now recollect the name of the little village
which had been her home. But—Mr. Doctor would


IN WRONG: 127
understand—she had never thought of Zélie except
as part of Mme. Fouquert's ménage, had never con-
sidered her in relation to any other home but that of
the old chateau on the Marne. Mme. Fouquert would
know, she had the name and address of every servant
written down in a big brown book in the house-
keeper's room, but—alas—the chateau was now closed,
deserted. M. Fouquert had rejoined his old regi-
ment, Mme. Fouquert, in spite of ill health, had gone
to aid in organizing a hospital near the front. Nicolette
supposed that it would be difficult to communicate with
Zélie's family, even with the aid of the police. In
France nowadays one had much to think of !
The medical examiner checked the girl's flow of
talk with a gentle question: “Miss Dallison, in look-
ing over the dead woman's belongings, we have found
no personal papers of any importance. Do you know
what became of her passport? Did she bring with
her no legal papers—birth or marriage certificate?
Anything of that sort?”
Nicolette looked puzzled, shook her bright head.
“I do not understand, monsieur. I know nothing of
legal papers, Il It was Zélie who carried all papers,
tickets, money—everything. Yet of this I am sure—
there was no certificate of marriage. Zélie was—what
you call it—old maiden, that was plain to see!”
Laughter relieved the tension in the room, even the
examiner permitting himself a smile. Jerry saw that
Mr. Dallison was immensely relieved by the manner
in which his daughter was enduring her ordeal, and
she wondered at the burning anxiety in Morton's eyes
which never for a moment left Nicolette's face.


I28 OCTAGON HOUSE
Now Nicolette was continuing, was apologizing in
her pretty broken speech: “One thing I do, M. le
Docteur, which my father tells to me is wrong.”
“And what was that, Miss Dallison?” Dr. Crosby
was all benevolence. Clearly this charming and dis-
tinguished witness was not to be brought to task for
either omission or commission.
“I did burn the love letters of my poor Zélie”
“Love letters?”
Nicolette nodded solemnly. “Without doubt! I did
not open, but what else would one tie with the blue
ribbon P”
Again amusement from the spectators even while
the authorities frowned. Very gently came the ex-
aminer's question. “But, Miss Dallison, if you did
not examine those papers closely, how do you know
that you did not destroy something that might have
helped us to trace this woman's past history? We
might have found out from those letters whether your
maid was what she pretended to be or whether she had
dishonest connections, was possibly herself a. . . .”
Fiercely Nicolette turned on him, taking the words
from his mouth. “A thief, you would say? My Zélie?
No, I have told to you she was good. It is a thief
who killed her—that I know.”
“Please explain what makes you so sure?”
Miss Dallison proceeded to explain, the roomful of
people hanging on her words. “Always poor Zélie has
feared thieves, always she has watched and worried
over my aunt's jewels and the silver at the chateau—
jewels without value and old clumsy silver that no
one would trouble to steal. It was what you call a


IN WRONG I29
folly, perhaps, but Zélie could not help it. Often have I
heard my uncle and aunt rebuke her because in the
cold of night she would arise from her warm bed and
roam about the chateau, thinking she heard robbers.”
“She was courageous.” It was a polite affirmation
from Crosby rather than an interrogation, and Nicolette
nodded emphatically. “Ah, yes, my poor Zélie, brave
and faithful ever! It is because my aunt knew this
woman would guard me as she did guard the family
treasures that she permitted her to be my escort.” Again
Nicolette's eyes overflowed, and this time even the hard-
hearted Jerry felt a throb of sympathy.
The examiner pondered. “Do you think”—he chose
his words carefully so as not to excite the loyal little
witness—“that it is possible Zélie may have made
doubtful acquaintances on the voyage over?”
“Any one who would follow for to steal my pearls?
Oh, no!” The girl's voice was decided. “Mr. Doctor
does not understand. Zélie was most strict, most sus-
picious. Never would she talk to strangers, never
would she allow me to make friends on the big ship.”
The medical examiner sighed. He did not seem
to be getting very far, but decided to try a final ques-
tion before dismissing his young witness. “Miss Dalli-
son,” he said, “I gather it is your idea that your maid
was aroused by some sound in the house and that
she at once thought of burglars, as she was apt to do.
That she dressed herself and—without arousing you—
came downstairs, surprised the intruders, and met her
death at their hands?”
Nicolette silently bowed her head, then raised her


IN WRONG I31
Miss Day, which she offer me, when she returns.
Again, there is another thing. Miss Day did say
that Zélie attacked her in a fury. Zélie also told to
me this occurrence, but differently. She said she was
very tired, did take some medicine, and then sleep.
She wake to find Miss Day in the room, standing by
my table where were the pretty things in gold and
silver which my father he give to me. Miss Day was
to Zélie a stranger, and when she saw her put a hand
upon my purse. . . .”
Jerry's indignant gasp was followed by a moment of
confusion in the room, and the examiner had to rap
sharply for order. Then he spoke:
“Continue your testimony, Miss Dallison, and let
the gentlemen of the jury and all those present in this
room remember that Miss Dallison is telling not what
happened, but what the dead woman told her hap-
pened. A very different thing.”
Speaking slowly and almost regretfully, Nicolette
continued:
“Zélie was angry, very angry, but when Miss Day
did make so many excuse and beg that nothing be
said, then from the kindness of her heart my poor
friend did promise to make no complaint. Only to
me she did tell all that passed. Also, when I go to
bed and tell her of the pearls, she ask if Miss Day
know where the necklace lay hidden. I say yes, and
Zélie she say, 'Ah, that is bad, that is dangerous. The
little Mees Day, it must be she is a thief. . . .’”
“That will do, thank you, Miss Dallison. . . .”
“But if you please—there is something else!” Nico-
lette's excited tone protested against the cutting short


132 OCTAGON HOUSE
of her story; and Crosby, rather unwillingly, allowed
her to proceed.
“It is then that something strange happen! We
are in my room where is the door upon the balcony,
and outside this door we hear a step, a slight, small
noise. I am 'fraid, but my brave Zélie, she say, “Do
not fear.” We wait a moment, and then Zélie did
open the door, oh, so softly and steal out upon the
balcony. She listen and then she return and tell me
she have heard Miss Day who talks to some strange
man who hides—that they say things about me and
my pearls. Zélie say we must go quick to tell my
father, but I laugh and say no, Miss Day is his friend
—he will not believe. We must wait till to-morrow.
Ah, if I had but heeded Zélie. . . .” A sob broke the
girl's voice, she forced herself to continue. “When
Mr. Heslin ask me what I think yesterday, I did tell
him these things.”
Insolent and open was the look which Nicolette, as
she left the chair, cast in her companion's direction.
She was evidently more than willing Jerry should dis-
cover the “low source” from which the detective had
obtained his information. Lies, direct lies! What
was at the root of it all, Jerry wondered? Her mind
dwelt in deep bewilderment upon the personality of
her chief's daughter. Could the doctor be right, was
this girl's mentality seriously affected by the shock she
had endured? Surely no one in her right mind could
have been willing to repeat such a tissue of false-
hoods even if she believed them. And that pretty
air of gravity, of pretended reluctance. . . . Anger
raged in Jerry's heart, but punishment, if punishment


IN WRONG I33
were due, was already on its way towards Nicolette
Dallison, and of a more cruel nature than ever her
irate little companion would have planned.
As the witness left the chair, her father came hastily
forward to lead her from the room. Characteristically
clumsy and abrupt of movement, Dallison brushed
against a pile of papers—those crude, untouched, and
revoltingly realistic photographs of the corpse, which
Crosby had stacked at the corner of his desk—and
knocked them to the floor. A draught from an open
window blew one of the prints to Nicolette's feet. She
stooped, intending to restore the sheet to its place. But
Nicolette Dallison's hand was stayed, her eyes remained
glued to the thing in her hand. She stared a mo-
ment at a ghastly distorted face, protruding, panic-
stricken eyes, a bruised, twisted throat—stared—then,
with a low, gasping cry of “Zélie!”—she fell sense-
less to the floor.


CHAPTER XII
THE BLOND GARDENER
HE ordeal in the library was over. Nicolette
had been carried from the room in her father's
arms, followed by the pitying looks, the sym-
pathetic murmurs of the spectators. The doctor, Mrs.
Goodleigh, and Celia hastened to attend upon her,
while Jerry had been obliged to await the end of the
proceedings. She saw the jury retire, waited for their
return, and listened to the verdict she had been told
to expect—“Murder by a person or persons un-
known.”
As the group in the library broke up, Jerry passed
through it, and out of the house to the garden. It
was hard to proceed slowly and in dignified fashion
when she longed to race down the winding paths to
the shelter of the shrubbery, to put the kindly green
of tree and hedge between herself and the curious,
half-pitying, half-contemptuous glances which seemed
to follow her. The dominant emotion of Mr. Dalli-
son's secretary at this moment was anger, she felt
furious with every one, and particularly with Michael
O'Boyle for deserting her on such an occasion.
A haven of refuge the little arbor looked, with
its comfortable rustic seat and its thick screen of ivy.
Jerry was not the type of girl to take comfort from
what is termed “a good cry.” Her spirit was as a
134


THE BLOND GARDENER I35
rule too valiant, her sense of humor too keen. Yet
for the next few moments the dark, curly head was
bowed between her hands, while one small handker-
chief proved quite inadequate to soak up all her tears.
Possibly because her pocket contained no other com-
forter, she decided it was time to check the flood. At
this moment also, her downcast gaze was attracted
by something white, a thin white line showing between
the cracks of the arbor floor. Half-heartedly Jerry
poked with a hairpin at the crack till she unearthed its
secret, a slip of paper penciled over with queer little
dots and dashes by a nervous, faltering hand. It was
not shorthand, Jerry decided, at least not the system
with which she was familiar. It looked more like a
puzzle of some sort, one that the writer had been too
careless or too much in haste to do neatly. Across the
face of it a word was scribbled : “Minuit!”
Jerry shook her head over the word, ransacking her
memory in vain. “Why didn't I take French at school
instead of Spanish?” she murmured. “I shall have
to get a dictionary 1” Then, flushing suddenly, she
dropped the bit of paper as if it had scorched her
fingers, only to pick it up again, fold it, and push it
carefully back into the crack in the flooring.
“Little wretch,” Jerry muttered, “I don't know what
she's up to, and I don't care. Let her write her silly
little notes in code to her adorer, if she wants tol
I'm not going to be her chaperon a day longer, if I
can get out of it, and I shall go this minute and tell
her father so.”
With this hasty young woman, thought was quickly
translated into action. She had reached the confines


136 OCTAGON HOUSE
of the shrubbery before a second and more prudent
idea occurred to her. Could the hen-tracked little
morsel of paper be considered by any detective, ama-
teur or otherwise, in the light of not a love letter—
but a clue? Back she hastened to the lily pool where
she halted, hearing a slight commotion among the
bushes at the other side of the arbor. Somebody was
coming, was scrambling over the wall. Jerry stepped
softly along the grass to the arbor, then ducked low
and peered through the leaf windows. All was quiet
for a moment, then came the sound of cautious steps,
a rustling noise, and a man's arm reached through
one of the wide spaces between the arbor railing and
the floor. The hand was square and rather fat, with
reddish hair along the back. It held an open pen-
knife upon the blade of which the slip of paper was
soon neatly speared. The clue or the billet-doux—
whichever it was—disappeared before the watcher's
eyes. She hesitated a moment, then dodged round the
arbor, forcing her way through the bushes to the wall,
but by the time she reached it her only reward for
her sleuthing was the sight of the back of Nicolette's
blond “gardener” as he strolled away among the trees.
Jerry returned to the house and, when she reached
her room, found Mrs. Goodleigh waiting at her door.
“I was looking for you, my dear. Mr. Dallison
wants you. The chief of police is with him, and Mr.
O'Boyle.”
Jerry sighed. “I was on my way to speak to Mr.
Dallison, Mrs. Goodleigh. I want to tell him that
I don't think I can remain here much longer.”
“Oh, my dear child, don't say that!” The house-
*


THE BLOND GARDENER 137
keeper's kindly blue eyes filled with tears as she pressed
the girl's hand warmly.
Jerry returned the pressure, but her face did not
brighten. “It's no use,” she said. “I don't want to
break my word to Mr. Dallison. I shall have to stay
if he insists, till this thing is over. But if Nicolette
dislikes me so—if she thinks. . . .” -
“Now, Miss Day! That poor child doesn't know
what she thinks. Such a miserable state as she is
in 1”
“I hope she recovered from her faint?” Jerry's
voice showed no more than a perfunctory interest, and
the housekeeper gave her a slightly reproachful look.
“Yes, she rallied very quickly, but what an unfor-
tunate occurrence that she should have seen that hor-
rible photograph of the corpse! I took up the thing
after she dropped it, and I give you my word, Miss
Day, I came near keeling over myself at the sight of
that ghastly face! The worst thing possible for the
child, the doctor said, when her nerves were all on
edge anyway. He wants us to send her over to Octa-
gon House this afternoon, so that he can try some
electrical massage. But, there—I mustn't keep you,
Miss Jerry. Bring your young man down to the sun
room, when you are through. You'll enjoy your lunch
there more than in the garage!”
As Jerry approached the open door of Mr. Dalli-
son's private sitting room, she saw that Chief McArdle
was taking his leave.
“Now remember, sir,” she heard him say, “we’re
expecting further details—an exact description of the
gang—at any moment, and Heslin will notify you as


138 OCTAGON HOUSE
—I
soon as that comes along. In the meantime, of course,
we may be nabbing a plain American burglar for you
—that kind is not so scarce!”
He passed Jerry with a kindly nod; and she en-
tered, to be immediately pounced upon by her young
man, who—quite forgetful of the third person present
—seized both her hands in his, his quick eyes imme-
diately perceiving the faint traces of tear stains on her
cheek.
“Jerry,” he exclaimed, “who has been making
you. . . .”
With an angry little shake of her head Jerry drew
away from him and stepped up to Mr. Dallison.
“You wanted me, sir?”
Dallison sighed. “Yes, I wanted to talk to both
you young folks. O'Boyle ought to have told about
that balcony business. . . .”
“I know I ought,” Michael began, but Jerry stopped
him.
“That was my fault, Mr. Dallison, I wouldn't let
him—I didn't think it mattered, and. . . .”
“It doesn't really—the whole thing is—but there—
I—well—I can't go into it at present—I'm a bit upset
this morning. Morton stopped me on the stairs just
now and told me something about my daughter's con-
dition which has driven every other thought from
my mind.”
Jerry surveyed her employer with astonishment, so
altered was his aspect. His florid color was gone,
his eyes dull, his shoulders sagging. As he crossed
the room with uncertain step to lower his great bulk
into a chair by the hearth, he groaned and wiped his


THE BLOND GARDENER I39
forehead with his big silk handkerchief. To the girl
who watched him came an echo of the angry words
Michael had once spoken— “A grown-up spoiled baby
—an old bluffer—that man is due to get a terrible
bump from life some day, and may I be there to
see it!” . . . She wondered if Michael were recalling
those words? Surely the day of Nicholas Dallison's
penance had arrived unexpectedly soon, but that
O'Boyle was not enjoying the contemplation of it she
guessed from the consideration in his tone.
“I am very sorry, sir. Both Miss Day and I ap-
preciate how much you've got to worry about just
at present. But one thing has to be cleared up. I
met Johnson just now and got his account of what
happened at the inquest. After all Miss Day has
been through this morning, I think the least you can
do is to allow me to take her to her friends. . . .”
“Her friends, young man?” Dallison glared at
Michael with a revival of his old animosity, then rolled
a reddened eye in Jerry's direction. “Do you imagine
she has no friends here?”
Very gently his secretary interrupted. “You are
kind, Mr. Dallison, but considering the feeling your
daughter has against me, and in view of what the
police apparently consider possible. . . .”
“Confound the police!” Dallison's wrath was prov-
ing a tonic to his flagging spirits. Something of his
accustomed vigor showed in the way his square, power-
ful hands gripped the arms of his chair. “That fool,
Heslin, has overshot himself,” he continued. “He is
an outsider, anxious to make a quick killing in a case
which he knows will have especial publicity. If Crosby


I4O OCTAGON HOUSE
had been an up-to-date official instead of the old moss-
back country jay he is, he would never have let himself
be so overridden as he was this morning. Also I
want you two to remember this. My poor little girl
was not witnessing against you, Jerry Day. You were
not on trial and I hope you never will be. She was
only repeating—at Heslin's instigation—what that
unfortunate woman told her. Lord forgive me—I
don't want to abuse the dead and I realize the woman
thought she was doing right, but if she had only had
the sense to stay in her bed she'd be alive to-day and
my little girl would have nothing more than the loss
of a trinket to weep over!”
“You think that your daughter's confidence in Zélie
was not misplaced?” Michael asked.
“I think she was just the kind of nervous, excitable,
over-zealous soul to walk straight into a burglar's
arms. This talk of Heslin's about the thing being
an “inside job' is pure rot as I'll take care to tell him.
A burglar it was, and I don't see myself that it mat-
ters much whether he was French or Yankee—now
the deed is done.”
“Any clue matters that will help us to catch the
rascal—and his gang.” Turning to Jerry, Michael ex-
plained. “We learned in New York this morning that
the I. P.-the International Police—have picked up a
mighty interesting bit of gossip. It was to the effect
that a crook—or a gang of crooks—had left France
with the idea of annexing the Rajah's pearls. . . .”
“Which would never have become common talk if
it hadn't been for a certain damn-fool article that
revived interest in 'em,” Dallison growled.


THE BLOND GARDENER I4I
“But, Mr. Dallison,” Jerry hastily intervened.
“About my remaining here. If I consent to stay, there
is one point that must be made clear. I did go to your
daughter's room that evening for her wrap, as she
asked me to do. What occurred between Zélie and
myself was as I told it, and not according to your
daughter's story.”
“You mean Zélie's story,” Dallison snapped.
“Wasn't it natural that Nicolette, in her loyalty to
the dead woman, should believe her rather than you—
a stranger? The fact of waking suddenly to find a
strange person in her mistress's bedroom was enough
for so ignorant and suspicious a woman. Her low
mentality, her poor knowledge of English, her sleepi-
ness and excitement—all that accounts for her story
to Nicolette which was of course garbled and exag-
gerated—all those foreigners exaggerate. . . .”
“But,” Jerry stubbornly continued, “there remains
the contradiction about the wrap. Nicolette said she
did not ask me to fetch it, but I. . . .”
“Oh, for the Lord's sake, Jerry Day,” Dallison
groaned, “what are you getting at, anyway? Can't
you understand that my poor girl is suffering from
shock—is in no condition to remember details? What
does it matter about the confounded wrap, when. . . .”
“It matters that Miss Dallison dislikes me,” Jerry
insisted. “Dr. Morton told me to-day that I could
do nothing for your daughter, that I had better
leave. . . .” She stopped abruptly, angry with her-
self for forgetting Morton's admonition as to secrecy.
“He did? Then Morton took an unwarrantable
liberty. I don't know that I'm satisfied with the way


I42 OCTAGON HOUSE
he is handling this case. He seems to frighten the
child—is almost rough with her. As for his diag-
nosis, his fear of of a serious nervous breakdown
—I can't believe it—I won't. Nicolette shall have a
few days' rest, and then I'll get the best advice in
the country. We'll call in a specialist for the other
affair, too, if Heslin can't clear it up in a week or
so. Possibly getting her pearls back might be some
consolation to the child. . . .”
Again the heavy figure slumped in the chair. Dalli-
son brushed a big hand over his eyes as if to banish
unwelcome thoughts. Rousing himself, he continued:
“This afternoon I'm going to play doctor myself.
What Nicolette wants is to get out of this house, get
some fresh air, and have her mind diverted. I'll take
her for a good spin in the car—perhaps as far as
Milton. They have some fairly attractive shops there
—anything to take her mind off her troubles.”
“Shall you need me, Mr. Dallison?”
To Jerry's immense relief Dallison shook his head.
“No, I think Nicolette wants her daddy to herself.”
“You are not going to take her over to Octagon
House, then?”
Dallison looked a trifle sheepish. “Well, no—Nico–
lette has begged off. She was to go over for a treat-
ment at three, but—well—I believe she's right. The
fresh air will do her more good than bothering with
doctors and nurses.”
“Is there anything I can do for you this afternoon,
sir?”
“Yes.” The inventor jerked open a table drawer
and drew forth a roll of papers. “I forgot to return


THE BLOND GARDENER I43
these to Morton this morning. They are his sugges-
tions for mental tests among my workmen—a kind of
psycho-analytical survey. I have O. K.'d the thing
in general but penciled in a few objections. They
are practical difficulties which the doctor has not the
experience to understand. You can explain my point
of view as well as I can. Take the small car and go
over to Octagon House as soon as you've had lunch.
And—-er—tell him that Nicolette has changed her mind
and decided to postpone her treatment. Now run
along, and get something to eat, both of you young
people, I'm busy.”
As they descended the stair, Jerry observed that her
young man's face bore an aspect of unusual gloom.
“Can you ever forgive me, dear?” he murmured.
“It was my damn-fool nonsense in coming to the
house the other night that caused part of your trouble
this morning. Heslin was glad enough to have me
out of the way, so he could work up that sweet little
sensation of his without protest. If I'd only known
what he was up to-if I’d been there. . . .”
“How long would you have stayed?” Jerry bitterly
interrupted. “You would have been turned out of the
room for raising a row, and much good that would
have done me! But—oh, Michael dear, I did feel so
alone. . . .”
The girl was in too forlorn a mood to scold her
penitent adorer. As they paused on the second-story
landing she let her hands rest in his warm clasp, while
she poured out to him a brief, low-toned account of
the morning's ordeal. So deep was the preoccupa-
tion of both young people that neither noticed the


I44 OCTAGON HOUSE
gradual opening of a door in the passageway behind
them, neither saw the blond head of the eavesdropper
appear. They might not—after that brief but satis-
fying conversation—have passed so lightly on their
way downstairs had they known the nature of the look
that followed them.


CHAPTER XIII
JERRY PAYS A CALL
N the wide bright lounge where a torrent of sun-
I shine poured through glass walls upon the red-
tiled floor and danced again in the gay waters of
the fountain, Mrs. Goodleigh was presiding over an
informal luncheon tray.
“Mr. Dallison rarely takes luncheon,” she explained,
“and poor Nicolette is resting in her room. I thought
I would have our meal served here as this is the
brightest corner of the house and I’m sure we all need
cheering—especially that dear child!”
The look of kindly sympathy she directed toward
Jerry warmed Michael's heart as effectually as the
steaming cup of bouillon she handed him refreshed his
inner man.
“Jeremiah,” he sighed, relaxing his long frame in
a chintz and wicker chair, “I begin to believe that for
a couple of crooks—or ‘second-story artists' if you
prefer the title—we are not being so badly treated. I
vote that we here and now appoint this lady No. 1 at
Angel Cottage.”
“What does he mean, my dear?” inquired Mrs.
Goody.
“He’s merely raving, Mrs. Goody,” Jerry smiled
at her. “Angel Cottage is a name he's given to a
crazy little bungalow way off at the other end of town
145


146 OCTAGON HOUSE
and for sale to any one who is fool enough to buy
it. Michael dreams of acquiring the place, and now
his Uncle Anthony in England has left him such a
nice little legacy, I suppose he'll soon be settling
down. . . .”
Mrs. Goodleigh beamed. “Why, you dear children!
I didn't know. . . .”
“Didn't you, Mrs. Goody dear? Didn't you know
Michael was engaged to Bertha Bones, the Butcher's
Daughter? They're the shy young things, but they'll
be settling down soon, so Michael says. . . .”
“In Angel Cottage,” pursued the imperturbable
Michael, “with rambler roses peeping in at every win-
dow—Bertha Bones adores pink ramblers—and a jolly
big living room with a fireplace and a kitchen big
enough to swing a kitten in, only Jerry—I mean Bertha
—has another job for our cat. It has to sit in the
window between two pots of pink geraniums and wash
its face in the sunshine each day when I come home
from work. . . .”
“Idiot! Can't you imagine what a trial he is to
me, Mrs. Goody, talking nonsense on such a day as
this l”
Jerry's tone was petulant but already her eyes had
lost their haunted look and the tense lines about her
young mouth softened.
“Don’t scorn that kind of nonsense, dear,” smiled
the housekeeper. “I’ve a notion it's a good asset for
any two who start housekeeping in a bungalow or else-
where.” As Mrs. Goody spoke she set down her cup
and produced a bit of knitting from her capacious
silken work bag. “My life,” she continued gently,


JERRY PAYS A CALL I47
“has been the kind that gets most of its sunshine
through other people's windows. I’ve not kept up with
the modern world and perhaps I’m out of sympathy
with young people of to-day, but I've a notion I would
like to visit Angel Cottage, Mr. O'Boyle, and find you
there with—the Butcher's Daughter!”
Jerry, echoing the housekeeper's slightly sentimental
tone, cast a mischievous glance at her young man. “I,
too, may call on the happy young couple if I can spare
the time from pursuing my independent and glorious
career on the stage or in—er—politics or law or high
finance—I haven’t decided yet just what—but I shall
not envy the happy pair, Mrs. Goody. Life in a bunga-
low with—er—Billy Bun, the Baker's Son, does not
appeal to me!”
All too quickly sped the hour of relaxation. Jerry's
spirits revived by Michael's nonsense and Mrs. Goody's
kindly chatter, failed again as Lawrence appeared, an-
nouncing that a car was ready to take Miss Day to
Octagon House. Her errand did not appeal to her,
for, although she was but just beginning to realize it,
the instinctive dislike she had felt for Paul Morton
had ripened into positive aversion. She was hardly
ready to admit, even to herself, her nervous shrinking
from the man, her uncanny sense of his power. Yet
he had a certain fascination for most people. Even
Dallison felt it, Nicolette had to succumb to it, at first,
Jerry thought, though now she appeared to have taken
a dislike to her physician. Even her father had no-
ticed her unwillingness to submit herself to the doc-
tor's care. Jerry remembered her glimpse of Paul
Morton on the day when she had left the offices, his


JERRY PAYS A CALL I49
man, but in her heart she acknowledged he was right.
She was not keen herself on going alone to Octagon
House, or on meeting its master. Loneliness descended
upon her, coupled with a cold little shadow of purely
unreasonable dread.
It was a mellow afternoon and pleasant faring along
the winding country road where the air was sweet
with the scent of warm golden dust and early apples
ripening. But once the car passed through the gate
in the high stone wall marking the doctor's domain,
it entered the gloom of overarching elms. Octagon
House, that madman's freak, seemed to gather the
shadows to its heart. Huge, brown, oddly shaped, it
squatted on the hilltop in its semicircle of great trees
like some giant toad in the rank grass. A strange
home it seemed to Jerry for one so fastidious, so
luxury-loving as Paul Morton.
Her first thought, as she stepped from the car, was
to raise her eyes to those uppermost windows, the
unfinished rooms of which the doctor had spoken, re-
calling—with a little shudder now—Celia's tale, and
the village gossip of weird apparitions, inexplicable
sounds. How easy to imagine ghostly lights behind
those blank windows at dead of night, or perhaps Old
Peter himself seen by moonlight, hanging head down-
ward from one of them—his yellow face ghastly, his
horrid bleeding throat. . . .
From these dark imaginings Jerry was diverted by
the sight of a group of people on the lawn. She im-
mediately recognized them as members of the “little
family” Morton had mentioned on the occasion of
Nicolette's birthday dinner. No keeper or nurse at-


150 OCTAGON HOUSE
tended them, their harmlessness appeared evident, as
well as their little peculiarities. Jerry had never before
seen a white-haired, clerical-looking gentleman astride
a piebald rocking-horse. She had not seen royalty
either, to be sure, yet she felt certain no queen could
be more regal in her own opinion than the plump
dame in the gold paper crown and cat's fur mantle
who was pouring tea from a doll's tea set. The sight
of these innocent eccentricities was rather cheering to
the girl. She could not resist a nod and a smile in the
“family’s” direction.
The equestrian gentleman responded by a flourish
of his riding crop. “Can't stop,” he shouted, “I’m
Paul Revere, and I'm carrying the good news from
Ghent to Aix!”
“Have a cup of tea?” chirped the queen. “Have
seven cups?”
At the sound of their voices a manservant stepped
from the shadows of the vestibule doorway. He was
a big brute of a fellow with a bulldog jaw, whose smart
livery seemed to set oddly on his heavy shoulders.
Jerry did not appreciate the sly, interested look he shot
at her nor the suspicion of a grin with which he
greeted her request to see his master. The fellow
bowed civilly enough, however, and led the way into the
house. As they passed through a cavernous vestibule
to the circular hall surrounding the spiral stair at the
heart of the strange old house, the contrast between
the warmth and light outside and the gloom of old
stone walls and poorly ventilated rooms was unpleas-
antly apparent. Even so, it hardly accounted for the
chill the visitor experienced, a clammy feeling as of a


JERRY PAYS A CALL I51
cold hand laid against her heart, a sickening distaste,
a sudden longing to turn and run like a frightened
child back to the freedom and sunshine of outdoors.
She had hated the sight of Octagon House. Now Oc-
tagon House, she felt, hated her, was repulsing her
with its creepy shadows, its suggestion of unhappiness,
of mystery. . . . Sharply Jerry pulled herself together.
This was nonsense. She was on duty. She must for-
get her foolish nerves, accomplish her errand. Then
never again—not even at Nicholas Dallison's behest—
would she be induced to visit this place.
The servant had ushered Jerry into a large, lavishly
furnished reception room or library. The girl inspected
the rich hangings, deep-piled rugs and ponderous chairs
with a severely critical eye. “Intended to impress vis-
iting relatives,” she thought. “The doctor would have
done better to spend his money on light and air.” The
room was certainly damp, slightly musty-smelling, and
dark with the dark wood which paneled the walls. The
scant light admitted by two narrow diamond-paned and
ivy-masked windows was of a dim greenish hue. The
blinds were lowered halfway, still further darkening the
room.
Jerry sank into a deep chair. She was tired from the
Excitement of the day and glad of a moment's respite
before Morton appeared. Was it in this room, she
wondered, that the doctor's frightened maidservant had
seen or heard the thing that had driven her away?
A not unlikely room to see a ghost—ah, but the ghosts
were supposed to be confined to those upper rooms,
the scene of Old Peter's passing—Jerry laughed at her
own imaginings. She must certainly try to divert her


JERRY PAYS A CALL I53
had noticed there was but one door to the room, that
which the servant had closed—the two windows were
in plain sight. . . . But perhaps that unpleasant-looking
footman was lingering at the door, spying through the
crack. . . . Jerry turned angrily, turned and felt her
blood freeze with terror, her heart stand still at what
she saw.
High up against the south wall of the room, quaintly
framed by old books, appeared a face, a weirder face
than any she had met in dreams. In the dimness, the
greenish twilight of the room, it was impossible to see
clearly. Jerry had a vague impression of a boy's lean
cheek and dark, appealing eye, but the other side of
the face—what horror! A blur of matted, rust-colored
fur, a deep-set, piggish eye, something dangling—the
lappet of a fur cap, perhaps. . . . With a cry of fright
the watcher covered her eyes with her hands. A mo–
ment later when, impelled by the dread fascination of
the thing, she looked again, the face had vanished. But
, the impression it had left remained—a dual sensation
of crawling horror and piteous appeal. Jerry sprang
to the windows, raising the shades as high as they
would go. The increased light showed her the south
wall of the room, row upon row of tightly wedged,
handsomely bound books. Nothing—nothing to ac-
count for what she had seen | The little colonel had
climbed upon the divan where he sat half hidden among
the pillows. In her excitement, Jerry had forgotten
him. Now she noticed that his pink cheeks had paled,
his green-gooseberry eyes threatened to pop from his
head, he pointed a fat finger towards the bookshelves.


I54 OCTAGON HOUSE
“Ghostie's gone,” he whispered, “now for the Voices!
Listen for one—listen!”
Unheeding him, Jerry tugged at the handle of the
door, her urgent desire to escape from this haunted
room. But the door would not open. Locked! They
had dared to lock her in. . . .
“Now!” shrieked the colonel and stopped his ears
with both fists as a weird, wailing cry rang through the
house. Again and again it was repeated, each time
more close at hand. There was a scrambling, rushing
sound in the corridor, the patter of clawed feet. A
heavy body hurled itself against the door. The thing
outside—whatever it was—leaped, tore at the paneling,
snarled viciously, sank back and flung itself again. Each
moment Jerry expected the door must give. It seemed
to her an age before running steps in the corridor
indicated that relief was near. She heard a woman's
command, her sharp scream of pain, a man's warning
voice. Almost as suddenly as it began the disturbance
outside the library door diminished. The series of snap-
ping, snarling cries was cut short as though by a
throttling hand, there was the sound of heavy, panting
breaths, the movement of departing feet.
As the fright of the girl behind the locked door sub-
sided, her indignation returned. Those people outside
—Morton was one of them, she was sure—were they
forgetting her entirely? She would leave this room,
Jerry decided, even if she must jump from the window.
The screens, she noticed, were strong webs of steel
fastened securely on the outside. While she was ex-
amining them a soft footfall crept to the door. Jerry
heard the bolt withdrawn, but by the time she reached


JERRY PAYS A CALL I55
the hall, the person who had released her was out of
sight. She stood by the stair, looking about her, in
two minds whether to rush from the house at once, or
to call for a servant and demand to know what had
happened, if any one had been hurt.
The little colonel who had followed at her heels,
chattering incessantly, now took advantage of her hesi-
tation. “This way, little girl,” he coaxed. “Come with
Colonel Nap, and have a peep at. . . .” Suddenly
flinging open a door he gave Jerry a violent shove,
pushing her into a large bare room. The scant furnish-
ing suggested a patients' waiting room with an inner
office leading from it. A leather screen blocked the
doorway towards which Jerry was being dragged by the
impatient colonel. She halted, trying to draw back as
she recognized the voices issuing from behind the
screen. Those cold, contemptuous tones were certainly
Paul Morton's. The woman he addressed was sobbing
angrily.
“My arm,” she moaned. “Oh, Paul, that devil has
bitten me—oh, my arm l’’
“Be still,” Morton scornfully commanded, and then
—with cruelly deliberate emphasis—“What do I care
about your arm? I wish to God it had been your
throat!” -
The moment was for the innocent eavesdropper an
agony of embarrassment. She shrank back, but the
little colonel, spying round the corner of the screen
and seeing, evidently, the last person he wished to
meet, bumped violently against the barrier, knocking it
over. He gave a howl of fright, ducked under Jerry's
arm, and fled. Paul Morton looked up from the surgi-


156 OCTAGON HOUSE
cal basin over which he was bending, and glared at the
intruder, his eyes terrible in their cold rage, his face
white as the bandage in his hand. It was a full moment
before the mask of his habitual suavity concealed the
virulence of that look. Then, very swiftly, his features
changed, his characteristically charming smile swept
every vestige of anger from his face.
“Miss Day!” he exclaimed. “They did not tell me
it was you—I thought. . . .”
“I brought some papers from Mr. Dallison,” Jerry
hastened to explain. “I am sorry—I did not mean to
intrude, but oh—Dr. Morton—I was in your library.
I have had such a fright. I saw something—something
queer—and heard some one cry out, and then—as I
was trying to unfasten the door—the—the dog came . . .
It was a dog, wasn't it?”
“Ah, yes, my big police dog. He was let loose
against my orders. Mrs. Lent”—Morton turned
sharply on the pale-eyed, flabby-faced nurse at his el-
bow—“how often have I told you to let that dog
alone?”
Jerry looked with pity at the woman who had taken
the bandage from the doctor's hand and was clumsily
winding the dressing about her wounded arm. “I hope
you were not badly bitten,” she said.
Mrs. Lent merely grunted in reply, but the doctor
answered for her. “No, a mere scratch. The dog is
not really vicious. He is safely housed now and no
harm done—just a lesson to one who—I fear—de-
served it. Are you all right now, Lent? Then get out,
will you? Go and rest. And another time—remember
orders!”


JERRY PAYS A CALL I57
White with rage but still silent, the woman departed,
and the doctor turned to Jerry. “Confess that you
think me a brute,” he smiled. “I will admit that I
have the devil of a temper. That woman—she is one
of my nurses, you know—brings out the worst that
is in me. But never mind Lent now. Tell me—what
was it that frightened you in the library? You said
you saw something? . . .”
Jerry nodded. “Yes. Doctor, you said the other
night at the birthday dinner that you could find no one
who had seen a ghost in Octagon House. Well, per-
haps it wasn't a ghost I saw, but it was certainly queer—
a face—”
“A face? Whose? Where? Nonsense! What do
you mean?” Morton's tone had changed, was as harsh
as that he had used to his subordinate, and at the
sound of it Jerry's little chin went up, her gray eyes
blazed.
“It isn't nonsense. I did see something queer—a-a
boy's face, I thought, peering at me from between the
books high up in the wall. And I heard such a queer
cry! Is there any opening back of those shelves, doc-
tor?”
Morton shook his head. “Absolutely nothing of the
sort, Miss Jerry. It must have been Lent's voice you
heard, and the face you—imagined. This house is pro-
vokingly remiss in lacking secret passages, peep holes,
etc. I can guess what happened, however. You ar-
rived here primed with servants’ gossip about the old
place; then you met Colonel Nap—the spoiled child of
the house—and he regaled you with some of his patter
about “ghosts' and ‘voices.” There you were, expecting


158 OCTAGON HOUSE
to see something queer and—well—you saw it. Ap-
plied psychology, Miss Jerry! You must forgive me
for not taking this alarm of yours as seriously as I
did your fright over the dog. I cannot but be thankful
that Jim, my man, suspected the rascal was loose and
took the precaution to lock the library door. But let's
forget this matter and have a look at Mr. Dallison's
papers. I fear I have not much time to give you. . . .
I am expecting Miss Dallison.”
Jerry handed him a roll of papers. She was more
anxious than the doctor to put an end to this inter-
view, but his words recalled to her Mr. Dallison's
message.
“Nicolette is not coming. She has decided to post-
pone her treatment.”
“Not coming!” Morton dropped the roll of loose
sheets and turned sharply on Jerry. “But she was to be
here at three—I gave orders—”
“I know, but Mr. Dallison has taken her for a drive.
They went to Milton, I think, to do some shopping.
What is the matter, doctor? Do you think the exertion
will be too much for Nicolette P”
Again that tense, strained look, that expression of
nervous anxiety which Jerry had observed on Morton's
face as he watched Nicolette Dallison at the inquest
that morning. Did he take each one of his cases as
seriously as he did that of Mr. Dallison's daughter,
Jerry wondered. Or was it the girl's vivid beauty, her
erratic personality that appealed to him?
Without answering his visitor's query, Morton rose
and passed into the outer office where there was a
telephone. “I’ll phone for my car,” he said, “and start


JERRY PAYS A CALL I59
for Milton at once on the chance of meeting them.
Dallison may think me officious and intrusive, but I
don't care. It was folly—madness in him to allow that
girl to fatigue herself this afternoon. I should not
have advised even the short trip to this house, except
that I thought the electrical massage we give here would
be of real benefit. Now, if she undergoes any further
excitement after the strain of the inquest this morning
and the shock that came after it—when she saw those
confounded photographs of the corpse, well—the re-
sult may be a nervous collapse from which her reason
may never recover. I wish you had told me. . . .”
Morton cut short his rebuke to address his chauf-
feur, and Jerry waited, staring drearily from the win-
dow which gave upon a strip of neglected garden.
Only a moment ago she had been expecting to hurry
home for an afternoon of rest—now she wondered if
she ought not to accompany the doctor, help him to
find and care for Nicolette P So deep was the girl in
thought that she failed to hear a door open, a catlike
tread on the rug behind her. The greater was the
shock when a man's careless arm was flung across her
neck and she was swung about in the embrace of a
stranger—a thick-set, foreign-looking man with sleek
fair hair and yellow, up-curling mustache!


CHAPTER XIV
NICOLETTE GOES SHOPPING
HE yellow-haired man gave Jerry one look,
cursed loudly and bolted from the room. At
the same moment Paul Morton entered by the
other door, and Jerry ran to him in a burst of anger.
“That man!” she cried. “Oh, Dr. Morton, was he
crazy? You said all your people were harmless—but
I don't believe you. I don't believe one word of all
you said about your house. I. . . hate it. I won't stay
here another minute. . . .”
“My dear child! What nonsense you are talking.
Sit down just a moment, and calm yourself. The car
will be around directly. My people have their peculiari-
ties, of course, I do not deny it, though my theory
is to allow them all possible freedom. Now that young
man is one of our most interesting cases, indeed the
most pathetic. You see he-er—lost his sweetheart
years ago. She died very suddenly—on the wedding
day, in fact, and the shock affected him mentally. So
much so in fact that he goes about everywhere looking
for her. His family have finally found it necessary
to restrain him. . . .”
Jerry had hardly listened to the doctor's affecting
tale. She had been racking her brains to remember
where she had seen before that thick-set figure, that
square blond head and up-curling mustache. It was—
160


NICOLETTE GOES SHOPPING I61
yes, she had it now—it was Nicolette's companion of
the arbor, the yellow-haired “gardener”
She surveyed the doctor demurely, a touch of pity
in her grave gray eyes. “I suppose you cannot let
him out alone, can you?” she said. “What a sad
case!”
“No, indeed,” Morton answered, “but he seems fairly
well content and never cares to leave the grounds. It
was your pretty face, Miss Jerry, that affected him a
little. But I think I hear the car. Let us go out to the
porch to meet it. You must let me give you a lift. . . .”
They were out of the house and in the car before
Jerry announced her intention of accompanying the
doctor to Milton. “I know the kind of shops Nicolette
would be likely to visit better than you do,” she re-
marked, “and if she should really be taken ill, Mr.
Dallison will be glad of my help.”
Her proposition received no very cordial assent but
the fact did not greatly trouble Jerry Day. Having
set her face towards her duty, she tried her best to
dismiss her troubles from her mind and take advantage
of the brief interval of rest the drive afforded. Morton
drove at reckless speed; and Jerry, respecting his silence
and the look of anxiety on his face, did not venture to
address him until they entered the town. Milton was
the county seat and a busy shopping center for farmers
and market people. She directed the doctor's attention
to a certain establishment in the main business block
opposite the station, a smart little costume shop with
gayly dressed windows.
“Let's stop here,” she suggested. “Those hats would


NICOLETTE GOES SHOPPING 163
replied to Jerry's inquiry, “but she didn't wait for it—
she's gone!”
“She was over here buying veils,” volunteered a girl
from across the aisle. “And before that she was look-
ing at silk coats. She bought a dress too. . . .”
“She didn't pay for this hat,” complained the first
clerk. Jerry did not wait to hear more but hurried on.
Knowing her employer's hatred of publicity, she was
anxious to overtake Nicolette before her erratic be-
havior should attract further attention. Could the girl
have had one of her nervous attacks and stopped to
rest somewhere? Had she been attracted by the chil-
dren's toys or dropped in at the Beauty Parlor? The
shop was not large, and Jerry's fruitless search soon
brought her to the elevator again, also to the staircase
just beyond it. Down this she flew to find herself at
an employees’ entrance opening on a narrow alley be-
tween the costume shop and the jeweler's store. Acting
on a sudden impulse and really frightened now, Jerry
traversed the alley to the street behind the store and so
to Main Street again where she stopped for a moment.
She could see Dallison and the doctor chatting, but
Nicolette was not there. Looking across the street to
the station, Jerry guessed by the crowd of people
collecting on the platform that it was almost train time.
She could see a boy peddling papers and a woman with
water lilies. Surely there would be no attraction over
there for Nicolette, yet—on the inspiration of the
moment—Jerry darted across the wide street, reached
the platform, and threaded her way through the
crowd. Nowhere was there any sign of Mr. Dal-
lison's daughter. The searcher was about to beat a


I64 OCTAGON HOUSE
hasty retreat, angry with herself for wasting time,
when a baggage man ran down the platform and by the
quick thrust he gave to a truck load of trunks, dis-
closed the group of women standing behind it. One was
evidently a farmer's wife collecting her purchases, two
more were negro women in holiday attire, but the
fourth—the girl by the slot machine—was Nicolette!
Jerry stared at her in amazement mingled with pity.
At last she admitted to herself that Morton's fears were
not exaggerated. Certainly no girl in her right mind
would make herself look such a sight. Under one arm
Nicolette clutched a box and a brown paper parcel, but
most of her ill-advised shopping seemed to be dis-
tributed over her person. Her hat—that same child-
ish blue straw with the bobbing cherries which Jerry
had remarked on the night of her arrival—was now
ornamented by a gaudy green chiffon veil. She had
on an embroidered black silk coat that would have
suited a woman of fifty, and her feet sported a pair
of mustard-yellow ties. Dreading one of the girl's ill-
tempered outbursts, Jerry approached her in awkward
silence, but Miss Dallison—after one furious look at
her companion—gave her a contemptuous smile.
“Ah, Miss Jherrie,” she remarked. “You come in
time to carry my bundles—I am so tired l’” She shoved
her parcels into Jerry's hands. “And look, I come all
this way across that dreadful street—and I have no
pennies!” Gravely she opened her gold-meshed bag—
the very purse, Jerry realized, which only that morning
she had accused her companion of fingering—and
showed a roll of bills. Turning to the chewing-gum
stand, the girl rattled its handle impatiently. “Quick,”


I66 OCTAGON HOUSE
her sway and turn pale, and, seeing, felt a sudden pity,
mixed with contempt.
“Come,” she exclaimed, “let’s hurry back. Don't
mind if I hold on to your arm. In Milton the traffic
cops are few and far between. Come—this is a good
time to cross.”
She stepped from the curb, holding Nicolette by the
hand. At first the girl kept pace with her companion,
then, frightened perhaps by a huge truck bearing down
upon them or confused by the roar of the train just
thundering into the station, Nicolette jerked away her
hand, sprang back, and disappeared into the swirl of
traffic. Jerry's view was obscured for a moment. When
she dared to look again she was horrified by the sight
of a trail of crushed lilies in the street. At that instant
Paul Mortoti dashed past her and plucked Nicolette
from a perilous position between two cars. He turned
with the girl on his arm and half led, half dragged
her back to the curb where Mr. Dallison awaited his
daughter.
The doctor's forbearance during the next few mo-
ments seemed to Jerry admirable. He did not appear
to notice Nicolette's silence, her ingratitude. His
calmness and good breeding were quite undisturbed
by one of Dallison's characteristic outbursts of irrita-
tion, an avalanche of faultfinding directed against the
shop people, against Jerry, Morton, the missing traffic
man, the town government of Milton, every one and
everything except the true cause of the misadventure
—his overindulged daughter. Paul Morton did not
try to stem the tide but confined his attention to his
patient, whom he installed in the limousine between


NICOLETTE GOES SHOPPING 167
her father and her companion. There Nicolette sat
in silence, her eyes avoiding those of her physician.
Morton's manner with the girl was perfect—Jerry
thought—his only rebuke to her a playful one. Just
before the car started, as he leaned close to wrap the
rug about his wayward patient, the doctor murmured,
“Remember, after this, Miss Nicolette, little girls must
do as they are told !”


MR. HESLIN DRESSES A DOLL 169
The doctor's answer was mild in comparison with the
intense irritation which his tone revealed.
“But, Miss Dallison, allow me to be the judge of
what you need. I insist that you must sleep—you must
keep absolutely quiet. Have her maid put her into
bed, Dallison, and I will come and give a mild hypo-
dermic. . . .”
“Oh, nonsense, Morton—the child's all right; she
doesn't need to be drugged, do you, darling? You're
going to lie down now like a good girl, aren't you?
Daddy will sit beside you if you like. . . .”
“But I do not like—I desire to rest alone!”
“Oh, very well, my dear, very well!”
“Mr. Dallison, I fear you are too—”
The doctor's expostulations were here interrupted
by the voice of Lawrence, the butler, who padded up
the stair as rapidly as his years and his dignity would
permit.
“Is the doctor there, sir? Your housekeeper on the
phone, Dr. Morton. She desires me to tell you that
one of your patients has had a bad fall—arm broken,
she thinks—and will you please to come at once?”
Jerry heard Morton's impatient answer, his final
directions and warnings to Dallison, the sound of his
departing feet—also the slamming of Nicolette's door.
For an all too short period peace reigned in the Dalli-
son household. This peace was abruptly broken, for
the occupant of the blue room, by a nervous knock
upon its door and the entrance of a red-eyed, red-
nosed, incoherent Celia.
“Oh, Miss Jerry,” the housemaid sobbed, “what-
ever will you think of me? I wish I hadn't found—


17o OCTAGON HOUSE
I wish I hadn't seen— And now Heslin, that de-
tective feller, he's told Mr. Dallison and they've sent
for the chief of police and you're to come right down
to the study this minute, and. . . .”
“Oh, for heaven's sake, Celia, what has happened
now? And what have I got to do with it?”
“I can't say, Miss Jerry, I'm not allowed to say.
They told me I wasn't to talk, but I give 'em the slip
and run up here just to put you on your guard. . . .”
“Thank you, Celia. Please don't worry. I'll go
down at once.”
Only lingering to run a comb through her curly
locks and straighten her frock a little, Jerry stepped
to the corridor, but halted a moment as she heard
Miss Dallison's door open and Miss Dallison's feet
trip down the stair. “Nice obedient little thing!” her
companion muttered.
The study had been avoided by the Dallison house-
hold since the night of the murder, and Jerry shud-
dered as she passed the threshold. As Heslin rose to
meet her, one look at his face told the girl that he
not only dominated the present situation but was en-
joying it. It was he, she felt sure, who had arranged
the stage setting for the present scene, who had low-
ered shades and drawn heavy curtains so that the
room was in darkness save for a single shaded lamp
upon a distant table. The little man had placed his
audience—consisting of Dallison and McArdle, the
chief of police—and now he looked to the newcomer as
if he expected her to furnish the entertainment. Af-
fairs were delayed, however, by the paternal anxiety


MR. HESLIN DRESSES A DOLL 171
of Mr. Dallison, who desired to know if his daughter
were resting.
Jerry shook her head. “I think I heard Miss Dalli-
son come downstairs.”
Lawrence, the butler, who was about to leave the
room, turned to address his master.
“Miss Dallison is in the sun room, sir.”
Dallison frowned, then his face slowly cleared. “She
may be looking for me,” he remarked, “but it won't
do to have her dropping in here and getting all worked
up over this business of yours, Heslin—whatever it
is. Go and speak to her, Miss Day—tell her Mrs.
Goodleigh has gone to bed with a bad headache, so
she will have to stay alone for a few moments, but
I'll come to her just as soon as I'm through with this
affair.”
When Jerry had passed through the yellow draw-
ing-rooms and the peacock parlor to the glass-walled
lounge, she saw a slim figure, bright as a tropical
bird, flitting restlessly to and fro among the palms and
flowers.
“My word,” thought the companion, “how she does
love to change her clothes!”
It was indeed a different Nicolette from the dainty
miss of the evening before, the serge-clad child of
the morning, or the queerly gotten-up girl of the
afternoon. Miss Dallison's clothes had always puz-
zled Jerry, but now, little as she admired the gown,
she could not deny that it suited the wearer. That
dress had been on display in one of Milton's smartest
shop-windows—indeed, it was the type that small-town
establishments are apt to reserve for such purposes.


MR. HESLIN DRESSES A DOLL I75
black bundle at her feet, a woman's form, the head
shrouded in a long black veil.
Breaking loose from Chief McArdle's restraining
arm, Michael O'Boyle snatched up the fake corpse
and flung it full in Heslin's face. The blow did the
detective little damage as the thing was made of rags,
pillows, a mask and a cheap black wig. Jerry clung
to her young man's arm, more for purposes of restraint
than for support.
“Ah, you don't like my doll baby? There—there,
O'Boyle, no harm's done. Miss Day's not the hysteri-
cal kind.” Grinning, the detective picked up the limp
form, smoothed its skirts, and deposited it upon a
distant chair.
“I declare, Heslin, this is outrageous. O'Boyle is
right. You had no business to frighten Miss Day!”
Heslin, beneath the storm of Dallison's wrath, be-
came instantly apologetic. “Sorry, sir, but it was one
of my little ideas—and it didn't work so badly. You
see I had it prepared and hidden behind the curtain
there, my intention being not to frighten Miss Day
—oh, of course not—but to get her reaction, don't you
see? I wanted her reaction.”
“I want your blood,” Jerry heard Michael mutter
to himself; and she smiled in the midst of her resent-
Iment.
“Well, Lieutenant Heslin,” she coolly asked, “did
you get it?”
“What do you think, Miss?”
As Jerry faced the little detective an unwilling ap-
preciation crept into her eyes. “I think I see what you
mean,” she admitted. “Yes, the thing looked much


176 OCTAGON HOUSE
º
as Zélie looked. Your unpleasant little idea has proved
one thing. I was right about the veil—the black
cloud!”
There were exclamations of surprise from all pres-
ent except Heslin, who beamed in his pride.
“Exactly,” he agreed. “Wasn't that worth a little
fright? You see I’ll admit I couldn't swallow the
thing when you spoke of it this morning, thought it
was just a fancy, but later I got to chewing the mat-
ter over and I decided the experiment was worth
trying. . . .”
“But who,” questioned McArdle in puzzled tones,
“could have removed that headgear, and why was it
done?”
“And why,” Michael asked, “was the woman wear-
ing a thing like that around her head? It wasn't a
cold night.”
“Might have had a toothache,” Dallison suggested.
“Women like that are always having toothaches.”
The detective put up an impatient hand. “Let us
leave these questions for the present, gentlemen. Mr.
Dallison will never get his dinner to-night if we bring
up all the whys and wherefores in this case. I'm
now going to make up to Miss Day for my bad
treatment, by letting her surprise you all in a pleas-
anter manner.” He turned to Jerry. “Miss Day,
you acted your own rôle very nicely, now play that of
the criminal for a change. Go over to the cabinet and
steal those pearls.”
Possessed only with the desire to be through with
Heslin and his “little ideas,” Jerry crossed the room
to the end wall where the cabinet stood. The lock


MR. HESLIN DRESSES A DOLL 177
had not been mended, and it was an easy matter for
the girl to open the little door and remove the shal-
low drawers. She had not forgotten the simple trick
of the sliding panel. After a moment it moved under
her fingers, disclosing—the purple box!
Jerry heard Dallison's grunt of astonishment, but
was not greatly moved herself. As she opened the
box she looked for another of Heslin's stage effects,
supposed it would be empty or stuffed with glass beads,
but no—there on their ivory satin bed, diamond-clasped
and milky-fair, lay the Rajah's pearls!
“Good Lord, Heslin, what does this mean?” The
astonished cry was Dallison's.
The detective chuckled. “Mean, sir? This here
signifies we don't have to sit around with our hands
folded waiting for any I. P. to hunt us up a French
crook. We got plenty of our own round here—of one
kind or another!” The detective checked himself. He
was watching Jerry, waiting for her to speak.
In silent amazement the girl was staring at the
jewels. At last she lifted her eyes to meet those of
the detective. “However did they get in there?” she
asked.
Heslin took the box from Jerry's trembling hand as
Michael led her to a chair. “That,” the detective re-
marked as he handed the pearls over to Dallison, “is
what we want you to tell us.”
“Me—to tell you?”
“Exactly.”
“But I don’t know !”
“Pardon me, Miss Day—my view of it is that you
and I are the only two people—with the possible ex-


178 OCTAGON HOUSE
ception of your friend, Mr. O'Boyle—who know
where those pearls were hidden before they were re-
turned to the cabinet.”
To cover her panic, Jerry essayed a light tone.
“Well, Mr. Heslin, since the things can't walk, I
suppose it must have been you who took the necklace
out of its hiding place—wherever that was—and put
it into the cabinet.”
“And you,” the detective smiled, “who put the pearls
into their hiding place.”
“That's a lie, and you know it. I'll make you eat
those words, you. . . .” O'Boyle crossed the room at
a bound and would have seized Heslin by the throat
if McArdle, the police chief, had not hastily interposed
his own sturdy person between Jerry's young man
and the detective.
Curiously enough it was the easily irritated Dalli-
son who was now the calmest person in the room. He
took command of the situation. “Sit down, O'Boyle,
or get out,” he directed. “Let every one sit down.
Now, Heslin, no more of this theatrical nonsense.
Tell me at once where those pearls were found?”
“In Miss Day's bed, sir, sewed up in the corner
of her mattress.”
“In my bed!” Jerry queried. “Who found them,
and when?”
“Celia, the upstairs maid—this afternoon,” Heslin
answered.
“But who put them there?”
“You did l’”
“Careful, Heslin! Sit down, O'Boyle!” Again
Dallison thundered, again the heavy hand of Chief


MR. HESLIN DRESSES A DOLL 179
McArdle had need to close upon an angry young man's
arm.
It was seeing the authoritative manner in which the
big police captain laid hands upon her loyal pal that
suddenly broke Jerry's nerve. With a cry of, “Don't!
Michael doesn't know anything about this—nor do
I!” she sank low in her chair, sobbing wildly. It was
only for a moment that she lost control, but that
she had created a bad impression she distinctly real-
ized.
It was at this moment, into the midst of this tense
scene that Nicolette walked, lovely Nicolette in her
fluttering, flame-colored gauzes and her pretty golden
shoes—Nicolette Dallison as calm and serene as if she
had never had an attack of hysterics in her life.
“My dear child!” Dallison's voice was a cry of
distress. “Don’t come in here now. This will upset
you!”
“But I have ears! Just now I came to the library
for a book and I did hear some one say—Ah, my
pearls, my pearls!” The girl's eyes had lit upon the
purple box which her father had dropped upon the
table. Nicolette tore the necklace from its satin bed,
swinging it to and fro, kissing it over and over and
exclaiming, “My pearls—the pearls of my Angel
Mother l’’
For once his daughter's pretty emotion did not seem
to appeal to Dallison. His eyes turned from her to
follow his pale young secretary, who had walked to
the end of the room where she stood at a window, her
back turned upon the company.
“Miss Day,” he said, “I think you had better go


18O OCTAGON HOUSE
upstairs and rest. Have dinner in your own room, if
you like. You've been through a trying day.”
“But she is not going to stay in this house one hour
longer. She's coming away with me at once!” Michael
O'Boyle intervened.
“Beg pardon, O'Boyle,” Heslin's tone was acid.
“She'll do nothing of the sort. It lies with Mr. Dalli-
son whether we get out a warrant against her at
once, or. . . .”
“Then the matter is settled.” The look Dallison
turned on the detective was a squelcher. “Miss Day
remains here for to-night. She will not leave her
room till morning, and shall not be troubled by you,
Heslin, or by O'Boyle either. To-morrow some ex-
planation of this thing may turn up. Things may
look very differently to us all. . . .”
His pacific utterances were interrupted by an an-
noyed exclamation from the gorgeous little figure at
the table.
“Will no one tell me,” demanded Nicolette Dallison,
“where did they come from—my pearls—my lost
treasure?”
Heslin answered promptly. “They were found in
Miss Day's bed, Miss Dallison.”
“In the bed of Miss Day? How strange? Then
that is why you cry? You fear the policemens? My
poor Jherrie. . . .”
So shocked the voice, so full of sympathy the tone
that the girl at the window turned to meet the girl
at the table, who now came forward, hand outstretched.
But the jeweled hand did not meet Jerry's. It sud-
denly stiffened, pointed toward a black, limp figure


MR. HESLIN DRESSES A DOLL I8I
huddled in a heap on a distant chair near the shaded
lamp which faintly illumined a wax-pale, simpering
face. The pointing hand dropped, the girlish voice
sharpened to a scream. “Zélie-Zélie,” shrieked Nico-
lette, and, brushing past her father, she bounded like
a frightened animal from the room.


CHAPTER XVI
THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF
A MUTTON CHOP-AND AN EVEN
GREATER SURPRISE
wrong, Miss Jerry. Indeed I would! There's
not one of us in the kitchen believes you had
anything to do with. . . .”
“Thanks, Celia.”
Putting aside her dinner tray, Jerry rose and began
to pace the room. “I’m obliged for your confidence,”
she smiled, “but I'd rather you believed me too in-
telligent to cache my loot in a mattress in a house that's
kept as this is.”
“I might never have found the necklace, though,
Miss, if it hadn't been for Mrs. Goodleigh.”
“Heslin didn't say anything about Mrs. Goodleigh.
What had she to do with it?”
“Well, Miss, she makes her rounds every morning
while us girls are working, to see if everything's done
right. She's that particular about bed making—noth-
ing will suit her. I shook and thumped your mat-
tress good, as I turned it, but still she must run her
hands over it, and she says to me: “Why, Celia, you
careless girl, you've torn that tick and mended it
with a black thread!' I looked and sure enough there
was a slit in the tick sewed up just any way with coarse
"I" sooner have lost my place than get you in
182


DISAPPEARANCE OF A MUTTON CHOP 183
black cotton. I says to her, I says, “Mrs. Goodleigh,
I never tore that tick and I never mended it !” “Now
don’t make it worse by arguin’,” says she, ‘I’ve no time
for talk. You just rip that out and fix it right away,’
and off she goes. I meant to do it, but Miss Nicolette
she rang for me to go down to the library, and I didn't
get another minute till after lunch. Soon as I got to
work I felt somethin’ lumpy-like and there was them
beautiful pearls! My, I almost fainted. I was ready
to leave 'em lay, thinkin’ the police might suspect me.
You don't suppose they could, do you, Miss Jerry?”
Jerry smiled a doleful little smile. “Don’t worry,
Celia. They're too busy pinning this thing on me.
to worry about any one else just at present. Why,
they're not even paying much attention to the warn-
ing the New York police sent—that some French thieves.
were planning to steal the necklace. Did you tell
Miss Dallison what you had found?”
“No, Miss. She was lyin’ down after her lunch
gettin' rested for her drive, and she'd given orders she
wasn't to be disturbed. Anyways I didn't feel like
tellin' her first, knowing you and she wasn't. . . .”
The girl hesitated and Jerry supplemented, “Know-
ing she and I weren't friends, and she might suspect
me? You're right, Celia, but what did you do?”
“I would have spoke to you first of all, Miss Jerry,
but you'd driven over to the doctor's, so I had to go.
to Mr. Heslin, and he grabbed the pearls quick and
told me not to let on to anybody, not even Miss Nico-
lette. But I just had to let you know how I felt,
and then when you'd gone down to the study I run


184 OCTAGON HOUSE
out in the grounds for a moment and I met your
young man and I-I just put him wise. He's cer-
tainly got a way with him, Mr. O'Boyle has. . . .”
Jerry nodded. “So that's how Michael came to
turn up at the exciting moment—as usuall I wouldn't
be here now, if Mr. O'Boyle had had his way, Celia.
And I wish he had—I’d rather be in far Thibet or
sitting on the North Pole than in this house to-night!”
“Now don't you worry any more, Miss Jerry, dear.
And do try to eat a mite of this nice little supper
I fixed for you. See—I had cook broil that chop
special for you. I remember mother always used to
say Miss Jerry liked a nice hot chop. . . .”
But the tired girl could not be tempted. “Thank you,
Celia, but I just can't eat. I'll get into my wrapper
and rest. You had better go to Miss Dallison now.
It's time she was dressed for dinner, and she's prob-
ably very nervous after that fright in the study.”
Celia grinned. “She got a good scare that time,
didn't she?”
“Why, Celia, you bad girl! Haven't you any sym-
pathy?” In amazement Jerry eyed the red-cheeked
maid, who faced her coolly.
“Well, now, Miss Jerry, if you knew what I'd been
through with that one in the last two days, you wouldn't
expect me to cry my eyes out just because she couldn't
tell a rag baby from a human! My land! The way
she treats me! Slammin' and lockin' her door in my
face one minute as if she thought 'twas me was the
turglar, and ringin' and yellin' for me the next to
wait on her like. . . .”


DISAPPEARANCE OF A MUTTON CHOP 185
“There, Celia, that will do. You must remem-
ber. . . .”
Jerry's rebuke was interrupted by a sharp voice call-
ing from the next room.
“How long must I ring without attentions?”
While Jerry and Celia were still exchanging guilty
glances, Miss Dallison appeared in the doorway. She
had begun the process of dressing for dinner by ex-
changing her daring flame-color tea gown for her
modest little blue flannel wrapper, and her long ropes
of golden hair hung over her shoulders. That she
was still very nervous was evident from her pale face
and twitching hands.
“So, Celia,” she cried, “I must wait while you
gossip with this fine lady who feasts in her room?”
She gave an angry glance at poor Jerry's untouched
tray. “Come,” she commanded the maid, “do my
hair! If you are too stupid, Jherrie can do it. Al-
ready it is past the dinner hour and my poor arms
are weary.”
As she spoke Nicolette flounced over to the dress-
ing table and seated herself before it. Celia began
her task and Jerry, perched on the bed, watched with
amazement the cool young person who, after treat-
ing her companion as she had that day treated her,
could still usurp her bedroom and borrow her hair
brushes. That effrontery could go still further Miss
Dallison demonstrated by sending Celia to fetch her
gown and bidding Jerry take her place as hair-dresser.
This uncongenial task the girl accepted only out of pity
for the housemaid, whose clumsy efforts had resulted
in disaster—the entangling of a golden lock in a but-


DISAPPEARANCE OF A MUTTON CHOP 187
“Oh, take it, Celia,” Jerry yawned. “Give dear old
Bruce that special chop, with my compliments.”
“Bruce? Who is Bruce? Ah–the old dog of whom
my father did tell me. Where is he?”
Nicolette walked to the window and peered out into
the gathering dusk. As Jerry, who was determined
not to be drawn into a conversation with her, kept
silence, Celia answered the question.
“His kennel's at the back, Miss. We have it near
the kitchen door, because he's such a grand watch-
dog. Would you like to see him?”
“Oh, no, it is too late. To-morrow perhaps. . . .
Believing herself free, Celia's hand was on the door
when she was again halted. “I change my mind,”
regally announced Miss Dallison. “Put down that
tray. Go-fetch the white shoes—go! And do not
stare at me, stupide!”
Jerry was obliged to turn her back so that her face
should not betray her opinion of Nicolette and her
childish outbursts. When she turned again, Celia had
brought the dainty white shoes and was fitting them
on Miss Dallison's feet, a process not without diffi-
culty.
At last the mistress of the blue bedchamber found
herself alone. Getting into a wrapper, she stretched
herself on her bed meaning to rest and then rise to
pack her belongings. Yes, Michael was right, it was
impossible to stay longer in this house. She must
have everything ready to leave immediately after
breakfast—if only they would let her go. But the
police—that fiend, Heslin? Terrible thought! Per-
haps they really would arrest her—put her behind
99


'I88 OCTAGON HOUSE
bars? And her mother! So far Jerry had managed
to pacify her anxious parent by means of a reassuring
telegram and an explanatory letter, but now. . . .
Try as she would, the girl could not banish the multi-
tude of forebodings that beset her. . . .
“Miss Jerry!”
Jerry was half inclined to feign sleep rather than
be disturbed by more of the housemaid's gossip, but
she wearily answered, “Come in, Celia!”
“I’ve got something for you—from your young
man!”
Briskly Jerry snapped on her bedside light and
stretched her hand for the slip of paper.
Jeremiah beloved [the note ran]. Come at
once to the little arbor beside the lily pool. Im-
portant news. Don't fail me.
Michael.
Fail? Had she ever failed him in scrape or lark
or madcap escapade in all their gay career? Now they
might be headed toward more serious disaster than
those childish days had ever known, but Michael's
partner was as ever game.
“Your young man he give me an awful fright,”
giggled Celia. “I go out in the yard every night
round this time with the dog's dinner, and comin'
back I see somebody step from behind a tree sudden-
like. I was just goin' to let out a yell when I see it
was Mr. O'Boyle again. He put this in my hand
and told me to slip it to you without anybody know-
ing!” Clearly the naughty Celia sensed an intrigue
and delighted in abetting it.


190 - OCTAGON HOUSE
Later there would be a glorious moon, but the night
was still young, the darkness intense. Jerry was startled
as a big moist nose thrust itself into her hand.
“Down, Bruce,” she whispered, pleased that the
old dog had recognized a friend. She heard him
settle again to the gnawing of an especially toothsome
bone, as she crossed the drying-yard into the vegetable
garden and so found her way to the narrow path
through the shrubbery. Before she reached the pool
a tall lean figure stepped from the arbor to meet her,
and she was folded in a hearty hug.
“You poor kid?” exclaimed Jerry's young man. “I
want to wring that Heslin's neck, and I will yet, by
George, if. . . .”
Michael's pal freed herself from his embrace with
a dry little laugh. “I certainly wish those wretched
pearls had stayed lost or turned up somewhere else
than in my bed. . . .”
“A plant, of course,” Michael grumbled, “but you
can’t make that fool, Heslin, see an inch farther than
the end of his ugly little nose. Call him a detec-
tive. . . .”
“But, Michael,” Jerry hastily interrupted, “why did
you get me out here? You know you've no business
to hang around the house like this, and I’m supposed
to stay in my room. I'm a nervous wreck, you know,
or a dangerous criminal—I don't quite know which—
maybe both ! So what are you up to? If it's one of
your jokes. . . .”
But Michael's keen young face showed none of its
usual gayety. He drew Jerry to the arbor bench and
settled himself beside her. “Dear,” he said, “I’ve got


DISAPPEARANCE OF A MUTTON CHOP 191
a clue with a capital C. The possibility of it dawned
on me this afternoon. . . .”
“This afternoon!” Jerry sniffed. “Then you were
doing something more useful this afternoon than
snooping round the house trying to flirt with Nicolette
Dallison? I suppose you won't deny you were hiding
behind the beech tree, staring at her?”
“I do deny it,” said Michael calmly.
“Michael O'Boyle! I was right there—I saw you
with my own eyes. . . .”
“You saw me spying on a girl—I’ll admit it. But
that girl, my Jerrykins, was not Nicolette Dallison P’


MLLE. X I93
\
at their chateau on the Marne where she stayed till
she sailed for America.”
Michael nodded, smiling grimly. “I didn't suppose
that they would let her dance in a Paris cabaret.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
Michael had paused to find a match for his cigarette.
Jerry watched him impatiently. “Do hurry,” she said,
“or I’ll—”
“It’s like this. My visit to my uncle this fall was
my second, as you know. I went over last May, when
he became ill, to arrange in London for the sale of
his collection of art objects in New York. The dear
old chap insisted on blowing me to a few days in
Paris, and I made the usual sight-seeing round with
a man I know—Bates, his name was. He's the type
of artist-chap that's always unearthing some third-
class talent and raving about it—till he finds the next
one. Well, he dragged me into his favorite cabaret
for a midnight supper—place called “La Caniche
Jaune,' I think, to see a girl dance—the ‘Yellow
Poodle Girl,” the fellows called her. Bates insisted
on getting a table close to the platform so we could
have a good view of what I thought a very poor
show. The chief feature of it was—that girl!”
Michael nodded toward the house.
Jerry was silent. Her young man's unusually seri-
ous demeanor had impressed her even more than his
words. “But it must have been some girl who looked
like Nicolette,” she at length exclaimed.
“I thought that at first—when I had my first glimpse
of this young person—let's call her Mlle. X for con-
venience—as she passed me in the car with Dallison


MLLE. X I95
“Yes, it was twelve years in all, ten years since
he had been over. She was a child when he saw her
last, and, of course, a father wouldn't. . . .” Jerry
stopped abruptly, her mind suddenly thrilled by the
recollection of that evening in the study, of her own
strange sensations as she gazed at the portrait of
Nicolette's mother, the mother-face that had seemed
to harden as it watched the girl rifle the old cabinet
of its treasure. She came back to reality with a start.
“But it's impossible anyway. There was Zélie, Mme.
Fouquert's own maid—she knew Nicolette too well
to have been fooled. And why should a girl like that
want to come here? Not to steal the pearls, because
she didn't know about them, or—but what is the
matter with you, Michael?”
For the young man, suddenly relaxing from his
mood of grim earnestness, was rocking back and forth
in ecstasies of silent mirth. “Dallison,” he groaned,
“this house—the welcome—the pearls served up on
her plate for dinner, so to speak. Dallison gulled—
oh, Lord, if it is true. . . .”
Jerry gave an impatient glance at her young man.
“I wish you would be quiet and let me think if you
can’t. You don't seem to see the point. If by any
wild chance you should be right about this, Mikey,
I don’t care about Mlle. X, this Yellow Poodle creature
—I want to know—where is Nicolette?”
Michael nodded gravely. “That's it—where is Nico-
lette? But it's only through Mlle. X that we can find
her—she must know.”
“Oh—you don't suppose Nicolette could have been
kidnaped—or murdered, like poor Zélie?”


196 OCTAGON HOUSE
“Of course not.” Jerry's gray eyes were moist and
Michael slipped a reassuring arm about her shoulders.
“Now tell me this.” He became suddenly business-
like. “You’ve never liked this girl from the first.
Why not? Apart, of course, from the abominable
way she's treated you. But is there anything odd
about her—anything that doesn't seem to fit in with
her surroundings?”
“Several things. She's been a puzzle and a disap-
pointment from the first. Her ways are—well—not
what one would expect from a girl brought up in a
strict convent school and an old French chateau. Little
things, of course, count such a lot in a girl—her
voice, her laugh, her manner with servants. And
here is something I noticed not an hour ago. She
has used hair dye and it's wearing off!”
Michael whistled. “Yes, Mlle. X was a shade or
two blonder in her cabaret days. Any more items?”
“One thing that is queer. Her shoes are all too
small—except the slippers she bought in Milton, and
her dresses are too short and just a tiny bit too
tight. . . .”
“Swiped the other girl's wardrobe which didn't
fit any better than the personality. I'll bet my hat
on that,” Michael cried. “Now look here. I believe
we've made a discovery. What are we going to do
about it?”
“I don't see what we can do except to wait and
watch her—and yet—oh, Michael, for Nicolette's sake,
we can’t wait.”
“Just so. I’ve a mind to go and warn Dallison this
minute. . . .”


198 OCTAGON HOUSE
ready sympathy, his warm indignation. But time was
short. Jerry remembered how much more important
was this matter of Mlle. X than anything else just
at present, and decided to postpone her account for
another occasion. “Remind me to tell you a ghost
story some time,” she remarked lightly, “something
queer I saw in the library at Octagon House. But
never mind the horrid place now. I shall have to run
back to my room in just a moment, so let's stick to
the Yellow Poodle Girl. It is no wonder that she
has deceived my chief. He knows nothing whatso-
ever about girls and has just swallowed his “daugh-
ter” whole. He's crazy about her—or thinks he is.
He gave her a lot of expensive jewelry this afternoon
to make up for the loss of the pearls, and he's prom-
ised her the emeralds. How glad I am now that he
refused to show them to her, in spite of her coaxing.
Emeralds are even more valuable than pearls, aren't
they, Michael?”
“Depends on the stones, of course. Flawless em-
eralds are almost unknown they are so rare. We
may take it these are pretty valuable. And doesn't it
strike you, Jerry, that a normal girl would have been
satisfied with that bunch of moth balls Dallison handed
out, without yelling for more?”
Jerry dimpled. “It did sound rather greedy. But,
oh, Michael, remember this! It isn't any money loss
that will hurt my chief most—no matter what the
creature gets her hands on—it's the trickery—the
fraud!”
Michael's grin broadened as the vision of an en-
lightened Dallison rose again before his eyes. “You're


MLLE. X I99
right, Jeremiah. This is the greatest hoax that ever
was put over. The Old Nick will be like a mad bull
when he discovers it. We'll have to go cautiously.
Why not try to make her give herself away? Blurt
out something about ‘Yellow Poodles,’ for instance,
and watch what Heslin calls her ‘reactions'?”
“I might try that. Or how would it do to write
Mlle. X a letter telling her she is found out and must
disclose Nicolette's hiding place at once, or we'll give
her away to the police. We can't really go to the
police, you know, Michael—at least not yet—because
of the publicity, but we can threaten to. I could slip
into Mlle. X's room with such a note and leave it on
her pincushion. . . .”
But this romantic scheme did not appeal to Michael.
“She might take advantage of the warning and skip.
George, how I hate to have you shut up in the same
house with a creature like that—even for one more
night!”
But Jerry's eyes were sparkling with excitement.
“That creature is a shy bird, Mikey, and likely to
be on the wing. I begin to see why she has hated
me from the start. Rather annoying, you know, to
find a girl of her own age—I’ve always thought she
looked older than eighteen—installed in the house when
she. . . .”
“Hush!” Michael raised a warning hand. “Some-
body's coming down the path,” he whispered.
For an instant the two conspirators clung together
in a frozen silence, then Michael swung his long legs
over the rail.
“I’ll be up this way between eleven and twelve.


2OO OCTAGON HOUSE
Give our old signal if you need me. And, anyway,
I’ll be here early in the morning to take you away.”
A stolen kiss and Michael vanished into the dark-
ness of the shrubbery. Feeling suddenly small, fright-
ened, and alone, Jerry turned to hear Nicholas Dalli-
son's reproachful accents.
“Miss Day, is that you? Are you alone? I thought
I heard. . . .”
“Oh, I am quite alone—quite alone, Mr. Dallison.
It was such a warm evening, I thought you would not
mind if I took a little walk in the garden. I—I did
not suppose I was to be regarded in the light of a
prisoner. . . .” There was a quaver of excitement
in the girl's voice which her employer misconstrued.
The young person hanging on his arm laughed
shrilly. “How strange then that we should think we
heard voices. I say to my father, “Ah, poor Jherrie,
it is her young man that she entertains. . . .’”
Jerry had started to slip past the broad form of
her employer at the arbor's entrance, but the girl in
the flowered frock had not finished with her victim.
“Wait, my Jherrie,” she cried. “Here is something
you forget.”
Jerry whirled about but it was the white hand of
Mlle. X which pounced first on the little silver case
shining in a streak of moonlight that filtered through
the ivy, Michael's match case which that careless young
man had dropped upon the table.
“But look then, my father!” The voice of the tor-
mentor was bright with innocent amusement. “Did
you know that your Jherrie smoked the cigarette?
Mmm I can smell it—how good! Is it then comme


MLLE. X 2OI
il faut—quite propaire—for the young American miss P
May I, too, learn. . . .”
“You may not!” Dallison snapped out the prohi-
bition. “I’m going to take you back to the house at
once.” He linked the girl's arm in his, drawing her
away from Jerry with a protective gesture that hurt
his little secretary more than could any outburst of
reproof. Taking the match case from his companion
he handed it to Jerry.
“Please return that to your friend, O'Boyle, Miss
Day. I noticed it in his hand this afternoon. There
was really no need to try to deceive me. I have al-
ready remarked that you pay no attention to my ex-
pressed dislike of young O'Boyle. And that dislike
has been reënforced by what I’ve heard of his actions
this afternoon.”
“This afternoon P”
Dallison nodded solemnly. “Lawrence informs me
that when he stepped out to adjust the awnings of
the sun room this afternoon, he saw this fellow hid-
ing behind a tree to stare at my daughter—my daugh-
£er! This was a few moments before he forced him-
self upon us in the study. Maybe you can understand
such conduct, but I cannot. From to-day he is for-
bidden to enter my house or grounds. I’ll thank you
to remember that.”
“I will remember, Mr. Dallison.” Jerry's reply was
meek, but hot indignation arose in her heart and at
the same time an impish desire to try Michael's sug-
gestion. It was at the girl in the childish muslin dress
she looked, as she made her next speech, carefully
stressing the last words. “It seems to me Lawrence
/


2O2 OCTAGON HOUSE
must have been mistaken, Mr. Dallison. I believe
Michael may have been staring at some one perhaps,
but not at-your daughter!”
There was satisfaction—real satisfaction—in seeing
the lovely face of Mlle. X blanch in the moonlight, in
watching her large eyes grow round with fright.
“Come, my father,” Jerry heard her murmur, “take
me away. I do not understand this so strange girl.”
“Kindly precede us to the house, Miss Day, and
in the morning I am afraid I shall have to consent
to your request and allow you to leave my house. The
plain truth is you have not proved the kind of com-
panion I desire for my daughter.”
“Very well, Mr. Dallison, good night.”
As Jerry, herded by her employer, marched back
to her room, she recalled the words of her letter to
Michael. “Just as I said,” she reflected, “fired my
very first week!”


CHAPTER XVIII
DISASTER
GIRL'S light laughter, Dallison's deep voice,
and the scratch of his match as he lit a fresh
cigar—these were sounds plainly audible to the
young detective crouched outside the sitting-room door.
That the téte-à-tête would last some time longer Jerry
felt assured, so down the stairs she padded—rubber-
soled tennis shoes are excellent foot-gear for the lady
sleuth—and through her own room to the balcony.
Here the investigator experienced her first check, the
sleeping-porch door was bolted from the inside. Back
to the corridor, a moment spent in thought, another
moment's manipulation of her own bathroom key in
the door of the green and white tiled bath, and en-
trance was effected to the rose and golden bedroom.
Here Jerry halted, feeling in her pockets for a cer-
tain object which, just at first, was not to be found.
Her pockets were apt to house a heterogeneous col-
lection of articles—handkerchiefs, of course, in the
sweater pockets and some newspaper clippings about
the murder, a tiny pad and pencil for making notes
which she hadn't made, her penknife—but where was
that little old change purse? Exploring fingers try-
ing the pockets of the sport skirt came upon Michael's
culpable match safe in one, in another a key, her own
latchkey to the little brown house in the village. It
203


2O4 OCTAGON HOUSE
was good to remember that no later than to-morrow
morning that key would open for Jerry the door to
peace and safety. But here was the purse, and from
it she drew the thing that was needed. Now the girl
gave a quick glance about the room, decorously or-
dered, carefully prepared by Celia for the night. Rose-
shaded lights were dimmed, satin-quilted bed turned
down, and beside it, on a chair, hung the prim, practi-
cal little wrapper of blue flannel. What a lot of but-
tons the thing had Half a dozen at least on each
cuff and a long row down the front reaching to the
hem. Aha! Sherlock couldn't have bettered that!
The pearl button from Jerry's purse supplied the only
missing one in the row. Kneeling on the white rug,
staring at those little French pearl discs, Jerry, the
Lady Sleuth, dealt herself no bouquets but rather
scathing blame because she had not connected up this
clue before.
“Idiot!” the young detective addressed herself.
“How long ago was it you stood watching Celia dis-
entangle one of those golden tresses? I certainly
am a bonehead l In the books, just as soon as you
grab a clue, your troubles are over; but this button
won't unbutton the whole mystery for me.”
That this was neither the time nor the place for
cogitation, the little gold clock reminded Jerry. Mr.
Dallison would not be likely to favor late hours for
his “frail” young daughter. Hastily she replaced the
wrapper and began a swift search of the room, a search
without reward. Nowhere in the ordered, luxurious
apartment was there sign or token of an occupant of
Mlle. X's caliber. Could this theory of Michael's be


DISASTER 205
a wild hallucination after all? Was this soberly under-
taken investigation of hers truly the impudent spying
it would be called were she detected?
“I ought to come on a revolver or some dope or a
message in cipher, or at least a cigarette,” Jerry grum-
bled. “I’m having no luck at all.”
She stepped into the dressing room and opened the
doors of the great cedar-lined wardrobe. It was but
scantily filled with the row of modest little frocks
on hangers, frocks that to Jerry's excited fancy made
a mute appeal for rescue, waiting like Bo-Peep's sheep
for their true owner to come and find them. Next
she peered into the deep drawers. Some were filled
with lingerie, others contained sensible woolen hose
and stout little boots as well as daintier footgear.
Hanging against the wardrobe door the investigator
recognized the blue serge cape associated in her mind
with that disagreeable encounter with Zélie on the first
night of “Miss Dallison's” arrival. On the shelf
above was the dark blue hat with its bunch of cherries.
From a slipper drawer Jerry drew forth the rhine-
stone-buckled cloth-of-gold shoes for which Dallison
had undoubtedly paid a goodly price that very after-
noon. Hunting out a buckskin tie, she gravely com-
pared the two. Yes, it was no wonder Mlle. X had
limped the merest trifle as she passed along the graveled
path from the lily pool!
While Jerry scanned the frocks and shoes, the but-
ton mystery recurred to agitate her teeming brain.
If it had been Mlle. X who, in her—or rather in
Nicolette's blue wrapper—had crept downstairs that
terrible night after her missing maid—if she, for some


206 OCTAGON HOUSE
inexplicable reason, had not wished it to be suspected
that Zélie was about to leave the house when at-
tacked . . . 2 Mystery on mystery! Jerry's mind
must be failing her to suppose so clever an impostor
as Mlle. X would conceal that “black cloud,” that
missing headgear, among the youthful garments she
had appropriated. Yet it would do no harm to look
—but where to begin the search? Hatboxes? Trunks?
Too obvious. Surely the thing must have been cut
to pieces and the shreds burned or hidden in different
corners. In despair the searcher snatched the cherry-
trimmed hat. A hat lining, now, wouldn't be a bad
place to. . . . Ah! She gasped, almost let the blue
straw fall from her fingers. . . . A find indeed, though
of a very different nature from the one anticipated.
A slash of the penknife ripped loose that queer lumpy
bandeau made of a twist of cotton wool wound with
dark blue silk. Jerry's shaking fingers loosened the
silk, tore apart the wool, revealed—a doubled rope of
shining pearls!
The little sleuth turned cold from head to foot as
she held the jewels in a vise-like grip. What next?
Was there never to be an end to this puzzle? Had
she not, only a few hours ago, seen Nicholas Dalli-
son remove those pearls from his “daughter’s” neck?
That was after the girl, who had run from the study
in her fright over the fake corpse, had been brought
back to be petted, reassured, and comforted. Just
before retiring in disgrace to her own room, Jerry
had heard Dallison declare, “It’s the safe this time
for these,” had seen the pearls replaced upon their
satin bed, had watched the heavy doors swing open


DISASTER 2O7
and close again upon the purple box. And now—the
necklace lay in her hand!
Steps in the corridor. Too late Jerry awoke from
her meditations, realizing her plight, visioning Dalli-
son's face should he discover his already suspected sec-
retary crouching among his daughter's dresses, the
necklace in her clutch! The wardrobe seemed the
safest refuge, as there was no exit from the dress-
ing room to the corridor, and already the bedroom
door was opening. Dallison was escorting his “little
girl” to her room. Jerry, as his hand turned the key,
heard him good-humoredly chaff his “daughter” for her
precaution in keeping her apartment locked. Then
came the good-night kiss, the final tender inquiry.
Where was that maid, that Celia? Nicolette must
ring for her—tell her to make up a bed in the dressing
room—how would that do—eh?
It was a merry voice that reassured the anxious
parent. Nicolette would arrange all that with Celia.
She would sleep well, yes, yes, she was half dead with
sleep now, so “good night, my little father!” With
the closing of the door behind Dallison, the cautious
turning of the key in the lock, came to Jerry the
realization that she was shut in, alone with a very
cool, doubtless a dangerous criminal.
For a moment there was silence in the bedroom;
then Mlle. X gave a strange little laugh, followed by
one or two quick, gasping breaths. She stepped into
the dressing room, her flowered skirt brushing against
the wardrobe doors. She closed and locked the bed-
room door behind her, locked the door leading from
the dressing room to the blue boudoir; then switched


DISASTER 209
girl in the clothes closet, her fingers were busied with
a task not easy to perform in the dark, in cramped
quarters. By good luck, Jerry happened to be wear-
ing a string of white coral beads over her silk blouse.
These had to be substituted for the pearls which were
temporarily secreted in her pocket. Then the bandeau
with the beads inside was rewound with the blue silk
and thrust back into the hat, being fastened there by
a couple of pins. Once this was done and an effort,
however feeble, made to save the necklace, Jerry felt
free to put all her attention on the young French-
woman, who now knelt before a trunk, littering the
floor with a variety of schoolgirl belongings, poking
here and there with impatient fingers till from what
appeared to be pockets contrived in the tray linings,
she drew forth a curious collection of articles.
If a single lingering doubt had remained at the
back of Jerry's brain, a solitary hope that Michael's
belief might be mistaken, that doubt and that hope
were forever quenched. Mlle. X examined a small re-
volver, then laid it down within reach of her hand;
she shook out and tried on a thin gray silk motor
coat, pulled the black bobbed wig over her fair hair,
topped it with a soft silk motor hat, added as a finish-
ing touch a pair of shell-rimmed glasses, and sur-
veyed the whole in the long mirror with so satisfied
an expression that the watcher in the wardrobe came
near bursting out into hysterical laughter.
The revolver was now slipped into the bosom of the
flowered frock. Wig, cap, coat, and glasses were
crammed into the little bag. As the catch closed, made-
moiselle cocked her fair head to one side, listening.


2 IO OCTAGON HOUSE
Going softly to the window, she thrust it open. Dis-
tinctly Jerry could hear the signal—the faint, faraway
hooting of an owl. The sound was followed by a low
bark from the old dog in his kennel at the back of
the house. Could that call be Michael's, Jerry won-
dered. Their signal was an owl's hoot, but it was
she, not he, who was to call!
Mlle. X did not seem disturbed, but rather reassured
by the sound from without. As if in answer to
it, she quickly extinguished the light. Throwing
open the wardrobe door she snatched the blue hat
and cape, coming so close to Jerry that her sleeve
brushed against the girl's panic-stricken face. Then
mademoiselle departed into the bedroom. In a mix-
ture of emotions, relief at not having been discovered
and terror of what was to follow, the little sleuth
ventured forth from her hiding place and peered
through the crack of the door into the bedroom where
the light still burned. The French girl had donned
the blue cape, also the hat—after reassuring herself
by a hasty fingering of the lining. Now she stood
at the window, ugly lines sketching themselves about
the beautiful mouth, callous cruelty creeping into the
dark blue eyes. She was listening to old Bruce's rum-
bling growl and the clanking of his chain, she was
fumbling at the looped folds of the rose silk window
hangings, she was drawing something forth—a curi-
ous object to come from such a hiding place—Jerry's
neglected chop! Running her fingers into the lining
of the blue cape, mademoiselle produced a folded paper
from which she shook a white dust thickly over the
lump of meat. Then she wrapped the chop in her


DISASTER 2II
handkerchief, pocketed it, caught up her bag, and
cast a swift, searching look about the room. Over
gold-backed brushes, trays, candlesticks—all the lux-
urious paraphernalia of the toilet set, her eye passed
without regret to rest avidly upon the same object
which had caught her attention the night of her ar-
rival and drawn down Zélie's wrath upon her—the
little golden clock! A low laugh, a quick pounce, and
the toy was added to the bulging contents of her
traveling bag. Then lights were extinguished, the
glass door opened, and Jerry heard cautious move-
ments upon the sleeping porch.
The time for action had come. Stealthily Lady
Sherlock followed across the room, stopping only long
enough to drop the Rajah's pearls into the depths
of a gilded flower basket. The moonlight was still
fairly bright on the sleeping porch, and Jerry, as she
peered between the curtains, was surprised to see no
trace of Mlle. X. She could hear a panting breath,
however, discern a commotion among the massed vines
below the rail. Stepping softly out, crawling on hands
and knees across the balcony, Jerry dared to look
down. Ah, that was the secret. Mademoiselle had
neither jumped from the rail nor climbed down the
wistaria vines, she had descended by means of that
frail rope ladder! A path for one is a path for two,
yet in a saner moment, Jerry Day, strong and vigor-
ous as she was, would have shrunk from the perilous
descent accomplished so quickly by Mr. Dallison's
“daughter.”
“I’d rather save old Bruce than a hundred pearl
necklaces”—that was the thought paramount in the


212 OCTAGON HOUSE
girl's mind as she slung herself over the rail and
clawed her way down to the ground. Into the bushes
now and around the house after Mlle. X, to the sweep
of gravel by the tradesmen's entrance where the dog
kennel stood. His suspicious growl weakening to a
welcoming whine, the old collie nosed into a clump of
dahlias from which protruded a hand holding forth
a tempting morsel.
Then it was that Jerry lost all discretion, all fear,
all sentiment other than that reckless rage, that holy
horror which overflows the souls of animal lovers at
the sight of cruelty. With a gasping cry, she hurled
herself on Mlle. X, snatched the poisoned meat from
her hand, and flung it far beyond the reach of Bruce's
chain.
Mildly the paling moon looked down upon an ugly
sight. Two girls locked in a silent, deadly struggle.
Panting breaths, stumbling feet, ashen faces meeting,
furious eyes glaring in open enmity at last. Very
quickly Jerry knew the truth. Mlle. X was the
stronger, the more used to doing battle with those
sharp-nailed hands. Back she was pushing her oppo-
nent, back into the thicker shrubbery, away from the
growling dog. Now she freed one hand, now the
nose of her revolver pressed Jerry's throat.
“Back,” she hissed. “You make a noise—I kill !”
Jerry obeyed, terrified by the venom of that voice.
It was then that both girls heard a step in the shrub-
bery. The little detective's heart leaped. Surely this
was Michael—surely this meant help. But Mlle. X
also heard the step, and welcomed it. She gave a low
call, whispered a brief command. Jerry tried to turn,


DISASTER 213
to see who was creeping upon her from behind. The
scream that started from her lips was smothered by a
pad of drug-drenched cotton. Her arms were pin-
ioned to her sides. Darkness—an odor sickly sweet
—rough, coarse cloth covering her head and twisted
tightly, cruelly about her throat. Michael, Michael!
Darkness . . . hideous, smothering darkness.


CHAPTER XIX
THE MISSING THREE
HE beaten biscuits were not so light as usual,
the deviled kidneys were not flavored to Mr.
Dallison's taste. These disasters, by which
the peace of the whole household was threatened,
would never have occurred had not Mrs. Goodleigh so
weakly succumbed to that attack of neuritis, leaving
her place behind the coffee urn for once vacant. Mr.
Dallison missed her. He needed some other than the
imperturbable Lawrence to rail at. There was small
comfort in the reflection that another face, younger
and more charming, would soon be missing from his
intimate circle. Jerry was going. Jerry, with her
gay smile and her quick, clever ways—Jerry his “handy
man,” as she had laughingly called herself.
It was disappointment with the girl that had made
him lose his temper in the garden last night. She
seemed to be making no effort at all to win Nicolette's
affection. Preferred to forget her responsibilities and
waste her time flirting with that good-for-nothing
young O'Boyle. And yet evasions, sly flirtations,
moonlight philanderings—these things were not like
the girl he had relied on. Last night's affair was prob-
ably all O'Boyle's fault. . . .
Just here Mr. Dallison's meditations were inter-
rupted by the entrance of Lawrence, the butler. “It’s
214


216 OCTAGON HOUSE
yet, the moment my back is turned you disregard my
wishes! Worse than that—not content with confin-
ing your attentions to my secretary, you begin to try
to flirt with my daughter. Yes, sir, you were seen—
seen staring at my windows, at my daughter!”
“I beg your pardon, sir, I was not annoying your
daughter.”
“You mean because she didn't happen to observe
you? That's all right, young man! Try anything
like that again, and I'll break every bone in your fresh
carcass!”
Michael's tanned cheek had brightened to the scar-
let hue of rage, but he kept a strong hold on himself
as he answered: “Mr. Dallison, I should much pre-
fer to leave this house at once and let what I have
to tell you reveal itself in time—as it certainly would
—but I don't dare take that responsibility. Now, sir,
it's up to you. Either listen to my story, or let me
go to the police with a matter that pertains personally
to you.”
A little cooled by the preliminary venting of his
wrath Dallison lowered his bulk into a chair and in-
dicated to his caller that he might be seated. “I’ll
give you just two minutes,” he grunted, snapping open
his watch.
Michael plunged into his story, making poor work
of it, he felt—so impossible it seemed to tell such a
thing to such a man. During the first half of the
account—a vivid but compressed description of the
visit to the Paris cabaret, his impressions of the young
dancer with whom his friend, Bates, was infatuated,
Dallison listened in bored silence. By the end of the


THE MISSING THREE 217
tale he was half out of his chair, struggling for words
adequate to express his fury.
“So I fear,” Michael hastily concluded, “it’s just
possible you have been made the victim of a hoax.
When I was in London two weeks ago, Bates wrote
me the Yellow Poodle Girl had disappeared—under a
cloud. I got a glimpse of the girl who was with you
in the car yesterday and the likeness surprised me so
I didn't rest till I saw her again—in the sun room.
Later, when she came into the study, my suspicions
were verified, and I felt, I’ll swear, she recognized me.
I wasn't annoying your daughter because she-she—
isn't your daughter.”
“You crazy fool!” Dallison's roar could be heard by
Lawrence and Frederick in the hall.
“But remember, sir, you haven't seen your daughter
since she was a child. . . .”
Dallison, for so heavy a man, was quick at the
attack, but his guest was not unprepared for the on-
slaught and stepped nimbly behind his high-backed
chair.
“Get out of my house,” his host thundered. “Get
out before I pitch you out! So this is the latest of
your fairy tales, eh? You've confided this pipe dream
of yours to the police, I suppose? Spread this sweet
little scandal about my motherless girl? Damn you,
O'Boyle, I know what you're after, a sensation for
your flimsy red rag of a paper—Dallison Deluded—
Daughter a-’ Some such lying, gutter-press scandal.
Oh, I tell you, I'll break you for this, you filthy young
scoundrel, I'll drive you out of town, I'll ride you on
a rail. . . .”


218 OCTAGON HOUSE
In the midst of the tirade the library door opened,
Mrs. Goodleigh's gentle knock having been unheard;
and that lady walked into the room. The perturbation
of her mind was betrayed by her panicky expression
and the dowdy effect of her negligée over which she
wore two woolly white shawls, one wrapped round
her disheveled head and the other swathing her shaking
shoulders.
“Stay out, Goody,” Dallison bellowed. “Can't you
see I’m busy?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dallison, but they told me Mr.
O'Boyle was here to fetch Miss Day, and I thought
he ought to know that she has gone. . . .”
“Gone? Jerry gone?” It was Michael's startled
query.
“Huh ! I'm not surprised. I dismissed her last night
for reasons you can guess, O'Boyle.” Dallison drew
a petty satisfaction from this jab at Michael.
“And—and, Mr. Dallison,” faltered the housekeeper,
“your daughter doesn't seem to be in her room or in the
house.”
“And I’m not surprised at that!” It was Michael's
turn to Sneer.
“Mr. Heslin, sir,” announced Lawrence from the
doorway.
The little detective bustled in with his usual effect
of energy and importance, but his keen eye took on a
hungry gleam as he gathered from his first glimpse
of those present that something vital was going on in
which he had no share.
“Well, gentlemen,” he began, “any news? If you
haven't got any for me, Mr. Dallison, I have some


THE MISSING THREE 219
for you. Had a phone from Inspector McCarthy of
the I. P. this morning. Seems the French police have
verified that rumor about the gang that was out for
the necklace. There's been a general round-up of sus-
picious parties over there, of course—trying to keep
'em from slipping through the draught nets. France
is the last place a crook wants to linger in at present,
if he can frame up a scheme to get away. This gang is
said to consist of four at least, but we've only got the
family history of two of 'em. It's a queer business,
Mr. Dallison—very queer. . . .”
“But what are you doing here, Heslin? I thought
you were to have left town this morning to finish
off that case you spoke of P”
Dallison's voice was acid, and he flung a contemptu-
ous glance at the little man whom he had not forgiven
for the “doll-baby” episode of the night before.
The detective had apparently forgotten or ignored
the scathing rebuke then administered. “That's all
right, sir,” his cheerful voice continued, “I counted on
gettin' off, but this thing—this new development—
taken in connection with the finding of the necklace
yesterday, made me change my mind. I fixed it up by
phone with the authorities to stay on here to-day at
least. I wanted to give you this dope I have from the
I. P. and—well—have a kind of confidential chat with
you, sir. You see the thing is clear enough—there's
somebody in this house that's been working with some-
body on the outside. We want to lay hands on both
parties. Now I'm perfectly willing to admit I'm as
liable to mistakes as any other man. If I've been
barking up the wrong tree so far, I don't mind saying


222 OCTAGON HOUSE
Dallison frowned. “My daughter recovered from
her fright much more quickly than could have been
expected, considering its nature,” he answered stiffly.
“I wanted her to rest, of course, but she said she was
too nervous, and insisted on staying up for dinner.
We dined alone as Mrs. Goodleigh was ill and Miss
Day preferred to have dinner in her room. Nicolette
and I met her in the garden afterwards, however,
where we were taking a stroll. Later my daughter and
I sat here in the library. The child seemed very nervous
and depressed, as was only natural. She was sitting
here on the arm of my chair, talking to me, when I
noticed the tears in her eyes.”
Dallison paused and during the brief moment of
his silence the picture he had conjured up flashed be-
fore the eyes of his hearers. The somber, richly fur-
nished room, father and daughter together in the great
chair by the fireplace, the bright head against Dal-
lison's gray thatch, a white arm, perhaps, creeping
round his neck. . . .
“Of course,” Dallison had mastered his emotion
and spoke in his usual hard, matter-of-fact tone, “I
knew that wouldn’t do. Dr. Morton had warned me
of my daughter's hysterical condition. But I am not
used to dealing with young people and I was at my
wits' end how to distract the child, when she herself
suggested I should bring out the old photographs and
family treasures.”
“Treasures? Would you mind explaining, sir?”
Heslin's voice was deferential.
“There were certain medals and foreign decorations,”
the great man replied, “some interesting autographs,


THE MISSING THREE 223
too, that I knew would interest Nicolette, and then
there was that jewelry of her mother's the child was
so anxious to see—a set of emeralds that had been
an heirloom in my wife's family.”
“Emeralds?” In spite of his caution Michael's lips
let fall the word in so startled a tone that Dallison
turned a scathing look upon him. It was by a visible
effort that he ignored the interruption.
“After a while,” he continued, “I remembered a cer-
tain miniature of Mrs. Dallison that I keep in my own
sitting room, so we went upstairs. . . .”
“Pardon me, don't go too fast, sir!” It was Hes-
lin's admonition. “What did you do with those jewels
you spoke off Emeralds are mighty valuable, aren't
they? You put them in the safe, I suppose?”
“Of course they were returned to the safe,” Dallison
rather testily answered. “My daughter is very reason-
able. While she admired her mother's jewels im-
mensely, she had the taste to see that they are not suit-
able for her at present. I have promised to have them
reset for her when she is older.” It was with con-
temptuous defiance that at this moment Dallison met
Michael's alert eye.
“And then, sir?” Heslin prompted.
“Then, after we had looked at the miniature, and
chatted for some time, I found it was getting late, so
I insisted that Nicolette should go to bed. I made her
promise to have her maid sleep in the dressing room,
so that she would have some one within call. . . .”
“But she didn't send for Celia,” the irrepressible
Mrs. Goody broke in. “Nicolette had already given


226 OCTAGON HOUSE
“I thought perhaps the poor child had been taken
with one of her nervous spells, and that Jerry had
gone in to look after her, so I knocked at her door
twice and then Celia came along and said she had been
told not to disturb her mistress, but by that time I’d
begun to get one of my queer turns. I don't know
how it is, gentlemen, but I’ve always been a great one
for premonitions. I just know when awful things are
going to happen—my mother's family were all like
that. . . .”
“Yes, yes, Mrs. Goodleigh, we understand how you
felt, but what did you do?”
“Do? I had a cold chill right down my spine,” the
housekeeper gravely proceeded, “and a perfectly awful
clammy feeling as if something heavy and cold as the
grave were sitting right on my chest.” Here the ex-
cited woman illustrated her symptoms by pressing both
plump hands against her heaving breast. “I couldn't
see a thing through the keyhole, so I sent Celia round
through Miss Day's room to the balcony, but the
sleeping-porch door was locked. However, I'd found
out by that time that the bathroom door to the hall
was open—it is usually kept locked—and we went in
that way. There was nobody in any of the rooms.”
As Mrs. Goodleigh paused for breath, Dallison got
impatiently to his feet. “That's enough,” he com-
manded. “Heslin, are we to sit here all morning and
talk, while my poor girl may be roaming about in the
woods somewhere—had a nervous collapse perhaps?
Good Lord, what a fool I’ve been to let her overdo!
Morton warned me....”


THE MISSING THREE 227
Heslin was at the door. “I’m going now to give
my men directions for a careful search of your grounds
and the whole park, sir. Don't worry. I’ll keep every-
thing confidential for the present.”
As the detective hurried out, Michael strode to the
telephone. “Will you let me see if I can locate Miss
Day, sir?”
“Go ahead. For heaven's sake, do anything you can
think of.” Anxiety seemed to have banished Dallison's
resentment. His expression was bewildered, as if he
were groping blindly in any direction from which help
might come. Nevertheless he pulled himself together
and stepped out in the hall to give directions to Law-
rence, after which he returned to the study and began
to pace the floor, his attention divided between Michael
at the desk phone and the figure of Heslin who could
be seen from the window in excited converse with one
of the policemen.
The sole result of Michael's inquiries was disappoint-
ment, and as he was communicating the fact to Mr.
Dallison, Heslin entered briskly.
“Just had a word with the chap who relieved the
man on guard at the front gate last night—Parks is
his name. This Parks has just been round the house
and discovered something pretty queer. . . .”
“What is it—what now, Heslin?” Dallison's voice
was one rasp of impatience.
“A ladder, sir, a rope ladder hanging from the
sleeping-porch rail. It was 'most hidden by the vines.
At the back of the house he found indications of a
struggle of some sort in the shrubbery. Also wheel
marks of a big powerful car that must have waited a


228 OCTAGON HOUSE
little way down the road from the tradesmen's en-
trance. . . .”
“Murder! Oh, I knew it—I knew it! Murder! I
told you so. I knew it was something terrible! They're
kidnaped—both of them. They're killed—like poor
Zélie. Oh, oh!” . . . Still sobbing, still exclaiming,
poor Mrs. Goody—whose presence her employer had
completely forgotten—was escorted to her room, Celia
having been summoned for that purpose. When the
door had closed behind the two, Heslin, assuming his
most official air, turned to the master of the house.
“Mr. Dallison, I must ask you to examine that safe
of yours at once.”
“But why? Why bother with that now?” Dallison
frowned at him.
“I'm afraid you may find out it's well worth while.
Anyhow, it's my duty to see it done.” So speaking,
the little detective led the way into the study where
Nicholas Dallison prepared to comply with his wishes,
though rather reluctantly. -
“Do you mean there may have been burglars here
again last night? Your man was on guard at the front
gate, and old Bruce was at the back—he's an excellent
watchdog. I did think I heard him bark once or
twice, but he soon quieted down.”
“Hm,” sneered the detective. “Guards and watch-
dogs don't do much good, Mr. Dallison, when the
trouble comes from the inside. That ladder was for a
getaway, of course. But—talkin' of dogs—yours had
a narrer squeak for his life last night. Look at this
that Parks picked out of the bushes.”
Nicholas Dallison, on his knees adjusting the com-


230 OCTAGON HOUSE
leather cases were still there, the whole being nicely
weighted by means of a heavy glass paper weight and a
couple of bronze ash trays. Of jewels or medals there
Were none.
For a moment there was silence in the room as the
owner of the box stared at it in bewilderment. “But
it's—it's impossible,” he finally stammered. “The case
was locked—and the lock is not forced or broken. My
daughter packed away the things herself. It amused
her to rearrange them. I saw her lock up the box and
put it in the safe which I then immediately closed.”
“You saw her lock up the box—minus the jewels,”
remarked a quiet voice. Michael O'Boyle was standing
by the center table. Dallison, still crouching by the
safe, rose shakily to his feet, walked over to him and
shook his great brown ball of a fist beneath the young
man's nose.
“You young lunatic! Speak out—speak out if you
darel Do you think I'm afraid of anything you may
have to say? You imply that because the pearls are
untouched and the jewel-case lock not broken, it was
my daughter who took her own emeralds? Well, why
not? They were soon to be hers anyway. She wanted
to wear them, and I refused to let her. What if the
child played an innocent little trick and walked off with
them? What's the harm, what's the harm, I say?”
“No harm, Mr. Dallison, if you don't mind that
kind of trick, and if the girl was. . . .”
The detective had been listening to this scrap of con-
versation with interest mingled with anger. His sharp-
ened perception sensed the implications back of the


THE MISSING THREE 23 I
spoken word, and he bitterly though secretly resented
being on the outside.
“By George, you've guessed it,” he broke in eagerly.
“Miss Nicolette slipped the jewels upstairs with her.
She probably wanted to show them to Miss Day—a
girl sometimes likes to brag of her belongings, you
know—specially to another who hasn't got anything.
And maybe little Miss Jerry got envious and made off
with—”
“Stop right there!”
By the swift change on Michael's face Heslin knew
that he had not sprung his trap in vain. Indignation—
determination to defend the girl he loved—drove all
other consideration from the young man's mind.
“Leave that name out of this business from now
on,” he commanded. “It is time, Heslin, that you
stopped hounding an innocent girl and got wise to
what is going on right under your nose. Perhaps the
—the person who put away the ash trays and the paper
weight so neatly, did carry off the emeralds with her.
I believe you, Mr. Dallison. In fact, I’ll go you one
better and say she took the pearls, too.”
Both the detective and Dallison stared in amazement
at the speaker. Michael O'Boyle, who had appropri-
ated a magnifying glass from the desk, was at that
very moment scrutinizing the necklace by its aid. He
regarded the thing a moment longer, held the pearls
up to the light, then laid them carefully back in their
case. “Mr. Dallison,” he asked, “did you ever hear
of M. T. Barham, a collector and dealer in jewels and
antiques?”
Dallison nodded. “What's that to you? Every-


232 OCTAGON HOUSE
body's heard of Old Mike Barham. Bought a bracelet
for my wife from him once. Showed him that neck-
lace, too, and got him to value it.”
“Yes, he told me he had seen your necklace. You
see, Mr. Barham was my uncle. He had me with him
a good deal and taught me a bit about precious stones
and how to distinguish them from the other kind.
I'm no expert, Mr. Dallison, but I have knowledge
enough to tell you these are not the Rajah's pearls.
This necklace looks to me like a good—a marvelously
good imitation.”
Astonishing as was Michael's statement, neither Dal-
lison nor Heslin seemed inclined to challenge it. There
was silence for a moment followed by a prolonged
whistle from the little detective. He darted from the
room and returned with the papers which he had left
on the library desk. As he unfolded the sheet he sent
a quick look, like an appeal for help, to Michael.
“My God,” he gasped, “I’ve caught on at last. I
see what you're driving at now, O'Boyle.” He turned
to the silent, bowed figure in the chair beside the safe.
“It's terrible—for you, Mr. Dallison, but I guess we've
got to look into it. Will you listen to this?” He
moved closer to Dallison and read from the sheet in
his hand:
“‘General description of two women supposed to
have left Paris on or about August 30th, working in
connection with Matthieu Leroux, alias Joseph le Brun,
in an attempt to steal a pearl necklace, commonly known
as the Rajah's pearls, owner Mr. Nicholas Dallison,
Mill Hollow, U. S. A. No. 1 : Eloise Manet, known
also as Azalie or Zélie Lançon. Age around 45, height


CHAPTER XX
THE ROOMS WITHOUT MIRRORS
ROM the black oblivion into which she had been
F plunged, Jerry Day knew two awakenings. The
first was like a dreadful dream, a patchwork
of ugly memories pieced together by painful effort,
complete only when the second awakening was a thing
of the past.
Slowly, painfully, through nauseous seas of semi-
consciousness, she rose, sank again, and rose at last
to life. For some time now she had realized that she
was lying flat on her back in a room where there were
people, noisy people who were all talking at once, argu-
ing—quarreling. About this time she discovered that
the smarting of her wrists and ankles was caused
by the thongs which bound them too closely, also that
when they had dumped her down here, some one had
dropped a handkerchief over her eyes. Absurd how
long it took her to shake the thing aside; even then
it stuck over one eye. Jerry's limited range of vision,
however, was sufficient to show her that four people
were clustered around the glass-topped desk on which,
near an electric lamp, a road map was spread out. The
backs of the two people who were standing—two
women and a man—were turned to Jerry. Of the
seated man she could see just his hand thrust into the
circle of light. It was holding a pencil, tracing a route
234


THE ROOMS WITHOUT MIRRORS 235
along the map. It was a square, thick-fingered hand
with reddish hair growing along the back. It was—
yes, it was the hand that had reached through the
arbor railing for Mlle. X's billet-doux, that had rested
carelessly on Jerry's shoulder—the hand of Morton's
“interesting” case. She did not need to hear Morton's
voice laying down the law to the blond gardener to
know where she was. In the private office overlook-
ing the dreary strip of garden, back again—a prisoner
—at Octagon House!
A girl's half-hysterical laughter broke in on Jerry's
bewildered thoughts—the well-remembered laugh of
Mlle. X |
“Queek, then,” she cried. “What use is it to argue?
One road it is as good as the other if only it takes us
away. Come, Leroux. . . .”
“All right. Give me that map, Paul, and follow us
as soon as we've had five minutes' start. We'll wait
for you at the crossroad—I have it marked. Oh, yes,
we'll wait. . . .”
The circle about the lamp broke up. A light step
crossed the room, and the girl in the gray silk motor
coat bent impudently close to the girl on the couch.
A whiff of perfume greeted Jerry's nostrils, a leather
glove struck her on the mouth. Adieu, my Jherrie,”
jeered Mlle. X. “Good-by, little friend of my good
father! Give him from me one kiss. Say I thank
him for my pearls and. . . .”
“Hush! You little fool! Take her away, Leroux.”
Another high, hysterical laugh, Morton's rebuking
voice, the slamming of a door, and the pair of strange
birds had flown.


236 OCTAGON HOUSE
Jerry lay very still. Her brain whirled, her lips
were dry, her tongue felt like a ball of wool in her
mouth. To the few words she managed to stammer
out Morton, as he bent over her, fingering her pulse,
paid no attention. Yet he avoided the direct gaze of
those accusing eyes.
“Give her another shot, I would.” The suggestion
came from the Lent woman at Morton's elbow. Jerry
remembered well those pale blue eyes, the flabby, rouged
face, the projecting yellowed teeth. “Give her a dose
that will finish her. What right had she to come
nosing round here? I suspected she was a spy! I
told you. . . .” The woman checked herself as Morton
looked up angrily.
“Shut your mouth, Lent, and take your orders. I
haven't time to waste in arguing with you. This girl
is to be kept safe till I get back. Since that pair of
fools has brought her here we'll have to keep her.
Lord, what a mess they've made of things! I'd have
made them take her along if I hadn't thought they’d
throw her out with a knife in her back at the first dark
corner.”
“Good thing if they did—we'd be saved some trou-
ble!” The nurse bent over Jerry, thrusting the folds
of the handkerchief beneath the helpless head. Per-
haps even she was slightly discomfited by the appeal
of those clear gray eyes. She spoke, however, without
any heed to her prisoner.
“Oh, you're sweet on her, Paul, I've guessed it!
You wish she was Dallison's daughter instead of that
yellow-headed baby in. . . .”
At this point, just as the conversation, even to


THE ROOMS WITHOUT MIRRORS 237
Jerry's dazed mentality, was growing distinctly inter-
esting, Paul Morton brought it to a close.
“Shut your mouth, you jealous fool! I'm off now
—they've had start enough. I don’t like the way
Leroux's acting. If he should doublecross me, or the
girl try any of her. . . .”
“Who's the fool now, then? What did you let them
get off with the loot for? How do you know they'll
wait for you and share even?”
Jerry heard Morton curse as he struggled into his
heavy motor coat. “They don't know who the fence
is, or where he lives. Pearls and emeralds are rub-
bish till they are turned to good money. Now, re-
member, Lent, you're responsible for that girl. Get
those cords off her and stow her away somewhere.
Tell Eva she's a new patient. Don’t dope her again
till you have to-you know the dose.”
“But, Paul, Eva's suspicious now of No. 7. If we
bring in another—”
“Nonsense. If you can't control that drunken sot
upstairs, then send her packing.”
“But I can’t be left alone—Eva’s too valuable. I’m
a wreck now—I can't be left with all that work.”
“Oh, be quiet; I’m sick of your complaining. It's
only for a few days now—we'll be out of this.”
“Paul ' You mean it? You'll come back for me?
Swear you'll come back? You'll take me with you
wherever you go?”
“I swear I'll wring your neck, if you don't let go
my arm l’”
Jerry guessed that the woman clinging to the man
was roughly pushed aside. She heard her sob, her


238 OCTAGON HOUSE
~!
step following him to the door, her whispering voice.
The girl was sick with fear. Even from Morton she
felt there was more to be hoped than from the creature
in whose care she was being left. Back came Mrs. Lent
at last. Jerry could hear her wrenching open the
medicine-cabinet door, fumbling among the little bot-
tles, clinking a glass against a spoon.
“You're too pale, my pretty,” whispered the voice of
the yellow-toothed woman. “You need a little drink
and a touch o' rouge on your cheeks before you join
the other beauties upstairs. Paul won't know you
when he gets back. Here now!”
Jerry struggled feebly as the hard hands raised her
head, tried to scream as the spoon was thrust into her
mouth. All in vain. There was a roaring in her ears.
A moment more and the waters welled high around her
—black waters of oblivion that dragged her down, that
drowned her at the last.
Little wonder that on Jerry's second awakening,
finding herself in bed in a darkened room, she should
reckon those confused memories of her first to be a
dream. Soon, however, she was sitting up in bed,
clasping her aching head in both her hands. The
room was not entirely dark. A gray finger of dawn
had touched the one high window, a brighter thread
of light entered the room by a slit in the door. But it
was strange, it was not right to have a slit like that
in your bedroom door. There was nothing like that
at the Dallisons' . . . the Dallisons' 2 . . . Nicolette P
Mlle. X? Oh, it had not been a dream—she was still
here—here at Octagon House!


24O OCTAGON HOUSE
Jerry found her cheeks wet with tears. She was so
weak that she was glad to sink back upon her pillows.
That was because of the stuff the Lent woman had
given her, she supposed. It was probably only the
creature's fear of Morton that had prevented her from
making the dose the finishing one her cruelty had sug-
gested. Jerry had suffered a few bruises and scratches
in her battle with Mlle. X. The skin on one side of her
face and neck felt strangely stiff. As her courage
rallied she told herself she was indeed fortunate to be
in no worse shape, tried to force her still-dazed mind
to go back over the road she had come. Her experience
between the time of the struggle in the shrubbery and
her awakening in the doctor's office seemed still a blank,
except for the humming of a motor, perhaps—a dim
impression of being carried. Mlle. X and her confed-
erate had brought their prisoner to Octagon House
as the safest of hiding places, delivered her over to
its master—to Paul Morton, the scholarly fastidious
gentleman—Dallison's friend—and the leader, the orig-
inator, it might be, of the whole dastardly plot against
him and against his daughter. In the midst of her
own danger, her weakness and misery, Jerry could
think of Nicolette, could realize there was but little
chance of her rescue now. The thought brought re-
newed horror, fresh realization of her own plight.
The prisoner shivered, then crawled slowly out of
bed, determined to inspect her quarters. The light
from the window was stronger now, outshining the
gleam from the door, and Jerry's first discovery was an
amazing one. She was not alone, as she had sup-
posed. On a narrow couch in the darkest corner of


THE ROOMS WITHOUT MIRRORS 241
the room lay a woman, a stocky figure in a nurse's
tumbled uniform. As Jerry tottered over to gaze upon
her, the ugly gaping mouth emitted a groaning snore,
the red face flushed purple. The girl drew back in
disgust. It did not need the nearly emptied whisky
bottle peeping from beneath the pillow to explain the
creature's condition. Jerry remembered Morton's ref-
erence to the “drunken sot,” Eva, Lent's assistant.
Surely, came the consoling thought, from such a jailer
escape should not be difficult! But it was hard to think
—to plan. That door? But, of course, it would be
locked P. It was. The scant furniture in the room
consisted of a white iron bed clamped to the floor, the
nurse's cot, a toilet table beneath the one narrow win-
dow high up in the wall, and a chair which held a
pile of folded garments. Her clothes! Thankfully
Jerry slipped them on. In one of the pockets of the
sport skirt she found the telltale silver match safe
which Michael had left on the arbor table for Mlle.
X to pounce upon. She was glad to have the little
thing; it seemed like a small bit of Michael himself,
Michael whom she wanted as she had not dreamed of
wanting him before—now that she might never see
him again! Further inspection showed that but one
of her small possessions tucked away in those pockets
was missing, the latchkey, which had perhaps been
jounced out in her struggle with Mlle. X.
Now that she was dressed and feeling a little
stronger, Jerry sat down upon her bed to think. What
was she going to do? Try to shake the drunken
woman awake? Demand to be released ? But the look
of that dull face, the coarse features, the brutal mouth,


242 OCTAGON HOUSE
made it easy to imagine that such a one had listened
often to such pleas—and laughed at them. And then
the Lent woman—she could not be far away. Jerry
seized a chair and carried it to the window. By climb-
ing on this she could perhaps reach the window fas-
tenings—ascertain from the outlook what part of the
house it was in which she was imprisoned. That she
was in the portion reserved for the worst cases—
patients of a very different type than she-or any
one else—had supposed to be living at Octagon House,
appeared certain. It was at this moment that a sound
came from outside the door, halting all action, making
the girl clutch the chair to keep her knees from col-
lapsing in sheer horror. A small sound it was, a
whimpering cry—the voice that she remembered. Now
came the pattering of soft feet, the scratching of claws
at the panels of the door. For a moment Jerry lis-
tened, then forced herself to cross the room and peer
through the slit.
The face thrust close to hers was the face she had
seen in the bookcase—the boy's face. Jerry saw again
the young throat, the wan cheek—saw, too, the blur
of matted rust-colored fur that almost hid the deep-
set, piggish eye, the thing that was not a fur lappet
after all, but a beast's ear, dangling . . . hide-
OllS. . . .
Jerry shut her eyes. Her heart fluttered, and her
brain reeled with the horror of it; but she kept herself
from screaming, stiffened herself to listen to the whin-
ing cries, the strange mouthings, the incoherent at-
attempts at speech, finally to the padding of soft feet
departing from her door and—from a distance—a


THE ROOMS WITHOUT MIRRORS 243
final, coaxing, pitiful cry. Jerry remembered the doc-
tor's glib tale of the police dog. The mad creature
who had bitten Lent's arm was, it seemed, in milder
mood. Could she bring herself to face him? The
horror outside, she decided, was no worse than this
dreadful little room. Bending over the stupefied
nurse, she felt of her apron pockets. Yes, here were
keys to be noiselessly detached from the waist band—
even though there seemed little danger of arousing
such a sleeper. Each key, Jerry noticed, was num-
bered. She had already remarked the number “2”
upon the cell door. Choosing the corresponding key,
she fitted it into the lock. A cautious step, and she
found herself in a circular gallery, gazing down the
well of a spiral staircase, a stair that offered little
hope of escape for, though it ascended yet another
flight ending in a door that led apparently to the roof,
access was prevented by a steel-barred gate. All
around the gallery were doors with numbers and slits
in them. In a flash Jerry realized in what part of
the building she had been incarcerated—those upper
rooms—the ghost-haunted attics of Octagon House!
In sudden panic the frightened girl flew to the door
in the steel cage that webbed the stairs and shook
vainly at the bars. She moved to the small, heavily
curtained windows but could not reach their fasten-
ings. Farther along the corridor an open door at-
tracted her attention. She entered and found herself
in a small room where a dim light burned, an electric
lamp standing on a table which also held a supper
tray. The nurse's retreat, doubtless, where the drunk-
ard had feasted before retiring, where by day a keeper


244 OCTAGON HOUSE
watched over the dwellers behind those numbered doors.
At that moment a low whine made Jerry turn
sharply, to find the monster boy at her elbow. Her
first impulse was to leap past him, then she checked
herself. To run wildly round that long gallery with
those soft feet padding after her, in terror of being
attacked as Lent had been attacked—that would be
only madness, the loss of the last vestige of self-con-
trol she was trying so hard to retain. Facing the boy,
she realized that there was more to pity than to fear
in the strange personality before her. He was about
her own height, a slim, lithe shape clad in a tunic of
soft leather. The legs and arms were bare, the feet in
shapeless shoes of soft material. In one of his long-
nailed, pawlike hands he grasped a child's ball which
he now began to toss, dropping it, worrying it, play-
ing—Jerry with a shudder realized—much as a clever
terrier might play with a bone. The boy indicated his
pleasure at her notice by abandoning his plaything and
rolling at her feet. Then he sprang up, erect as a
young faun, to leap and dance before her. Finally
he bounded from the room, stopping to look back at
Jerry, evidently expecting her to follow. Thus he led
the half-dazed girl along the gallery to a door at which
he crouched, peering through the slit, whining his
foolish whine of pleasure and scratching with his claw-
like nails at the panels. At last he drew back, as if
to invite the stranger to take his place. Reluctantly,
yet with a latent feeling that it would not do to neglect
the investigation of these rooms, she stooped and ap-
plied her eye to the hole in the door.
What did she see? The pleasant, homelike interior


THE ROOMS WITHOUT MIRRORS 245
of a pretty bedroom, lit by a shaded lamp; the corner
of a white bed; a comfortable armchair; pictures of
a nursery type. At a lace-bedecked dressing table,
her back to the door, sat a tall, finely formed woman.
She was dressed in a silken jacket that left bare her
white neck and the beautiful arms raised to set the
final pin among her waves of crow-black hair. All
around her, scattered on the floor and strewing the
table, was a fantastic forest of millinery, a mad riot
of bloom. There were wreaths and feathers, looped
tinsels in silver and gold, gay bunches of fruit and
rainbow-hued trails of gauze. Now the woman was
selecting a yellow rose from a heap of flowers before
her, now she was setting it daintily behind her ear.
The action was normal, was feminine, the little scene
in that pretty room so natural—only, the woman was
not looking into her mirror, but at a staring wall!
Jerry remembered a peculiarity in the furnishing of her
own cell which she had noticed, though scarcely heeded.
There, too, the mirror frame above the dressing table
had been empty. Perhaps these rooms had not been
furnished for feminine occupants? Jerry wished the
woman would turn round—and the wish was granted.
As if attracted by some sound, the woman turned
slowly, faced about toward the door. She turned,
and with a cry of horror, the watcher at the slit
dropped, fainting, in a crumpled heap upon the floor.


CHAPTER XXI
THE HIDDEN PEOPLE
that called Jerry back from the lapse of conscious-
ness she had suffered on seeing the loathsome
face of the woman in Number Five. Dimly she real-
ized that she was in a different room from that in
which she had awakened, that she was lying on a
couch with pillows, and that some one, standing be-
hind her, was adjusting a light bandage over her
eyes.
“Quiet, Foxy,” commanded a voice, “or I will send
you away.”
At once the whining ceased. A glass of water was
set against the girl's lips and she drank eagerly, per-
ceiving that it was physical exhaustion as well as horror
that had caused her collapse. Tears of weakness
sprang to her eyes. In seeking her handkerchief to
wipe them away, she drew from her pocket something
small and heavy which rolled to the floor. There was
a slow, awkward movement, a rough sleeve brushed
Jerry's arm as some one bent to the floor, recovered
Michael's little match case and—after a moment—
returned it to the girl's keeping. She tried to push
the bandage from her eyes but a large hand closed
over hers and put it gently aside.
“Little one”—she recognized the voice now as the
I' was the low, coaxing whine of the monster boy
246


THE HIDDEN PEOPLE 249
“Until”—the organ voice took on again its chant-
ing note—“until this corruption shall put on incor-
ruption.”
After a moment the man continued in his former
quiet manner: “If you are stronger, little one, you
had best go to your room before the nurse wakes.
I have my prayers to say, and my Psalm of Thanks-
giving.”
Rousing herself, the girl staggered weakly to her
feet. “But I don't want to go back to that room—
that woman,” she cried. “I must get out of this
place—away from this terrible house—at once.”
The man's tireless pacing had brought him again
to Jerry's couch and she sensed he was scanning her
thoughtfully. “It is true,” he said, “there is little
reason for you to shun your kind. You who were so
pleasing once, must be to those who love you lovely
still.”
In silent astonishment Jerry listened, a cold horror
of understanding creeping slowly upon her.
“Yet stay with us a little,” begged the speaker.
“You who are but a weed in the world's garden are
here a flower of light. Stay with us, little sister!”
There was a sadness infinitely appealing in the rich
voice, but Jerry had no heart to answer it. She put
up her hand to her cheek where the skin still felt
stretched and stiff. “What do you mean?” she cried.
“Why did you say I was pleasing once'? Am I so
ugly now? Is there anything . . . here?”
Her companion failed to answer. The silence, the
darkness, the uncertainty coupled with the hint of
the terrible thing his speech conveyed—it was all


THE HIDDEN PEOPLE 25I
into her hand but the girl would not take it from
him.
“No,” she said. “You have been kind to me, and
I am not afraid—not of you. I must see, must know
what has happened—what they have done to me.”
“You mean . . . this?” The man raised one of
his enormous hands to his own cheek, tracing a line
from brow to chin.
“Yes, what is it?”
“A mark—a stain. God's fiery finger has touched
you, too, but lightly.”
“But she must have done it—the woman who
brought me here—she wanted to kill me! And this
—this is worse. . . .”
The girl's voice was raised almost to a scream and
the gargoyle-man put a warning hand upon her shoul-
der. “Hush | When our guardian wakes from her
drunken sleep, she is not kind. You have forgotten,
my child, they have given you one of their drugs.
You are like the little one in Number Seven, whom
they carried in asleep. She is young, even younger
than you, and her Master's hand has fallen more
heavily on her.”
“A girl? In Number Seven? Is the mark on her
face like mine?”
The gargoyle-man bent his strange head.
“Then I must see her.”
Jerry's voice was firmer now. She turned to the
door but started back in fright as her foot touched
the head of the monster-boy. Foxy was curled, asleep,
upon the threshold, his weird head between his out-
stretched, pawlike hands, but he sprang instantly


252 OCTAGON HOUSE
awake now, alert as a wild thing of the woods when
its slumber is disturbed. He fawned upon Jerry with
a joyous whine, then bounded from the room. As
the girl shrank back, the gargoyle-man sighed.
“Poor Foxy, do not fear him. He hurts no one
who is kind. The woman's cruelty wakes the sleep-
ing devil in his heart. He will not harm you. Foxy
is my friend.”
“And Dr. Morton—is he . . . kind?”
The man shook his great head and frowned. “No,
Morton comes but seldom now. I think his sickness
grows on him, or the indifference that hangs like a
dark curtain over his soul. Ah!” Here he laughed
horribly. “I know Morton's god! Horns and hoofs
—horns and hoofs!”
He laughed again, and Jerry flinched at the sound
of it, yet nerved herself to go on with her question-
1ng.
“How did Foxy get out of his cell?” she asked.
“He came to my door. He was downstairs to-day.”
“They bind him sometimes, when he makes trouble.
And when all is quiet here and the thongs are too
strong even for his sharp teeth, he calls to me and I
come. I have my secret keys that I found and keep
hidden. I unlock his door and unloose his bonds.
Then he goes—how or where I do not know. Why
should I care?”
“But the nurses?”
The gargoyle-man shrugged his humped shoulders,
weariness clouding his deep-set eyes. “Ah, they, too,
have their gods, little one! The woman you saw in
your room worships a bottle, the other her ease. Both


THE HIDDEN PEOPLE 253
of them take the white powder sometimes. That
brings joy—or better—forgetfulness.”
Jerry had been thinking rapidly. “I have the nurse's
keys which I took from her,” she said. “If there is
one for the gate in the stairs, I can escape. . . .”
But the gargoyle-man shook his monstrous head.
“There is another gate at the foot of the stairs,”
he said, “and the day nurse keeps the key. She will
be coming soon to relieve the other, and bring our
food. And have I not begged you to stay, little
one?”
He moved closer to Jerry, a mad smile lighting his
dull eyes. “I will tell you a secret,” he whispered.
“It is this. Be ready! For the doors are opening—
the children are going home.” Suddenly he turned his
back upon his companion and, standing at his barred
window, flung up both arms toward a patch of morn-
ing sky. “My star,” he shouted. “My golden rose!”
Cautiously the girl crept past the madman out of
the room and stole along the corridor. From the
direction of Number Two she heard a stir and a groan,
as if the keeper were striving to rouse herself from
her drunken stupor. Without heeding, Jerry sought
and found the key of Number Seven. The room she
entered was much like that in which she had found
herself on awakening, but was more comfortably fur-
nished. There was a white-covered table beside the
bed, and a tray with medicine bottles. The air was
heavy with the scent of drugs. It was with con-
siderable effort that the girl who stood beside the bed
brought herself to scan the form of the girl lying so
quietly upon it. Jerry's blood ran cold at the thought


254 OCTAGON HOUSE
of beholding still another of the Hidden People. Yet
there was nothing very dreadful to see here, just a
young thing—almost a child—very still and white, her
pitiful little face marred by a great purple stain cov-
ering most of the hollow cheek and running down the
slender neck. Around the head a wet cloth was bound,
and now, as the girl moved in her unnatural sleep, this
was dislodged, and a mass of soft bright hair fell
from pillow to floor.
Golden hair—“fairy-tale hair”! The intruder had
to press her hand against her lips to stifle a cry of
amazement. Yes, in spite of the marred face, the
coarse garment, the cell in the Monster House—the
utter mad impossibility of it all—Jerry knew she had
stumbled on the truth. This was the true Nicolette,
this was Mr. Dallison's daughter.


CHAPTER XXII
GHOSTS
have to wait for the results of this cursed
publicity.”
He indicated with a flick of his cigar the mass of
evening papers littering the library table. Heslin
reached for the nearest, but Michael O'Boyle, already
familar with those glaring headlines, preferred to study
the harassed and weary face before him. It occurred
to the young man that Nicholas Dallison, slumped in
his chair, bewilderment mingling with the misery in
his red-rimmed eyes, was hardly to be recognized as the
aggressive, cock-sure bully who had stormed at them
all in that very room that morning.
“Publicity, sir? Sure, that's what we want!” The
detective looked up from the sheet over which he was
gloating. “That $5,000 reward of yours is bound to
bring out something. False scents at first, wild-goose
chases, I'll grant you, but in the end we'll sift 'em
down and get at the truth. But it can't be done
all at once—you got to have patience. It don't do to
get discouraged at this stage of the game. Isn't that
so, Chief McArdle?”
He glanced towards the keen-eyed Scotchman who,
being in the act of savoring the first puff of a super-
cigar of a quality that did not often come his way,
merely nodded in confirmation.
& © I' appears then,” growled Dallison, “that we will
255


256 OCTAGON HOUSE
“You're right, perfectly right,” commented Dr.
Crosby. His day had been a tiring one and he was
exceedingly weary. Lawrence had just set an in-
viting cocktail at his elbow. With a sigh of content,
he was raising the glass to his lips when the sound
of Dallison's voice and the smack of his fist on the
table made him lower it in guilty haste.
“Nonsense,” roared the inventor. “Why shouldn't
we be discouraged? We are just exactly where we
were this morning—the two girls gone and no trace
of them. Nine hours wasted—that's the result of your
investigation, gentlemen, as I see it.”
The reports of the searchers gathered for conference
in the Dallison library certainly showed scant progress.
A futile and fatiguing day was nearly at its close.
The country for miles about had been scoured for
traces of the big touring car parked near the rear of
the Dallison house the night before. Adjoining com-
munities had been visited, inquiries made in all direc-
tions. Ground that had to be covered was covered—
that was all they could assert. Even Heslin, the cocky
and confident, just back from a flying trip to the
city, could only state that the search in that quarter
had been started.
“The New York police will get that gang, sir, if
they have to comb every joint in the underworld. The
I. P. will chase 'em up through Canada to the pole,
but it'll take time. Remember, she was a cracker-
jack in her line, that bird, though she did seem to lose
her head now and then. And her getaway was made
easy. . . .”
Michael marked how Dallison winced at the detec-


262 OCTAGON HOUSE
of hay or wool or something, fresh once a week, and
to-morrow's the day. After that we'll beat it for
Octagon House—it’ll be dark enough by that time.”
The detective stared at his companion. “Octagon
House? Where's that?”
“I forgot you were a stranger here. Octagon House
is Dr. Morton's sanitarium, a queer old eight-sided barn
of a place built a good many years ago by a crank
named Peter Foule. ‘Foule's Folly' it used to be
called because of the crazy way he built it and the
fact that he sunk two fortunes in the place. The old
chap went altogether off his nut at the last and cut his
throat in one of the upper rooms. Of course the house
has been called haunted ever since. Didn't I tell you
we were going after the ghosts?”
Heslin grinned. “I suppose that's why you want to
get there after dark. So's you can see the spooks?”
Michael nodded gravely. “That's it exactly.”
“Oh, come now, O'Boyle !” The detective was
growing impatient. “If you talk much more of this
rot I'll begin to believe you belong in Morton's nut
factory, if he'll take you in.”
“I mean to get in—somehow!”
Not another word of explanation would O'Boyle
vouchsafe until, having obtained the sandwiches, they
sped up the hill again and out along the winding coun-
try road now shadowy in the gathering dusk. Michael
slid his little car beneath the fringing boughs of the
evergreens at a spot just short of the entrance to
Octagon House.
“No use bothering with the man at the lodge. I’ve
been here before to-day and was told nobody was al-


GHOSTS 267
cause of the Voices. They interfere with my inven-
tions.”
“The Voices? Won't you sit down and—er—ex-
plain?” Michael seated himself on one end of the
couch, Heslin took the other, and Colonel Nap plumped
himself in the middle. He placed one finger on his
lip, looked towards the door with the air of a con-
spirator, and whispered: “Did you never see a ghost?”
The query had a sobering effect on the two men,
who exchanged interested glances.
“Did you?” Michael parried.
“I should say sol” grumbled the colonel. “Right
here in this room. You see it's not generally known
that I work at night. Government secret, you know.
And as for those Voices! Just as I’m about to put
the last touch to one of my amazing discoveries, my
attention is distracted and the world is the loser.”
“Too bad,” Michael sympathized. “But about those
ghosts now?”
But the little gentleman, having started on a new
theme, was not to be diverted. “Look at this,” he
boasted, fishing into his pajama pocket. “Entirely my
own invention ſ”
He stretched out his plump hand and on the palm
lay . . . Jerry's latchkey! Michael recognized it at
once. He had often fitted it into the girl's door for
her after a party or a trip to the theater, better yet he
had seen her absently playing with that little key only
last evening as they talked together in the Dallisons'
garden. Last night—then she had not dropped it at the
time of her afternoon call on the doctor! Forgetting
all caution he seized the little colonel by the shoulder


268 OCTAGON HOUSE
and gave him a slight shake. “Where did you get
this?” he cried. “Tell me instantly or—”
But with a frightened squawk the little gentleman
leaped for the door at the end of the room and would
have vanished through it had not Heslin followed and
caught him by the coat tail.
“There, there, colonel, we apologize!” Heslin sent
his companion a warning scowl.
“But it's Miss Day's key,” Michael whispered.
“She had it last night—before she disappeared !”
“Sit down, Colonel Nap,” Heslin was coaxing. “If
you'll explain to us about this startling invention of
yours, we'll see what the government can do for you
about it. You ought to get a reward, a magnificent
reward. How would this do for a start?” He pro-
duced a sandwich from his pocket, holding it tempt-
ingly near the little man's nose. A greedy hand
grabbed, but the detective kept the bribe well out of
reach. “Tell us first where you found or—er—per-
fected this invention?”
The colonel chuckled merrily. “They locked my
door last night but not on me. I wasn't there. I had
already reported at my night office, in the broom closet
on the third floor, where I am engaged in perfecting
my latest invention, my little magical musical mouse-
trap. It is entirely porous and perforated and. . . .”
“Yes, yes, and then—?” It was hard for Michael
to conceal his impatience. Surely the Lent woman
had kept them waiting long enough. If she entered
now she would make short work both of the colonel
and of his inventions.
“They annoyed me as usual when I work on that


GHOSTS 271
“My name is Bangs,” O'Boyle blandly announced,
“a friend of Mr. Dallison's—one of his laboratory as-
sistants. Mr. Dallison sent me up here with the doctor.
Allow me to present Dr. Benjamin Hessland. Dr.
Hessland is an old friend and classmate of Dr. Mor-
ton's whom he has not seen in years. You'll be sorry
to miss your chum, won't you, doctor?”
“I certainly will !” The pseudo-physician glanced
at his watch with the best attempt he could make—
on such very short notice—at a professional air.
“However, there's an hour before train time. If I
can't see Paul, I can at least see his house. Kindly
show us about !” He nodded rather peremptorily to
the housekeeper, as if inviting her to precede him.
It was a superb bluff and was at least partially suc-
cessful.
“I couldn't let you see anything but this floor,”
grumbled Mrs. Lent, “not at this time of night.” Her
eyes scanned Heslin critically. “Dr. Morton takes
only a few patients who all sleep on the second floor
and retire very early. It is against the rules of the
house to have any disturbance after bedtime.”
“Quite right,” the visitor agreed gravely. “Plenty
of sleep in these cases, that's what you want, eh? Pity
they can't sleep all the time. But tell me, isn't this
house too large for your needs?”
The woman darted a queer look at him. “Oh, we
manage. Top floor's unfinished, so we shut that off
and use the third for storage. The servants sleep in
a separate building. This way, if you please.”
Somewhat grudgingly Mrs. Lent proceeded to show


CHAPTER XXIII
OPENING DOORS
HE nurse in Number Two was napping again
when Jerry crept back to her cell. There was
a ticklish moment as she restored the keys
and the sleeper's hand groped for her pocket, but the
girl slipped her fingers from under the other's vague
clutch, and by the time the nurse sat up in bed her
patient was lying with closed eyes, and fast-beating
heart, her face turned to the wall, her clothes neatly
folded beside her.
Now came new sounds. The click of a distant lock,
steps ascending the stair, the rattle of crockery on
trays. Evidently an attendant was following the new-
comer, handing up supplies for the day, then departing
with the click of locks again, the clang of metal doors.
Jerry bit her lips to still the cry for help she longed
to utter. Stronger even than her desire for escape, her
despair over her present predicament, was her pas-
sionate determination not to abandon the girl in Num-
ber Seven. The inhabitants of the other cells were
waking now—those “Hidden People” of whom the
gargoyle-man had spoken. Jerry could hear a cry from
one direction, a peal of the hideous cackling laughter
from another, could recognize the monster-boy's whin-
ing call; and the dreary, dragging step of Number
Five. She longed to stop her ears but knew she must
274


276 OCTAGON HOUSE
*
the wound made by the teeth of the doctor's “police
dog”
“Maybe the doctor's broke his precious neck with
that new car of his,” Eva was suggesting sweetly.
“You’ll never be Mrs. Paul Morton then—nor yet his
widder. Too bad!”
“Shut your mouth and get to work. Has the girl
been talking?”
Eva gave a contemptuous snort. “You know very
well you fixed her so she wouldn't do much talking.
Oh, you make me laugh, the lot of you. You think
because I take a little dose of medicine once in a while
to keep my spirits up in this hell of a place, that I
don't notice nothing. I'm not blind, anyway. I can
see this one's got the same disease as Number Seven.
Funny, ain't it? Say—listen! Did you ever think
that maybe you and Paul would get in too deep
once? Bet Paul's given you the slip and you'll never
see him again. Bet the jig's up here and. . . .”
But the second woman, turning her back upon the
speaker, was carrying a loaded tray down the corri-
dor. “Come along,” she called. “Stop your gab-
bing and help me with these trays. We'll come back
to the girl afterwards. I’ll not go in to Number
Eight alone—he'll starve first. Let him touch me
again and he'll get the double-dose. I'll finish him
myself, the way Paul did with—” The woman checked
herself abruptly. Jerry, still as a mouse beneath her
covers, kept her eyes closed but could not control
her fluttering heart. Her dazed mind pondered the
mystery, piecing together the memories of what had
taken place downstairs. One thing was certain. By


OPENING DOORS 277
some blessed freak of chance she had recovered from
the effects of the drug more rapidly than her captors
had anticipated. This advantage she must conceal,
while pushing it to the utmost. Jerry told herself
that a more terrible fate than hers—so far—might
have been allotted to one who had fallen foul of Mlle.
X and her gang. Mr. Dallison's interfering secretary
had been put away, for convenience's sake, in the same
hiding place chosen for that more important prisoner,
his daughter. And Paul Morton, the scholarly, fas-
tidious doctor, was at the bottom of the whole hideous
business! What would he do with his prisoners when
he returned? Ah, but would he return? Lent had
seemed to doubt it—to fear abandonment. In such a
case what mercy could be expected from this terrible
woman? Jerry dared not pursue the thought, pre-
ferred to distract her mind with plans for escape, to
build up a rosy vision of the true Nicolette restored
to her father's arms. . . .
Her meditations were interrupted by the opening
of her door and the return of the two nurses. Still
as death the girl lay, while the women bent above
her. Was there anything in the world more difficult,
she wondered, than to feign sleep, drugged sleep, with
two pairs of pitiless eyes boring down upon one's
closed lids?
“Let her be,” Eva suggested. “She's doped still.”
She moved toward the door, yawning, but Yellow-
Tooth did not follow. “Breathes too easy,” she re-
marked. “Aha!”
Jerry had been in torture under the scrutiny, but
she would have endured it longer had it not been for


OPENING DOORS 281
Sharp anxiety dominated the older woman's voice,
but Eva showed her no sympathy. “Lord!” she jeered,
“if Paul was pinched, how the rats would run out
of this house ! There'd be nothin' left but the nuts
downstairs and this little box o' surprises up here!”
She burst into coarse laughter, evidently irritating in
the extreme to her companion who jerked open the
staircase door and clanged it viciously behind her.
“Mind!” Eva shrieked. “You be back here at noon,
or at four I go off.”
Yellow-Tooth's laugh echoed up the stair. “Oh, no,
you don’t, dearie. You happen to be locked in, you
know—all you pretty little birdies in the cage together!”
It seemed as if Eva deliberately delayed her response
so that it might fail to reach the other's ear.
“Locked in, am I?” she sneered. “Now don't you
be too sure of that?”
Silence at last in the monster-house. After a time
Eva began a slow, monotonous pacing to and fro,
round and round the circle of the gallery. Jerry sud-
denly caught herself back from the verge of sleep.
She was supremely weary, exhausted beyond anything
she had ever experienced. Had the water, too, been
drugged? For a moment she agonized over the fear,
then realized its absurdity. After the strain she had
been through, her longing for sleep was natural enough.
But of course she was not going to give way to it.
She stood in too great danger not to keep herself
alert. Food might help-she needed it sorely—and
food was there on the tray which Yellow-Tooth had
forgotten to remove. Jerry dared not help herself to
more than a sip or two of coffee and one slice from


282 OCTAGON HOUSE
the pile of bread upon the plate. She knew that, if
her jailer entered, it must not seem that anything had
been disturbed. Yet the little she took only seemed
to defeat her intentions and increase her sleep hunger
tenfold. A few moments' rest, she decided, would do
no harm. She closed her eyes and dropped suddenly
into the sleep of exhaustion, slept through long hours
of sunshine, while the monotonous tones of the gar-
goyle man, hushed at first, grew slowly louder, in-
creasingly threatening, then gradually diminished and
died away.
Noon came. Eva passed on her rounds, the Hidden
People stirred and fed, gobbled and sobbed and slept
again; still Jerry, exhausted by sleepless nights, by
days of anxiety, lay as inert as if indeed under the
influence of that “little dose.” At four Eva, true to
her word, made a second half-hearted inspection of the
cells; then, with soft steps and cautious manipulation
of her private keys, departed down the stair.
At once, with the uncanny prescience of their kind,
the Hidden People awoke to the fact of her desertion.
Dusk thickened into darkness. Jerry sat up in a cold
sweat of terror, aroused from her sleep by a hideous
medley of sounds, not loud yet dreadful. Low questing
cries, the obscene laughter, a pecking and tugging at
bars and bolts, the sound of shambling steps. With a
sickening feeling of disappointment, a shudder of dis-
may, she realized that she was not waking to sanity
out of some horrible dream. She was still in the little
room with the slit in the door and the barred window
through which one pale star shone. It was night again
—another night in Octagon House—that fearful place l


284 OCTAGON HOUSE
words were only a maniac's babble, perhaps Number
Five would go to sleep, or the nurses would return. But
now she recognized a new danger, Foxy's whine, his
pleading call! And, as if in answer to a signal, the
door of Number Five opened. Jerry remembered the
strange man's words: “At dusk, when his restlessness
grows on him, I unlock his door with my secret keys.”
A step in the gallery, the halting, uneven step. Foxy's
whine of joy—his door opening—his scampering feet
in the corridor—his fingers picking at the bars of
Jerry's door! It was flung open by a stronger hand
than his and in the dim light from the corridor lamp
she beheld the two uncanny figures; the black bulk of
the gargoyle-man, his strange head uplifted, his sad
eyes blazing with a prophet's frenzy, and the slim shape
of the monster-boy who rolled at Jerry's feet, clawing
at her shoes, tugging at her skirt.
“Come, little one !” the great voice was like a trumpet
peal—“Come. The doors are opening!”
Though her throat was so dry with fear that she
could scarcely speak, Jerry forced herself to answer,
drove her eyes to fix themselves on his. “There—
there's time enough,” she stammered. “You ought to
sing a little more first. They—they are waiting for
you to sing.”
The grim face softened. “Let us pray for the Little
Children,” said the gargoyle-man, and there on the
floor of Jerry's cell he sank to his knees, bowing his
terrible head, lifting his great voice, seeking his God.
Brain cleared and wits quickened by the spur of
desperation, the girl drew the keys from the door and
stole down the corridor, hindered at every step by


288 OCTAGON HOUSE
steps undaunted by the flames. Michael O'Boyle hurl-
ing himself through the smoke, tearing her from the
maniac's arms—Michael, with Heslin the detective at
his heels.
“Jerry—my Jerry!”
“Michael—in here!”
O'Boyle's first thought had been to wrap Jerry in
the wet coat which had protected his own head and
shoulders, but she tore it from him, rushed back to the
gasping, choking girl upon the cot, flung the wrap
about her and thrust her into Heslin’s arms.
“It's Nicolette Dallison—and I think she is dying!”
Of the rush up the stair to the roof whither the
gargoyle-man had preceded them, Jerry knew little.
She was in Michael's arms, her face against his shoul-
der, and the blanket he had wrapped about her saved
her from the crisping heat. Once in the fresh air
under the calm stars, the relief was so great that tears
rolled down her cheeks, as with her bare hands she
helped the two men beat the sparks from their clothing.
Shouts told the refugees on the roof that a crowd was
gathering below, and Heslin, laying Nicolette down,
turned to signal them. Michael pulled away from
Jerry's clutch.
“Those others—behind the locked doors ſ” he panted.
“I must go back, I must try. . . .”
But the last feet ever to climb that Golgotha of
flame had reached the roof just—and only just—
before the stair collapsed and the locked rooms, the
secret heart of Octagon House, turned to a pillar of
flame. Paul Morton, his clothes on fire, staggered
through the door, swung it to behind him, and stood,


OPENING DOORS 289
swaying on uncertain feet. From the crowd below
shouts swelled into triumph. While the racing fire
engines were only halfway up Pine Hill, a couple of
workmen had set up a ladder from the second-story
balcony. It barely reached the roof but made neverthe-
less a way to safety. Jerry saw Nicolette carried down
in Heslin's arms, then gave herself into Michael's keep-
ing and knew no more. By her collapse she was saved
the final horror. She did not see, as did the people
below, the great black figure creeping from the shadow
of the chimney stacks to fling itself upon Morton, nor
did she hear the wild voice burst into song.
“Praise the Lord,” it chanted. “The Lord looseth
the prisoners—now is the Day of Glory!” . . .
Breathless, the crowd below watched the tragedy
above. They saw the grim, bestial head outlined against
the rising flames, heard the doctor's cry as he grappled
with his pursuer in a final struggle nearer and nearer
the parapet, beheld the last burst of maniac strength
by which the gargoyle-man flung Morton over and
leaped after him into the darkness.


294 OCTAGON HOUSE
“Not here, my dear,” said Mrs. Goodleigh. “Some-
how I just couldn't bear to put our dear child into the
room that creature had occupied—no, nor let her wear
the clothes that girl had touched. I popped Nicolette
into a guest room and bundled her up just anyway in
some of your things and mine, till we can get her a
new outfit. Mr. Dallison approved. He is going to
have the child's rooms completely done over. This way,
my dear. . . .”
But Jerry, much to the housekeeper's mystification,
insisted upon entering the contaminated apartment to
procure from it a certain gilded flower basket. Carrying
this upon her arm and in a pink flush of excitement
rosy as the ribbons on her pretty house gown, she
presented herself before Nicholas Dallison and his
young daughter. -
There was nothing sumptuous about the sunny,
chintz-hung guest chamber, but it was less of a con-
trast to the rose-and-golden room than was its present
occupant to Mlle. X. Cuddled among her pillows,
“bundled up anyway,” as Mrs. Goody had expressed it,
in Jerry's red kimono and a white woolly shawl, lay
Mr. Dallison's daughter. Her golden hair hung in two
long braids at either side of her pale little face. Tears
shone in the tender blue eyes, the sweetest of shy smiles
blossomed on her sad little mouth, as-without a word
—she stretched her arms to Jerry. Nicholas Dallison
was obliged to turn his back on both girls and stare
very hard out the window while, as he afterward ex-
pressed it, “they got through with their kissing and
their fussing.” Then he turned to his young secretary
and said certain things which she was never to forget.


THE TRUTH OF IT 295
“I hope you'll always be as good a friend to my little
girl as you have been so far,” he finished. “You’ll
be more valuable to her than all the pearl necklaces she
might ever have—or lose!”
Jerry, who was still clutching her basket, sank down
at the foot of Nicolette's bed with a weak laugh.
“Those blessed pearls,” she gasped, “I nearly forgot
about them.”
“Never mind 'em—forget 'em! They're gone and
not a trace of them—we'll never see that confounded
necklace again, that's my opinion. The police found
some beads in the girl's hat—curiously enough—but
never a trace of the pearls.”
Nicholas Dallison dismissed the subject with a wave
of his big hand, as if in his present mood a matter of
many thousands of dollars was of little moment to
him. “What's lost is lost,” said he. “We were lucky
to recover the emeralds from the French crook, Leroux,
before he had a chance to hide them. I dumped the
things on Nicolette's bed just now, Miss Jerry, and
what do you think she has been doing? Playing with
the cat with them! Look at her!”
Jerry looked, the memory of Mlle. X's greed for
jewels still fresh in her mind. Nicolette Dallison had
showed scant respect for the gorgeous gems her father
poured into her weak little hands. She had threaded
a scarlet hair ribbon through necklace, bracelet, and
rings, and now, with a smile for Jerry, she lifted the
mass of green fire and swung it to and fro before the
great green eyes of Thomas, brought in for her in-
spection. Languidly, rather contemptuously, puss put
forth a silver paw in acknowledgment of the attention.


3OO OCTAGON HOUSE
“Yes, I can understand that a very close likeness was
not necessary. Mr. Dallison was so utterly unsus-
pecting. But the substitution, Michael. How did they
manage that?”
“On the steamer. It was a matter of faked pass-
ports. Leroux traveled as a Danish physician bringing
his invalid daughter to this country for treatment. His
rooms were opposite those of Zélie and her charge.
The rest was easy. They exchanged the girls, dressing
Victorine in Miss Dallison's clothes, and bundling poor
little Nicolette off the steamer, so dazed from drugs
that she did not know what was happening. Mean-
while. . . .”
“Meanwhile,” Jerry laughed, “we were all opening
our arms to the impostor! All that luxury—the wel-
come—the love—for her! I have a picture of her now
in my mind's eye, Mikey, as she sat at the table that
first night—her curls and her baby-blue frock—her
queer, sly smile as Lawrence set down the big birthday
cake before her! Little wonder that I was puzzled by
the likeness and the unlikeness to the photograph, that
I could not help noticing the contrast between the sim-
ple, childish clothes and the girl's true personality.
That day our Mlle. X indulged in the daring red dress
and the shoes that fitted, she came dangerously near to
giving herself away.”
“She gave herself away to me, all right,” Michael
put in. “If she hadn't been such a fool as to wear that
sort of rig, I might never have recognized her—that
day you saw me ‘flirting' from behind the beech tree!”
Jerry blushed, remembering the foolish jealousy she
had momentarily suffered. “Go on,” she begged.


THE TRUTH OF IT 303
to move on that night. She was tired from traveling,
pleased with the luxury of the house, and intoxicated
with the success of their venture. She wasn't ready
to turn over her loot and be rushed off to some remote
hiding place, as had been arranged. The chief reason,
however, for her rebellion, was Dallison's mention of
the emeralds. She immediately determined to have
them for herself if possible. At any rate she refused to
budge that night and announced the fact to the doctor,
in an interview she contrived with him after dinner.
To Zélie she admitted that she had lost her nerve when
the moment came for substituting the fake pearls, and
had allowed the real necklace to be returned to the
cabinet. Victorine had her confederates at her mercy,
she imagined, and was too much of a fool to see her
danger. Not so Zélie. The two women had been
quarreling all that day—Zélie was jealous of Leroux's
attentions to her attractive niece, and that night—”
“I heard them quarreling—” The eager listener
could not forego the interruption. “I saw them,
Michael. That was the secret of what I saw from
the balcony the night you came. Their shadows pac-
ing back and forth—the angry voices.”
“Yes, and when Zélie crept after you and listened to
our talk she got an idea I was connected with the police,
and grew more frightened than ever and more anxious
to escape. Later, when Victorine, still stubborn, had
retired, Zélie dressed herself in a disguise she had
prepared.”
“The ‘black cloud,” Michael!”
Michael smiled. “Exactly! That mystery is solved


-w
3O4 OCTAGON HOUSE
at last. Zélie wore a bonnet and veil over a dark dress.
She decided to sneak downstairs, steal the pearls, and
make off to meet Leroux, leaving Victorine to her fate.
But that young person was not sleeping as sweetly as
auntie supposed. She followed Zélie and surprised her
as she knelt by the cabinet, the necklace in her hand.
The woman screamed and Victorine, in a passion of
rage and fright, choked her. The girl—so Morton
insisted—did not mean to kill. Her cruel clutch on that
skinny throat was not the only cause of death. Zélie
had a bad heart, and died, perhaps of fright.”
“And then—that terrible girl? Oh, Michael, no.
How could it have been she? Victorine was in bed,
asleep. . . .”
“Not when you first came down! She was hidden
behind the oak chest in the hall, and when you rushed
upstairs she returned to the body and took away the
veil, the cloak, and a purse, so that no one might guess
the woman was about to leave the house but might
believe her the innocent victim of burglars. She did
not give you credit for such sharp eyes as you had,
Jerry—did not suppose you would notice any differ-
ence.”
Jerry considered a moment. “I think I should have
imagined myself mistaken, if I had not found that hat-
pin head she must have broken off in her haste. Was it
Victorine, Michael, who opened the window?”
“Yes. She overturned a chair or two, upset a vase,
and then fled back to her bed, reaching it hardly a
moment or so before you and Dallison came to her
door. When Morton arrived, the affair was as much
of a mystery to him as to any one. Imagine how furi-


THE TRUTH OF IT 307
meaning—so he said—to rescue both you and Nicolette.
But he was trapped by the fire and only just escaped to
the roof as the stairs fell in. The man swore he meant
you no harm, Jerry, that he would have set you free in
time, that he never meant the Lent woman to put you
in that part of the house—” Michael ground his teeth.
“Lord, when I think of you in the power of that woman,
shut up among. . . .” He stopped short with a shudder.
Jerry gently stroked the hand that covered hers.
“Ah, Michael dear, don’t worry. I shall lose the horror
and keep the pity of it all. Those Hidden People that
one can't mourn, in spite of their terrible death. One
thing I am glad of, that I shall never see the place
again, that Octagon House—that wicked old house—is
gone forevermore!”
Jerry closed her eyes for a moment while Michael
watched her tenderly. Then he reached for his stick.
“I know I ought to go,” he said, “if there are no more
questions. . . .”
“Just one, Mikey dear. Has Mr. Dallison forgiven
you?”
Michael burst out laughing. “Yes, bathtub and all !
He's the same old tyrant, though. Had a regular row
with him this morning because I wouldn't take his five-
thousand-dollar reward! Finally he marched down to
the village and banked it in your name, saying—well,
what he said was—that it would be all in the family
anyway.”
There was a moment's silence. Michael waited,
expecting the outburst of impatience or the flippant
reply which a remark of this type usually excited. But
the curly head only nestled more cozily among the


308 OCTAGON House
pillows as Jerry turned her gray eyes, wide with inno-
cent wonder, upon the young man at her side.
“You don't say? Mikey dear, supposing—just sup-
posing—you and I did have a lot of money, what
would we do with it?”
“Well—there's Uncle Tony's legacy. I have been
thinking—dreaming—of a little deal in real estate.”
“Not a bungalow, Mikey?”
“A bungalow !” Michael sighed blissfully, rolling
his blue eyes heavenward. “A bungalow with lattices
and lilacs and roses and beans and onions, and that
darned old white tabby cat you wanted, washing its face
in the kitchen window. . . .”
“Oh, Michael—darling!”
He was on his knees now by the couch, laying his
lips against the little bandaged hand.
“Will you come to me, my own?”
She put both arms round his neck and drew the
rough head against her breast.
“Why, Billy Bun, wild horses couldn't keep me
away!”
(2)
THE END


M