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LIBRARY OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF |LLINOIS
AT URBANA-CHANMPAIGN
P-2
3
, F 75-73
Gu-


Fº *A ſº








By
HENRY JAMES FORMAN
FICTION
Guilt
Fire of Youth
The Enchanted Garden
The Captain of His Soul
The Man Who Lived in a Shoe
TRAVEL
The Ideal Italian Tour
In the Footprints of Heine
London—An Intimate Picture
Grecian Italy (In Preparation)


GUI LT
A Mystery Story
HENRY JAMES ForMAN -
ſº
*y
BONI & LIVERIGHT
PUBLISHERs :: :: NEw York


Copyright, 1924, by
HENRY JAMES ForMAN
§
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATICs or AMERICA


º
TO
HARVEY O’HIGGINS
A lover of psychological adventure
5658.33





chapter
I.
II.
III.
IV.
W.
WI.
WII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
CONTENTS
THE DISCOVERY .
THE Wow
MRS. CARTER’s DISAPPEARANCE .
THE PRINT of A HAND
Miss OLIVER's CLEw . .
SPIKE, THE GUN .
DETECTIVE McKENNA .
FRED’s JEWEL Box
THE SLEEPER on THE Roof
VIRGINIA YIELDs .
McFARLAND’s ANNoUNCEMENT .
THIRD DEGREE . . . .
RoMANCE . . . . . .
McKENNA’s TRUMP CARD
THE DAGGER . . . . .
BRADBURY SEES VIRGINIA
THE LOST CLEw
LARRY PREPARES
THE LAST CLEw
THE LAIR OF GUILT
IPAGE
11
32
57
70
107
119
126
134
150
158
169
192
203
216
237





G U I LT





G UILT
CHAPTER I
THE DISCOVERY
WHEN Lowell Bradbury came out of his room
to breakfast he was immaculate, as always, with
his perfectly fitting and faultlessly ironed clothes,
his tan shoes scrupulously polished and the point
of his handkerchief protruding at precisely the
right careless angle over his heart. His smooth
longish well-formed face, habitually pale, looked
its best at this hour, owing to the flush of color
that followed the washing and friction after
shaving. His gray eyes were keen and all his
air alert as he said good morning to Mrs. Carter,
the housekeeper, and then fell to scanning the
headlines of the newspaper with the practiced
selective glance of the New Yorker, that instinc-
tively knows what to fasten on and what to omit.
Bradbury was of the clearest cut type of the
11


GUILT
metropolitan professional man. His women
clients treated him more as a confessor than a
lawyer and men had developed a way of saying
confidently, “Take it to Bradbury—he is the
man.” And though only thirty-seven, Lowell
Bradbury had achieved a standing in his profes-
sion that many a man thirty years his senior
might and did envy.
The coffee-urn, preceded by the whiff of its
fragrance, was brought in by Mrs. Carter and
placed in its accustomed spot over the alcohol
burner on the dining-room table, and soon other
ingredients of the breakfast began to appear
before Bradbury with the noiseless quiet effi-
ciency that even a stranger would inevitably
associate with him. There was no haste and no
lagging. Everything moved with the precision
of clock work, but without any sound of mechan-
ism.
Suddenly Bradbury lifted his eyes from his
paper.
“Mr. Greenfield not up yet, Mrs. Carter?”
Mrs. Carter unconsciously straightened at his
12


THE DISCOVERY
words. His deep voice was very agreeable to
the ear, and every time Bradbury spoke her
name, even after years in his service, she felt a
faint thrill. Some men and some rulers of men
carry these qualities with them, because of the
self-mastery they have attained.
“No, sir,”
answered Mrs. Carter, “I haven’t
even heard him move as yet.”
“Funny,” said Bradbury in his laconic way
that was never brusque. “He is generally the
early bird that gets the bouquet of your coffee.”
Mrs. Carter smiled faintly. It was long since
he had flattered her on her coffee. Mr. Bradbury
was not like Mr. Greenfield—chatty and conver-
sational. This kind of thing was to be expected
from Mr. Greenfield. But when Mr. Bradbury,
terse, laconic, absorbed in his great cases, paid
you a compliment on your coffee you remem-
bered it for some time.
Mrs. Carter returned to her speckless kitchen
and reappeared presently with Bradbury's favor-
ite stewed fruit. Bradbury looked up from his
paper.
13


GUILT
“This is all very well,” he spoke in a tone
that was almost challenging. “But I thought he
was going up to Sing Sing to-day to give a talk
to the prisoners. He may oversleep. Don't you
think he’d better be called?”
“Just as you say, sir,” replied Mrs. Carter.
The devotion of these two men to each other,
Lowell Bradbrury and Van Wyck Greenfield,
was famous. So different they were in character,
so diametrically opposed in their pursuits, that
their joint bachelor life semed one of those ideal
combinations of opposites that people remark
with wonder. Each was almost childishly happy
in the other's proximity. They had been school-
mates, classmates and pals, and now they were
sharing their delightfully busy and comfortable
bachelor existence together like some modern
well-to-do Damon and Pythias.
“Can't go away without saying good morning
to Mr. Greenfield,” thought Mrs. Carter to
herself.
Bradbury hardly noticed that Mrs. Carter did
not seem quite herself to-day.
14


THE DISCOVERY
“I say, Van—” he began loudly. “Better get
up, my son—you'll be late for your appointment
at Sing Sing—or is it off?”
No answer whatsoever came forth.
“Oh, pshaw!” he muttered and turning the
knob with a characteristically energetic move-
ment he-he found that the door was locked.
“Well, this is something new,” he faced about
to Mrs. Carter, watching him from the dining-
room door. “I didn't suppose any of us here
locked our bedroom doors at night. Queer.”
And once again addressing himself to the
door he rattled the knob hard enough and with
sufficient energy to wake anybody in that room
or even in the apartment below.
And still the only result was absolute silence.
Bradbury was not an alarmist. He was a
keen, alert, experienced New York lawyer who
had been assistant district attorney at twenty-
seven; but something like chill struck at his vitals
and a sudden pallor swept the color from his
face.
“Oh, I do hope the poor gentleman isn't sick
17


GUILT
or something,” whispered Mrs. Carter drawing
nearer, as though afraid to wake the man—whom
to wake seemed impossible. “Oh, I do hope it
is nothing like that, Mr. Bradbury.”
“We shall soon see,” declared Bradbury, re-
gaining his composure. To betray weakness of
any kind was the one thing he feared.
“I shall break open the door.” And so saying
he stepped back a couple of paces and then
suddenly hurled himself with his right shoulder
against the door so that the entire woodwork
creaked and groaned. The door, however, did
not open.
Both he and Mrs. Carter, the poor woman now
trembling at the knees, stood still for a moment
—waiting.
No sound came from within.
Bring me the hatchet, Mrs. Carter,” said Brad-
bury with a livid composure that terrified her
more than any demonstration of alarm could
have done. She moved weakly toward the
kitchen, her hand to her eyes. Bradbury, with
his back to the door, was waiting when she
18


THE DISCOVERY
emerged with the hatchet. His eyes seemed to
be gazing inward, to such a degree had they sunk
in his head, and his face was ashen. He had
aged five years in less than as many minutes.
With hands that he intended to be steady he
took the hatchet, turned toward the door and
began with all his might to hammer it at the
point of the lock, the while Mrs. Carter covered
her eyes as though Bradbury's fierce assault
were directed at a human body.
After repeated blows the door gave way and
a push swung it away from the lock upon its
hinges. Bradbury entered with Mrs. Carter
quaking at his heels.
Van Wyck Greenfield was lying upon his bed
in the easy position of one asleep on his back,
but his features might have been modeled of
Wax.
A deep red stain dyed the thin summer cover-
let over his heart, and much of the whiteness of
his bed was bathed in crimson on his left side,-
the side nearest them.
On the carpet at their feet was a dark pool
19


GUILT
thinly coated over with the process of coagula-
tion. They all but stepped into it.
With one poor wail Mrs. Carter threw her
hands before her eyes, tottered back and fainted
in the corridor.
Bradbury lifted the blood-stained coverlet
and in the crimson-clotted silken pajama vest
was the ugly hole made by a dagger or knife,
which some powerful blow had directed straight
at the dead man’s heart.
“Stabbed—stabbed in his sleep,” brokenly
muttered Bradbury and he hung for a moment a
shattered man, gripping the iron bedpost.
“Stabbed—killed—murdered—my poor Van!
Who could be so dastardly as to kill you?” A
blackness seemed to have fallen abruptly all
about him. And this apartment that a few
minutes earlier was a home of happiness had
suddenly become the abode of darkness, pain
and deep tragedy, in the way human habitations
are sometimes transformed. Bradbury felt him-
self broken, trembling, weak as a child. How
long he remained there he could not have told.
20


CHAPTER II
THE WOW
THE darkest hour in Lowell Bradbury's bright
successful life thus far was that hour between
nine and ten the morning of May twenty-first,
nineteen twenty-two, following the discovery of
his murdered friend, Van Wyck Greenfield,
stabbed in his bed by an unknown hand.
“Foully murdered—” he kept brokenly mut-
tering to himself—“foully murdered in his
sleep! Why?—Van!—He had not an enemy in
the world. The kindest-hearted man that ever
breathed. Good God!—Why?—I shall go mad!”
Mrs. Carter lying on the sofa in the library
whither Bradbury had carried her was moaning
and wailing like a tragic accompaniment to his
incoherent words of grief, unable to lift her
head or face the light of the May morning.
Shocking as had been the horror to her eyes
22


THE WOW
in Greenfield's bedroom, the spectacle of Brad.
bury the alert, the masterful, broken and deso-
late as he now appeared, was no less devastating
to her senses.
He who had always seemed like a tower, alive
to his finger ends, a focus of all the vitality of
that gigantically vital city, now sat sprawling
in a deep chair in that room so often filled by
his vigorous voice and deep laughter, his head
sunk upon his hands, his body collapsed like a
thing of pasteboard, murmuring and muttering
to himself like a sorrow-stricken dotard, utterly
crushed under the weight of the grief that had
fallen upon him. “Wan—Van,” he kept repeat-
ing. “It can’t be true—it can’t be true! Why
you—of all people—why you?”
“Oh—oh! poor Mr. Greenfield!” wailed Mrs.
Carter, “and him so gentle and kind—always
doing things for others!—What can we do, Mr.
Bradbury—What shall we do?”
The first coherent words of a fellow creature,
even of this helpless old woman, were something
like a stimulus or a tonic to Bradbury. They
23


GUILT
seemed on a sudden to press some hidden spring
in this man whose business and whose pride it
was to handle and adjust the complex and trou-
blesome business of others.
“Do!” he exclaimed, suddenly straightening
and then rising from his chair. “Do!—I swear
to you, Mrs. Carter, that I shall not rest until
the murderer is found! I swear to you that
every penny I possess and every hour of my time
shall go to the discovery of the criminall Who-
ever has done this thing shall pay the full penalty
to the uttermost that I can wring from justice.
If it takes the rest of my life, I’ll see to it that
the murderer pays!”
And Mrs. Carter, somewhat revived by seeing
Bradbury, though still grief stricken, a little
more like his old energetic self, found voice to
ask the simple question:
“But, oh, do you think we can find the him,
Sir?”
“Find him!” Bradbury took her up with a
livid ferocity—“find him! We’ll find him if it
takes all the detectives in town! I’ll find him
24


THE WOW
if it takes a lifetime—if I have to turn detective
myself for the rest of my days—I’ll find him!”
To poor Mrs. Carter that assurance was tanta-
mount to the certainty that justice would be done.
Could she have foreseen events she would have
realized how tortuous and amazing is the path
in this complex world that leads to the author of
such a deed as the murder of Van Wyck Green-
field.
“Find him!” Bradbury repeated to himself
Savagely and he grasped the telephone on the
library table.
“Give me Worth 10,000—yes—hurry please.”
He waited with impatience, clicked the hook up
and down angrily and then, as is the custom in
New York, endeavored to resign himself to the
mother of time—eternity.
A faint muffled voice somewhere finally re-
warded him.
“Hello! hello!” he fell upon the instrument
like a bird of prey. “Hello! hello! District
Attorney's office? Give me Mr. Summers—
yes, yes—the District Attorney himself—no, no-
25


GUILT
body else will do—tell him Lowell Bradbury is
talking—yes—yes—B-r-a—Lowell Bradbury.”
There was a momentary pause, and the
speaker hung over the telephone as though fear-
ful that it might abruptly desert him.
“Oh, that you Lawrence! Yes—Lowell Brad-
bury. Larry, I want you to drop whatever you
are doing and come right up here to my apart-
ment! . . . Larry! Don't you suppose I know
you have important things? But I ask you to
drop 'em and come right up. Something terrible
has happened here. ... I don’t want to say over
the 'phone. Please, come up! . . . Are you
coming? Right!—Thanks, Larry. I’ll expect
you in about fifteen minutes—” and with a little
sigh he hung up the receiver.
Communication with Lawrence Summers, offi-
cially the popular and adroit District Attorney,
but in private life a crony and friend of both
Greenfield's and his own, seemed in some manner
to restore Bradbury to the living currents of life,
and, for the first time since his grisly discovery,
he began to feel like a responsible being again.
26


THE WOW
“Now, Mrs. Carter,” he spoke with a kindness
that touched her, “if you will allow me, I’ll help
you to your room.”
Mrs. Carter obediently constrained herself to
rise.
“Thank you, sir,” she murmured and the
ready tears began to flow as, Bradbury support-
ing her, she moved from the library through the
dining room toward her own small compartment.
The last door before her own was that of the
murdered man, and Bradbury, as though antici-
pating her emotion, placed an arm about her
and endeavored to hurry her past before she
realized it. Mrs. Carter's nerves, however, were
still wholly unstrung. The mere sight of the
partly opened door sent a spasm of horror
through her exhausted frame and once again
she reeled against Bradbury's arm. He himself
was almost unmanned. Nevertheless, he lifted
her tenderly, laid her carefully upon the bed,
applied the bottle of salts that stood upon her
little dressing table and left her only when she
began to sob softly. He closed her door and
27


GUILT
stood for a moment irresolute in the corridor
near Greenfield's door.
His whole life whirled in a lightning-like
review before him, but chiefly there was the
rapid succession of the last eight years during
which he had been sharing everything with Van
Wyck Greenfield—living quarters—this apart-
ment, their much admired household in Wash-
ington Square, thoughts, experience, life itself.
And now, Greenfield who was all but a saint—
an active, energetic man, still young, of brilliant
abilities, who gave his time and the income of
his very considerable fortune to philanthropy,
to bettering the lot of those who had none other
to better it—Greenfield was struck dead by the
hand of some unknown assassin. Whereas he,
Lowell Bradbury, who had lived hard and fought
hard and relentlessly, who had sent many a man
to prison and even to death by the power of his
intellect and his eloquence; who ever demanded
an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, who
gave two blows before his adversary could de-
28


THE WOW
liver one—he, was alive and in full possession
of all his vitality.
With a spasmodic gesture he stretched out his
hands toward the dead man in that partly open
room as though humbly asking his forgiveness.
“Could it be,” the thought suddenly occurred
to him, “could it be that that knife was meant
for me?”
But for whichever of them the blow was in-
tended, Van Wyck Greenfield was murdered—
and the assassin should pay. Yes, he should and
would pay!
He was startled out of his reverie by a knock
at the door. With alacrity he turned to open it.
“Lawrence,” he began—it was not Lawrence
Summers, however, but Murphy, the visiting
valet, who pressed the clothes of the two men,
polished their shoes and when occasion arose,
acted as butler at their delightful dinner parties.
Bachelors can find many comforts in New York
even to-day.
“Oh, hullo, Murphy,” Bradbury attempted to
29


GUILT
seem careless. “Nothing to-day, thanks—” he
gave the man no chance to pass the door.
“Mr. Greenfield's shoes, sir,” stammered
Murphy, gazing into Bradbury's eyes. “Polished
yours early, sir—Mrs. Carter gave them to me.
But his weren’t put out. I thought 99
“Not to-day, Murphy,” Bradbury repeated
gruffly. “I can't explain now,” and Murphy
almost fell backward in his retreat from the
door into the hallway, as Bradbury slammed the
door to.
“What the devil’s the matter with the man?”
he said to himself and the strange look in Mur-
phy's face haunted him like an apparition. He
was recalled to himself, however, by a ring of
the door-bell and this time the visitor was indeed
Lawrence Summers.
“Ah, Larry,” Bradbury began wringing the
other's hand in a palm that was clammy with
chill. “I have never wanted to see you more in
my life than I do at this minute—” and the
changed aspect of Bradbury sent the chill from
30


THE WOW
the ebullient District Attorney's palm straight to
his gayly beating heart.
“Larry,” continued Bradbury, still keeping
him at the door, “are your nerves strong enough
this morning to stand a violent shock?”
“What is it, Lowell?” wonderingly murmured
Summers, at once subdued by the sorrow-bur-
dened atmosphere.
“My nerves are all gone to pieces. Just open
the door and take a look into Van's room—at
his bed—” and he pointed to the slightly open
door of Greenfield's chamber.
Summers, mutely apprehensive, obeyed.
With a stifled cry of horror he stepped back
and held his hand to his eyes for some moments
there in the hallway. Then, with an effort at
composure, he followed Bradbury into the
library.
31


GUILT
said detectives—the damnedest best you’ve got!
—How about Faurier and Simpson?”
Another pause with audible speech in the
receiver.
“Oh–hell!” cried Larry Summers, now com-
pletely energized and in full command of the
vernacular of the metropolitan public service.
“When will they be back?”
McFarland was explaining.
“South America!” broke in Summers with
disgust, “that’s just like our force. Two good
men and they as good as dead. When do you
expect them to come to life? . . .
“Six weeks!—might as well say six years. No
good! Whom have you got there, Mac”
The answer evidently soured Summers.
“Oppenheim and Callahan!” he repeated in
disgruntled tones. “Bulls with plain clothes, flat
feet and gold teeth. Oh, hell, Inspector—is that
the best you’ve got? . . . oh, well, send 'em up
then—but on the run—on the run—oh, well,
maybe, maybe. . . . I know their work all right
—Maybe, maybe! Anyhow I’m waiting for 'em.
34


MRS. CARTER’S DISAPPEARANCE
. . . Yes, something big. . . . You'll know in
an hour. I’ll stop and see you on my way to
the office. Good by.”
“So much for that,” breathed Summers, put-
ting down the instrument and leaning back in his
chair. “Then there will be the unpleasant details
of removing the body—and the coroner's inquest.
Ah, well, let's cross these bridges when we come
to them. . . . Poor old Lowell. I’m as sorry
for you as I am for poor Wan. I know what it
means to you. Hits you hard—don't it? Hits
me almost as hard,” he added in an undertone.
“Who could help loving old Wan? Heart of gold
that man had—heart of gold! God, Lowell!
Once we lay our fingers on the beast who did it—
Lord help him—or her!”
“Her!” repeated Bradbury sorrowfully. “You
think it might have been a woman?”
Summers reflected for a moment.
“How can we tell? A woman seems unlikely,
but we don't know a thing yet—not a damn thing.
Might as well be one as the other in his case—
a man without any known enemies. Of course,
35


GUILT
“Sit down.” Summers waved the trio toward
the furniture in the comfortable room. They
disposed themselves in the chairs and on the sofa,
the while Summers and Bradbury remained
standing.
“Briefly,” began Summers, “a man has been
murdered in this apartment some time last night.
Mr. Bradbury here discovered the fact about nine
o'clock this morning.”
And tersely the District Attorney in his vigor-
ous fashion summed up the history of Green-
field's and Bradbury's joint life here, of his own
long acquaintance and intimate friendship with
them, of the warm attachment between Bradbury
and Greenfield, leading up to Bradbury's start-
ling discovery less than two hours earlier.
Something in the District Attorney’s voice,
something oratorical yet tender, a quality that
won him a large plurality when he ran on an
independent ticket—something heart-stirring, so
moved Bradbury that he turned away to hide his
tear-dimmed eyes. The detectives, inured though
they were to crime and human tragedy, consider-
38


MRS. CARTER’S DISAPPEARANCE
ately lowered their gaze, in order not to surprise
the friend of the dead man in his emotion.
McFarland rose from his place on the sofa.
“Suppose,” he said, “what d'ye say, Mr. Sum-
mers, if we take a look at-the room?”
Bradbury, now his own man again, uncon-
sciously straightened.
“Come, gentlemen,” he said firmly, “I’ll show
you the way.”
All made their way to the scene of the crime.
They stood at the door for a moment, Mc-
Farland glancing about the room, Oppenheim
with his inscrutable dark features darting with
his glance from the body to the pool of blood
and from that to the window at the foot of the
bed, while Callahan, with his fixed unconscious
gleam of gold, fastened his gaze upon the fea-
tures of his chief.
“The door was locked, Mr. Bradbury?” sud-
denly asked McFarland.
“Yes,” nodded Bradbury.
“Easy to see, Chief,” spoke up the husky voice
39


MRS. CARTER’S DISAPPEARANCE
he began to examine the dead man's articles of
clothing.
The waistcoat revealed a wallet in the inside
pocket containing a hundred and fifty dollars,
and the trouser pockets yielded some sixteen
dollars in bills and small change. Other small
effects were found, such as a gold-handled knife,
a signet ring, and some silver-mounted toilet
articles.
“No use,” spoke up McFarland oracularly.
“Whoever killed this man did not do it for the
sake of robbing him.”
“But he didn’t have an enemy in the world,”
almost cried out Bradbury. And then McFarland
showed that given a certain experience of life,
even such as he must acquire some knowledge
of it.
“We don't always know who our own enemies
are,” he said, “let alone the other fellow’s.”
So saying, McFarland proceeded in business-
like fashion to the more grewsome part of his
examination. He lifted the sheet, opened the
tunic of the sleeping suit, gazed silently at
4l
s


GUILT
the ugly wound and “a knife or a dagger-wound”
was all his spoken commentary as once again
he covered the body, covering this time the
waxen features as well. “Some seven or eight
hours dead, is my guess,” he added.
“Better notify the Medical Examiner now,”
he murmured blandly, as he turned from the
bed; then on a sudden he paused.
“Was there ever a dagger in the house?” he
asked.
“Yes,” said Bradbury, “quite a sharp one—
too sharp, I thought, for him to use as a paper-
cutter. Used to lie about this room in a red
leather sheath.”
“Don’t see the sheath,” spoke up Callahan.
They searched about the room for a few mo-
ments, opening bureau drawers, looking under
bed and table, beneath the bureau and in every
visible corner.
“No use,” finally declared Summers, seem-
ingly unnerved by his sojourn in that room and
anxious to quit it. “Whoever used that dagger
took the sheath along.”
42


MRS. CARTER’S DISAPPEARANCE
“Shows he wasn't in any great hurry, anyway,”
muttered McFarland defensively. “Had all the
time he needed—with that door locked on the
inside. Came up that fire-escape,” he pointed,
“with that window ready and open. Probably
had some weapon of his own, but decided to use
the dagger instead. Used it, put it in its sheath,
took it along and it’s probably at the bottom of
the river or in a sewer by now. The only little
thing left for you boys to do,” he turned to his
men, obliging them to retreat before him out of
the room, “is to find the fellow who did it.”
“That’s all,” Callahan grinned sardonically.
“When did he come in last night?” abruptly
inquired Oppenheim, turning to Bradbury.
“That,” said Bradbury, “I am unable to tell
you. It was nearly one o'clock when I came in
myself. Naturally I didn’t disturb anybody and
went to bed as quietly as possible. But our
housekeeper, Mrs. Carter, probably knows. She
was pretty well knocked out by this thing this
morning, but if you have to question her, I’ll
do what I can to rouse her.”
43


GUILT
“Yes, better see her,” murmured McFarland.
Bradbury approached her door and knocked.
No answer came. He repeated his knock.
“Must be asleep,” he whispered, softly turn-
ing the knob. The door opened noiselessly, but
the room contained no occupant.
“Strange,” he said, “must be in the kitchen.
Didn't know she had so much spunk. Her room
communicates with the kitchen.”
He opened the kitchen door. The kitchen was
empty.
“That's very singular,” he turned to the men
behind him.
“Mrs. Carter, the housekeeper, is gone. She
was there an hour ago. She was faint and I led
her to that room and laid her on the bed myself.
She's quite an elderly person and the shock
seemed to hit her hard. But she certainly has
disappeared.”
The detectives glanced at one another and
smiled darkly.
44


CHAPTER IV
THE PRINT OF A HAND
McFARLAND was one of those men who achieve
so much by old methods that they look down
with good-natured contempt upon the new. There
was his job, for instance, as Chief of the Bureau.
McFarland owed that entirely to the good old
well-tried methods of the adroit politician, and
to a native shrewdness, rather than to any of
the fabled gifts of a Lecoq or a Sherlock Holmes.
“Now for the finger-prints,” he said with a
business-like air, which, however, did not take
in Oppenheim or Callahan.
The three Central Office men reëntered the
room and proceeded to busy themselves with
the taking of the prints, while Bradbury and
Summers outside remained talking in low tones.
“Larry,” asked Bradbury confidentially, “do
45


GUILT
you honestly think these fellows will get any-
where?”
Summers shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“Bonehead—I’m afraid,” he murmured. “I
don't care much for the way they go about it.
However—they're the police—God help us! and
you have to notify the police sooner or later in a
case of this kind. Anyway, they’ll do some of
the preliminary work—so far as they are able.”
“Did you see,” asked Bradbury, “the way
they looked at each other when I told them Mrs.
Carter was gone?”
Summers nodded.
“That look,” continued Bradbury, “seemed to
say, ‘Once we lay hands on that woman our work
will be done.” Now, you know and I know that
that old lady is about as capable of murdering
Wan in his sleep as a two-year-old baby.”
“I wouldn’t say quite that,” answered Sum-
mers meditatively, “but, then, it’s absurd.”
“Commotion’s been too much for her,” went
on Bradbury, “and she probably slipped out to
46


THE PRINT OF A HAND
the drug store for some spirits of ammonia—
or perhaps she recovered and went out to do her
marketing—never even thinking she might be
wanted. This finger-print business now 22
“Just as I thought,” McFarland made his ap-
pearance in the lead with his satellites following.
“Things are too much messed up for us to get
any results of value. Most of the finger-prints
are the dead man's. Some are probably yours,
Mr. Bradbury, after you broke open the door.
Here’s a pad—would you mind just sticking your
thumb on this paper?”
Bradbury complied. McFarland cocked his
eye critically at the print and then at the sheets
in his hand.
“Yep, that is yours all right, Mr. Bradbury,”
announced McFarland. “That comes from the
doorknob on the inside and from the side of
the bed. Not much in that—” and he smiled
quizzically.
At this moment Oppenheim approached his
superior from behind and whispered something
47


GUILT
in his ear. “Why, that's so—the window sills
and sashes,” he grinned genially. Then, sud-
denly realizing that his oversight was a capital
one, he hastily composed his features to stern-
ness and added, “but we were coming to that—
that comes next.” And he darted another un-
pleasant glance at Oppenheim.
The examination of the window yielded the
first thing of importance that morning. For upon
the right side of the sill, just below the raised
sash, was the full imprint of a hand, some
unknown hand that had grasped the sill without
any thought of the record it was leaving be-
hind it. -
“You didn’t fuss with that window, did you
now, Mr. Bradbury?” McFarland asked when he
rečmerged from Greenfield's room.
“I don’t remember,” answered Bradbury.
“Let’s look at your hand, if you don’t mind,”
McFarland suggested suavely.
Bradbury complied.
“That's what I thought,” smiled McFarland.
48


THE PRINT OF A HAND
“Not your hand. Maybe the housekeeper's, but
it don’t look like it. May find some record of it
at the office. Now, that is all we can do.”
Then turning to his men he said:
“Callahan, you stay here till that housekeeper
comes back. If she don’t come back by noon,
find her and bring her back. And you, Oppen-
heim, come back to the office with me.
“Now, gentlemen,” he addressed Bradbury
and Summers, “You know as much about this
as we do. We’ll do our best to find the person
that committed the crime. I don’t want to excite
you, but unless that hand on the window sill is
the housekeeper's, it belongs to the fellow that
did that trick. It's our best clew. Don’t let us
say anything about it. But if it's humanly pos-
sible we’ll find the owner of that hand.”
And with his usual suavity, he was taking his
leave, shaking hands after his manner, under-
taking to make the necessary formal police report
of the crime.
As he opened the front door and was about
49


GUILT
to step out a man stood facing him in the hall.
McFarland was no coward and he stood eight
or nine inches taller than the other, but he halted
abruptly, with a visible start, to find someone
before him in the doorway.
“Was just about to ring the bell,” murmured
the short, smooth-shaven man in confusion,
“nobody answered at the kitchen door.”
He was of the dark slender type that generally
seeks light and indoor work.
“Oh, it’s you, Murphy, is it?” spoke up Brad-
bury. “But I told you there was nothing to be
done to-day.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the valet flushing, “but Mr.
Greenfield, sir—he's very particular about his
shoes. Did yours early this morning before you
were up—then, he said he would leave some
clothes out for me.”
“Come in,” commanded McFarland brusquely,
breaking in upon this colloquy.
“What is this man?” he turned to Bradbury.
“What's his job around here?”
50 r


THE PRINT OF A HAND
“He’s a sort of visiting valet,” Bradbury ex.
plained. “He does little things, takes care of
the clothes for some of the bachelors in this
neighborhood.”
“Ah—I see,” from McFarland. “Did I under-
stand you to say,” he fixed his gaze upon
Murphy, “that you were here early this morn-
ing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How early—would you say?”
“About seven-thirty, sir.”
“Who let you in?”
“Mrs. Carter let me in—at the kitchen door.”
“And what did you do, my friend?”
“Polished Mr. Bradbury's shoes, sir.”
“Did you do anything for Mr. Greenfield?”
“No, sir. Tried to get his shoes and clothes,
but he hadn't put 'em out and his door was
locked.”
“Where did you do your work—this shoe-
shining or polishing as you call it?”
“In the kitchen, sir, as usual.”
51


GUILT
“Did you try the door of Mr. Greenfield's
room—to get those things of his?”
“Yes, sir,” and Murphy suddenly spoke with
a strange caution, foreign to his previous glib-
ness. “Wery softly, though, not to wake him if
he was asleep.”
“Ah, I see,” heavily breathed McFarland,
endeavoring to seem as natural and as casual as
possible. “And—was Mrs. Carter with you here
in the hall when you did these things?”
“No, sir,” answered Murphy, watching the
eyes of McFarland. “She was in the kitchen—
starting in on the breakfast.”
“So,” nodded McFarland. “You were here
in the hall alone early in the morning.”
“Oh, Murphy has the run of the house,” put
in Bradbury.
McFarland continued the nodding of his head.
“And do you know,” he spoke to Murphy with
especial distinctness, “that Mr. Greenfield was
stabbed—murdered, sometime between last night
and this morning—in there?” and he jerked his
thumb in the direction of Greenfield's door.
52


THE PRINT OF A HAND
He might have struck Murphy with a heavy
weapon. A tremor was seen to shake his frame,
the muscles of his face in their effort to formulate
speech only contorted his mouth and features
into horrid shapes of terror, that gave him the
effect of grinning diabolically, and he sank with
a moan against the wall.
“Ah, ha!” McFarland kept nodding his head
like some perpetually nodding heathen idol.
“Yes—surprises you, eh, my man?”
Murphy, leaning for support against the wall,
gazed from one to the other with a wild stare
and nodded spasmodically.
“Well—buck up, my man. Glad you came
in. Need you at the inquest, anyway.—Material
witness,” he added, turning to Summers and
Bradbury with a meaning look. “Have to take
him along and question him.”
“Why—I’ll be responsible—” began Brad-
bury.
“No, no,” protested Summers. “No, Brad.
You can't be responsible for anybody in a case
53


THE PRINT OF A HAND
“This here, now, Mrs. Carter—how long has
she been in your employ?”
“Something between three and four years,
Mr. Callahan,” murmured Bradbury.
“Where did you get her?”
“We " Bradbury reflected—“We got her
from an employment agency in Lexington Ave-
nue. She had a six months’ reference, a very
good reference, too, from an invalid lady who
went to California to live.”
“Well,” said Callahan genially, “nothin’ to
do but wait for her. Mind if I wait in the
kitchen?”
“Not at all,” said Bradbury. “Make yourself
at home.”
Callahan moved ponderously into the kitchen,
and closed the door behind him.
Summers smiled sympathetically at Bradbury.
“Slow work,” he remarked.
“Slow,” repeated Bradbury, “If I have to
put up with this it will drive me crazy.”
“But what can you do, my dear fellow? That's
the way it goes.”
55


GUILT
“Do-this is what I’ll do,” declared Bradbury
with emphasis. “I’ll either hire the best detective
to be had, or I'll turn detective myself! I am
bound to do at least as well as that—” he threw
a glance kitchenward. “And in any case, my
heart will be in it. However foolish it sounds
to you, Larry, I mean to begin at once.”


CHAPTER W
MISS oliver’s CLEW
THE inquest, fixed for the next day, was
naturally adjourned after the barest of formali-
ties, pending, as the Medical Examiner put it,
“the collation of vital and material evidence by
the police.” The police! Bradbury laughed bit-
terly. More than twenty-four hours had gone
by, and the police had discovered nothing!
Needless to say, they had no record of the
hand-print on the window-sill, or of any part of
it. They wanted to find Mrs. Carter, an elderly
woman, and they had not even accomplished that.
They held poor Murphy, the valet, because he
had had the ill-luck to be under the same roof
with the murdered man for a few minutes in the
morning!
“I’ve tried to get McKenna, the detective,”
57


MISS OLIVER'S CLEW
the papers over to you, Larry, so you can have
them on hand, if you think best. But I am
going out.”
“You going to keep in touch with McFar-
land?” Summers asked him.
“Not unless I have to. Our objects are dif-
ferent. His and Oppenheim’s and Callahan's
object seems to be publicity—preferably on the
front pages of the newspapers. Mine is to find
the murderer.”
“Well, good luck to you, Lowell,” and Sum-
mers clasped his hand warmly. “When Mc-
Kenna comes back you can get him. But maybe
you won't need him. I must run along.” And
Bradbury was left alone in the apartment.
It was midday. Lowell Bradbury sat alone
with his preoccupation, the gloom of the pre-
ceding day's tragedy still heavy upon him and
upon the empty apartment. All his happiness
in life, all the springs of his energy, the very
air of comfort in which he delighted, seemed to
have vanished in a twinkling.
It was all very well to say that he would
59


GUILT
undertake the case, he reflected, but what can a
man do when his energies are paralyzed?
The removal of the body, with all the horrid
detail attending it, he steeled himself to bear
with calmness. But the news stories in the eve-
ning papers made the night a dark and sleepless
terror. He would not succumb to weakness, and
he refused to go to Larry Summers’ apartment
to sleep, or even to a hotel, but passed the
wretched dragging hours in his own room. The
following morning the newspapers brought it
all back to him and then there was the inquest.
He returned to his apartment and there collapsed
like a woman.
Even Mrs. Carter had been taken from him
by the general cataclysm of misfortune.
She should have stayed—Mrs. Carter—he re-
flected. She should at least have left some word.
She had probably been too horrified by the sheer
proximity of the grewsome tragedy to think.
On a sudden he jumped from his chair and
made a gesture with his arms as if dispelling
the heavy gloom about him. He snapped the
60


MISS OLIVER'S CLEW
shades up higher in the living room to admit
more light and at that moment he heard, or
thought he heard, a faint sound of the bell.
With forced briskness he walked to the door
and opened it.
A girl, tremulous, with a hesitating air, stood
in the murky hall before him.
“Why, hello, Virginia!” he quietly greeted
her. “Glad to see you. Come in—if you don’t
mind.”
“Oh, Lowell,” she breathed, clasping the hand
he held out to her. “I am so terribly sorry—I
have been so crushed by this—I can hardly tell
you—” and her movements and expression indi-
cated the terror that seemed to overcome every-
body—with the exception of the police—who
approached this fate-stricken door.
“Do come in and sit down a moment, Vir-
ginia,” he urged,—“if you’re not afraid of
apartment-house gossip.”
She made a gesture expressing her contempt
for such a consideration in face of the tragedy
61


GUILT
that had taken place, and followed him through
the door.
“Do you think the door is being watched,
Lowell—” she nevertheless whispered—“every-
body who comes or goes?”
“I haven’t noticed,” he spoke with calmness in
an effort to soothe her agitation. “But, anyway,
what does that matter?”
“Oh, it would be so awful, with all this news-
paper publicity, for a woman's name to be
dragged in, in any way—” she checked herself—
“but I know what you have been through, Lowell
—these dreadful hours—and this is the first
chance I’ve had to speak to you—to tell you how
terribly I feel for you—and about all this. Poor
Van Greenfield!” a shudder passed through her
slender frame—“and poor you! I can hardly
believe it even now!” And she glanced out of
the window before taking the chair he placed for
her, as though fearful of being watched.
Virginia Oliver was a handsome young woman
of perhaps twenty-seven, with auburn hair, an
excellent complexion, except for her present
62


MISS OLIVER'S CLEW
pallor, and a full-lipped mobile generous mouth.
Her large brown eyes, however, were now brim-
ming with sympathy.
“Thank you, Virginia,” Bradbury replied
with deliberation, gazing at her troubled face as
he spoke. “I did feel pretty blue just now. It
was very good of you to come up—but I know
what a brick you are. I was just feeling as
though I hadn't a friend in the world.”
“That is not very kind,” she protested, “–to
say that to me—is it?”
“Oh, don't misunderstand, Virginia. Wan was
like a brother to me—nearer than most brothers
are.”
Miss Oliver shook her head enigmatically,
rose nervously and gazed out of the window
again.
“Well, what are they doing about it?” She
finally turned and inquired.
“Looking for the murderer,” he answered,
with somber dryness.
“Of course,” she retorted with a nervous as-
63


GUILT
to dash up here, and thinking you might miss and
need your book, I thought I'd stop and chat with
Mrs. Carter for a minute or so, and by that
time you’d be coming in.”
“Very naturally,” assented Bradbury.
“Mrs. Carter and I have often chatted together
when she comes down to see Martha in the
kitchen.”
“Of course, of course,” he agreed. “And
what happened then?”
“Well, do you know, Lowell,” Miss Oliver
ran on carried away by the excitement of her
reminiscence, “do you know it struck me Mrs.
Carter was acting queerly?”
“Queerly—how queerly, Virginia—Just what
happened?”
“Why, -she seemed awfully flustered at see-
ing me.”
“Flustered?”
“Well—terrified. She tried to be polite, of
course. But somehow she seemed horribly afraid
that I might stay longer than a minute.”
66


GUILT
“And you went?”
“No,” and Miss Oliver flushed. “I was cross
with her for hustling me so. And I began to
chat of the weather. So she asked me to excuse
her for a moment. She was gone, four or five
minutes. And I very distinctly heard sounds of
whispering and moving about.”
“Did she come back?”
“Yes—at last—very queer of her I thought.
Then, I said good night and went downstairs.”
Bradbury nodded.
“I hardly recognize our sedate and transparent
Mrs. Carter in your picture of her, but I am very
glad you told me this, Virginia. I wish you had
told me sooner—though there was hardly time.”
“I shouldn’t have told you at all,” responded
the girl somewhat shamefacedly. “It was a tom-
boy thing to do—run up here with your old note-
book at that hour—even though we are old
friends and even though we do live in the same
apartment house. But I thought you might need
it, and I did not want it to pass through anybody
else's hands. Here it is, by the way.”
68


CHAPTER VI
SPIKE, THE GUN
However sunken the island of Manhattan
may be in metropolitanism, the youthful and
overgrown Borough of the Bronx still has about
it touches of the rural and the provincial. It
isn’t all twelve-story apartments yet. Now and
then a small frame tenement, like Poe's cottage,
still stands wedged in, it may be, between a
garage and a grocery in brick and mortar, and a
poor man, perhaps not a mere eccentric who had
refused to sell to the trust or to the real estate
speculator, lives in the cottage and not improb-
ably keeps chickens and even a goat.
Toward such a wooden frame cottage Brad-
bury and Virginia were seeking their way when
they emerged from the subway.
“How little we know, after all,” remarked
70


SPIKE, THE GUN
Bradbury, “of the people close about us! Here
is the world where Mrs. Carter came from. She
was an important member of our family. In a
measure it was she who made our little household
revolve and march. Yet, I never so much as had
an inkling where on earth she came from.”
“Do you think you trusted her too much?”
queried Virginia suddenly.
“I hardly know,” said Bradbury. “I hardly
know. What did we know—what does anyone
really know of those who serve him? I have an
idea though that Wan knew more about her than
I did. He had a way of becoming intimate with
all sorts of people, of gaining their confidence.
A very wonderful man was Wan.”
Virginia looked away in silence. Why, she
wondered, did she always experience a slight re-
vulsion inside her whenever Bradbury eulogized
Wan?
Secretly Virginia was always ashamed of not
being more like him.
“He never could have complained of lack of
71


GUILT
appreciation on your part—that's one sure thing,
Lowell,” she finally observed.
“Oh, I appreciated his qualities, certainly, no
one more so. But his genuine altruism, Vir-
ginia, a sort of knightly quality about him, was
a constant reproach to me. My father, you see,
was a clergyman—his ambition was to lead the
Christian life in this age. That idea was ham-
mered into me in my youth until I was sick of it.
I wasn’t made that way. But Wan really came
pretty near living that kind of a life. It fasci-
nated me, Virginia, and—it tormented me—
because I was so far the other way.”
“Don’t speak like that about yourself,” pro-
tested Virginia. “It isn’t fair. I don’t see you
as inferior to Mr. Greenfield. Not one bit.”
“Well, you know I am a pretty hard and cal-
lous sort—but here we are, Virginia—that must
be the house, the third one over there.”
So absorbed had they been in their conversa-
tion that they scarcely noticed the passers-by or
the people moving about them on both sides of
the street, until suddenly someone from behind
72


SPIKE, THE GUN
touched Bradbury upon the arm. He wheeled
about sharply and Virginia also paused and
turned.
The man who accosted him was McFarland of
the Detective Bureau.
“Hello, Mr. Bradbury,” smiled McFarland.
“I know where you’re going, I’ll lay a little
bet.” And he touched his felt hat by way of
courtesy to the lady.
“Yes,” said Bradbury, “I suppose you do.
I’ve only just learned her address—if she’s there
—half an hour ago.”
“She’s there, all right,” McFarland smiled
familiarly, and Bradbury noted that Callahan
was standing aloof, yet interested, a few paces
behind McFarland.
“But I thought,” said Bradbury, “you didn’t
know where Mrs. Carter had gone to?”
“Oh, we weren't fooling,” laughed McFarland.
“We didn’t until a few hours ago. But Callahan
here located her this morning and—and—” he
hesitated. “May I speak to you privately for
half a minute—if the lady will excuse me?”
73


SPIKE, THE GUN
her being an old woman,” he nodded more
soberly, “that you, Mr. Bradbury, as a lawyer,
ought to know guarantees nothing. She may be
honest, or she may be a center of crooks and
crime. I’ve had too much experience to go by
ages—yes sir!” and he nodded emphatically.
“Well, McFarland, I don’t want to cut into
your plans. My object is to help, not to hinder,
in the detection of the criminal. But—I would
like to see Mrs. Carter now I’m here.”
McFarland was lost in reflection for a space.
“All right, go ahead, Mr. Bradbury,” he
finally said. “Go ahead—if you want to. And
if she'll come back with you to your apartment,
take her along—take her along. I can manage
all right.”
“That's good of you, McFarland. I appre-
ciate that. Come Virginia,” and with a nod to
McFarland the two walked on to the cottage.
The door was opened by a stoutish woman of
perhaps thirty-five, the corners of whose mouth
drooped perpetually down. These, and the some-
what pendulous cheeks, gave her an appearance
75


GUILT
at once harassed and forbidding, as though she
were conscious of living in a world abounding
in trouble.
“We should like to see Mrs. Carter,” Bradbury
informed her.
“Mrs. Carter is sick and can’t see anybody,”
answered the woman, “not to-day.”
“Tell her it's Mr. Bradbury, and that I hope
she’ll see me. She has some money coming to
her—but never mind that—Just tell her I want
to see her.”
The woman gazed at him for a moment, then
examined Virginia from head to foot, and finally
closing the door behind them, said in more
lenient tones:
“Wait here a minute. I’ll see.”
They were left in the doorway of a shabby
sliver of a “hall” looking into a stuffy faded
little “parlor,” whose chief ornaments were a
sewing machine and a gas jet depending from
the ceiling so low that anyone of ordinary stature
must walk round it. The woman disappeared
into an inner room and was gone several minutes.
76


SPIKE, THE GUN
When she returned she announced that “mother
will be out in a minute,” and rather sulkily
asked them to be seated.
They endeavored to chat easily about the
weather, about the salubrious proximity of Bronx
Park, but the woman replied only in monosyl-
lables and busied herself at the sewing machine.
In a few moments, however, Mrs. Carter ap-
peared with a handkerchief in her hand, as
though she had been wiping her eyes.
Bradbury rose and held out his hand. Some-
what uncertainly, Mrs. Carter touched it with her
own and nodded to Virginia.
“I know what you’re going to say,” she began
in a quavering voice to Bradbury, “but I just
couldn't stay there another minute. Just had to
—I just couldn't—” and her ready tears began
to flow as she dabbed at her eyes.
“I quite understand, Mrs. Carter,” murmured
Bradbury. “We were all pretty much affected
the same way. Perhaps I should have looked
after you better— Sorry— 99
“Oh, it isn’t that,” sniffed Mrs. Carter. “You
77


GUILT
were most kind, sir—and considerate, but—but
—” and again her utterance was choked with
tears.
“There—there, Mrs. Carter,” Virginia patted
her on the shoulder, “the worst is over now.”
“Yes,” put in Bradbury, “and I want you to
come back, Mrs. Carter. I have to stay in town
until—for the present. A little later you’ll have
a vacation and that will freshen you up.”
Mrs. Carter stood uncertain for perhaps a
minute, as though lost in thought, and finally
said:
“Well, then, I’ll come to-morrow.”
“Very well,” answered Bradbury, “though I
had thought you might come now, so Miss Oliver
and I can take care of you on the way and see
you back to your room.”
Mrs. Carter looked a prey to conflicting in-
clinations.
“Will—they be questioning and deviling me,
when I don’t know a thing !”
“They probably will, Mrs. Carter,” interposed
Bradbury. “They’ll question you—me—a good
78


SPIKE, THE GUN
many people, before they get through with the
matter. But staying here is not going to help
you any. They’ll come here if they want you—
and your going away and refusing to return will
simply make them more suspicious. You know
what the police are.”
“Very well, sir,” she yielded resignedly.
“Then I’ll come now—if you’ll please to wait a
minute. I would rather go down with you, sir.
Oh, God help us!” she broke off.
For at that moment a sharp fusillade of shots
on a sudden startled the group in the dingy par-
lor, and so close-by were the reports that they
seemed almost to come from another part of the
house. All of them turned pale and poor old
Mrs. Carter visibly quivered.
Two or three more shots rang out and at the
front door was heard a crash of splintering wood.
A tall broad-shouldered man, hatless, panting,
livid, burst into the room backward, firing an
unseen weapon through the pocket of his coat as
he came.
79


GUILT
Smoke was pouring out of his pocket—over
his hidden hand.
The woman at the sewing machine leaped to
her feet with a stifled cry, and sat down again.
Mrs. Carter uttered a scream and sank down on
her knees, and Virginia could have sworn that
she saw Mrs. Carter stretch out her arms toward
the intruder. Bradbury, realizing the danger in
the armed man, leaped forward, threw his arms
about him from behind and for a moment they
rocked and swayed together as one body. Then
all in a flash, Callahan and three other men with
drawn revolvers rushed in, pinioned the man and
bore him to the floor.
“Get his gun,” Callahan shouted hoarsely,
“In his coat pocket—and get the cuffs on him—
damn his hide—he's shot me in the leg—get the
cuffs on him—and look out!”
In a moment, by tense and burly struggle, they
had disarmed him and had him handcuffed lying
on the worn old carpet.
f
Mrs. Carter's daughter abruptly rose, put her
-


SPIKE, THE GUN
arm about her mother and virtually carried her
out of the room.
Callahan straightened up from his crouching
posture over his prostrate victim, and still pant-
ing with his exertion, sent a golden grin in the
direction of Bradbury and Virginia.
“Bad actor,” he gasped from purple lips.
“Actor?” breathed Virginia, pale, but clinging
desperately to her composure.
“Who is he?” inquired Bradbury.
“That’s “Spike, the Gun”—he calls himself.
He's wanted.”
“What is he wanted for?” pursued Bradbury.
McFarland, who had evidently brought up the
rear, appeared in the doorway.
“I’ll tell you what he's wanted for, Mr. Brad-
bury,” announced McFarland, with the ecstatic
glee of the man-hunter. “For escaping from
Sing Sing five weeks ago, where he was doing a
five-year stretch.” He bent toward the prostrate
figure of the captive.
“Mustn't run away from school, Spike, me
lad,” he jeered, “mustn't do it—it ain’t done.”
81


GUILT
“But what has he got to do with these people,
here?” insisted Bradbury.
“That's what we’ll try to find out,” responded
McFarland.
Both Bradbury and Virginia noted on a sudden
that Mrs. Carter's daughter, with an expression
of intense hatred, was standing in the doorway
of the room into which she had borne her mother.
“You know this man, Miss?” ingratiatingly
inquired McFarland, turning to the woman.
“No, she don’t, and I don’t know her,” replied
the prisoner before she could speak. “Sorry I
came in on her—only trying to get away from
you bulls.”
“Didn't ask you,” snarled McFarland, and
lifted his foot as if to kick the man, but forbore
upon noting the expression of horror on the face
of Virginia.
“Know this man?” he repeated.
“Never saw him before in my life,” retorted
the woman, her face darkening as she spoke.
“And I’d like to know what you think this place
82


SPIKE, THE GUN
is—rushing in here like this all of you—this
ain't a jail, I can tell you!”
“Yes, yes, I know, lady,” responded McFar-
land harshly, “but it ain't our fault. We didn't
send him here. He came, and we followed him.
D'ye like escaped convicts to run into your house,
or would you prefer to have us follow, and catch
*em?”
“Frightening the life out’a people,” the woman
muttered. Then, abruptly, she turned and left
the room.
“Some folks would be grateful,” remarked
McFarland, to the room generally, “but not here
in the Bronx.”
The detectives laughed.
“Well, take your bird—” commanded Mc-
Farland—“now you’ve caught him, and get him
into his gilded cage.”
The men on both sides prodded the prisoner
with their feet.
“Get up!” they urged.
He rose to a sitting posture and then stood up,
his handcuffed wrists before him.
83


GUILT
“Where's my hat,” he demanded gruffly.
“Never mind your hat,” McFarland answered.
“Are you really shot, Callahan?”
“I thought I was, Chief,” Callahan replied
shamefaced. “But I guess the bullet only grazed
me.”
The others roared with laughter.
“No gunman can shoot straight,” commented
McFarland contemptuously, “except when he's
got his muzzle to your back.”
Bradbury and Virginia had time to observe
the handcuffed man. In spite of his scuffle he
was rather dapper in his dress, preternaturally
pale, and his light hair was thick, as though to
wipe out the stigma of the close cropped head of
the prison. He had, in spite of his exploit in
escaping from prison, the weak features to be
seen in most convicts.
“Come,” said McFarland, as he led the way
out, “and scatter that crowd, some of you.”
“Mother will come out in a minute,” an-
nounced the woman, who made her appearance
as the group was filing through the outer door.
84


SPIKE, THE GUN
“Very well,” said Bradbury. “No hurry—
we’ll wait for her.”
In the inner room, when her daughter re-
turned, Mrs. Carter fell sobbing into her arms.
In the parlor Bradbury was saying in low
tones to Virginia:
“Do you think they knew the man?”
“I could have sworn,” said Virginia, “I saw
Mrs. Carter stretch out her arms to him when he
first came in.”
Bradbury's face hardened.
“I’ll give that woman every chance,” he ob-
served. “But if she's had anything to do with
that murder, nothing on earth will save her. I
shall be absolutely ruthless—without mercy.”
Mrs. Carter, followed by her daughter, pres-
ently made her appearance, and in a shaken,
tearful voice, she said:
“I am ready now, Mr. Bradbury.”
85


CHAPTER VII
DETECTIVE MCKENNA
UPON the landing in front of his own door,
Bradbury found a stranger, a man of perhaps
forty, immaculately dressed in brown to match
his well-groomed light brown hair and carefully
curled mustache.
“You wish to see me?” inquired Bradbury.
“Mr. Bradbury, I presume?” Bradbury nod-
ded, and let the two women into the apartment.
“I am McKenna.”
“Ah, come in, Mr. McKenna. They told me
you were out of town,” and he led the way to the
library.
“I have just returned,” McKenna informed
him. “I had some business at the District At-
torney’s office and Mr. Summers told me you
86


DETECTIVE MCKENNA
wished to see me. He told me some of the par-
ticulars of the case—so I came straight up.”
“How much did Summers tell you?”
Briefly McKenna summarized what the District
Attorney had conveyed to him of the discovery
of the murder, of the arrest of the valet, of the
disappearance of Mrs. Carter, and of the abortive
inquest.
“Well, then, I’ll tell you the rest,” began Brad-
bury, and put the detective in possession of the
occurrences of the last few hours.
“Now,” he concluded, “you know as much as
any of us—and what do you think of the case?”
“Oh, it’s too soon to think,” blandly smiled
McKenna. “I’ll have to look around and turn
it over in my mind. But it ought not to be im-
possible to trace the murderer.”
Much of this private detective’s reputation
came from his inscrutable air of wisdom and
assurance. As an operative in the Federal Secret
Service he had had the luck to gain a great deal
of publicity in a case of fraud that in itself had
offered only very ordinary difficulties, and the
87


GUILT
shrewd detective had capitalized all those assets
to their utmost. His reputation by now seemed
founded in granite.
Bradbury mentioned the word “retainer” and
McKenna waived the matter aside as of trivial
import, but nevertheless he named a figure that
a corporation lawyer need not have been
ashamed of.
“There's the print of a hand, I understand
that is giving some trouble?” he said suavely.
“Yes. The Detective Bureau has got that—I
can show you the place.”
“Would you mind if I just strolled about the
house—and would you show me the room where
the murder took place?”
“Yes, certainly. Come this way, Mr. Mc-
Kenna.”
McKenna's eyes roved about the apartment as
he followed Bradbury, but he betrayed not the
slightest excitement.
“This is my room,” Bradbury was saying as
he threw open its door. “This is the room of the
dead man, and the next is the housekeeper's
88


DETECTIVE MCKENNA
room. The last door is the kitchen, which also
communicates by a door with the outer hall. The
bath room, as you see, is between Mr. Green-
field's room and mine.”
“Yes, yes,” nodded McKenna. “Now I would
like to stay awhile in Mr. Greenfield's room—by
myself for a bit.” He spoke with the engaging
professional air of mystery.
Bradbury nodded and closed the door, staring
at it for a moment. He took little stock in this
soft-spoken detective, with the manner of a nec-
romancer and the clothes of a matinée idol—
who was about to pull a rabbit out of a hat.
Virginia at this point emerged from the
kitchen.
“Well,” asked Bradbury, “how is Mrs. Car-
ter?”
“The poor thing has a lot of courage,” com-
mented Virginia with admiration. “She seems
still to be pretty wobbly, but she's going about
her work like a little major. I admire her.”
“Good,” nodded Bradbury. “And I wish I
could tell you, Virginia, how much I admire you
89


GUILT
—and how much I appreciate your friendship.
At a time like this, a man realizes what the
friendship of a girl like you means to him.”
“Don’t speak of it, Lowell,” Virginia flushed
and turned her head away deprecatingly.
“I hope you will let me see a great deal of you,
Virginia. For though I have always needed you,
I have never needed you more than now. And
though you have always brought something fine
and refreshing into my life, your sympathy and
fineness have never been a greater comfort to
me than right at this minute.”
Virginia looked away as he took her hand.
“That's very dear of you, Lowell,” she mur-
mured. “But what are friends for? You know
” She was too
you can always count upon me.”
proud, however, to take advantage of a moment
of melancholy and depression. She would not
allow him to make any more loverlike declara-
tions, under these circumstances of gloom and
tragedy.
“Call on me at any time, Lowell,” she invited
him warmly, “whenever you need me. Now I
90


DETECTIVE MCKENNA
must run downstairs and see how my own house-
hold is going,” and with a little laugh that par-
took of the quality of a sob, she freed her hand
and slipped out of the door.
McKenna at this moment emerged from the
room he had been surveying.
“Well—any news?” demanded Bradbury
nervously.
McKenna laughed quietly.
“No, Mr. Bradbury. The fellow who did it is
not concealed under the bed, worse luck. But
there are one or two questions I should like to
ask you, if you don’t mind.”
“Go right ahead, Mr. McKenna—ask as many
as you like. My time is yours.”
“As I understand it, you and Mr. Greenfield
have known each other since childhood.”
“That is correct.”
“And you have been very close and intimate?”
“Closer than most brothers.”
“Have you ever known him to have any quar-
rel?”
“None that I can recollect.”
91


GUILT
“He inherited a great deal of money, I'm told.
Did he ever have any litigation about the inherit-
ance?”
“None whatever.”
“Were there any complaints of other heirs
or threats of breaking the will, or anything of
that nature?”
“Nothing at all of the sort,” Bradbury readily
assured him. “His father was a rich man—
owned a lot of granite quarries—a very fine type
of man—up in Vermont. His mother died when
he was a boy. When old Greenfield died, Van
was the sole heir. There were no others. There
were a few charitable bequests in the will, and
Wan, as executor, paid them over immediately;
and, as you probably know, devoted the rest of
his fortune and all his life, too, to such things
as the Prisoners' Aid Society, the Home for
Homeless Boys, and so on. To the best of my
knowledge, Mr. McKenna, he had not an enemy
in the world—nothing but friends, I should say.”
McKenna nodded meditatively.
“He had never been married, I understand?”
92


DETECTIVE MCKENNA
“No, never.”
“Hadheever been in love—that you know of?”
“Yes,” answered Bradbury. “He was in love
with a splendid girl up in our home town—and
they were to have been married. She died sud-
denly. Broke Wan up considerably. But that
was fully fifteen years ago.”
“Well,” concluded McKenna, “there are some
other things I’d like to know, but I’ll find those
out for myself—if, Mr. Bradbury, you will grant
a request I am going to make that may seem a
little strange to you.”
“Anything in my power, Mr. McKenna, as you
know 22
“Very good,” broke in McKenna, “Then I
would like to stay here in the apartment for two
or three days.”
“Certainly,” replied Bradbury. “You can
have my room—and I’ll sleep in the library on
the sofa. Easy enough 99
“No, Mr. Bradbury—I wouldn't incommode
you for anything. What I want is to occupy the
room that was Mr. Greenfield’s.”
93


GUILT
“You wouldn't mind?” . . . Bradbury asked
somewhat surprised.
“Not a bit,” responded McKenna—“in fact,
that is the chief object of my request.”
Bradbury's opinion of McKenna rose as if by
an act of heroism. It was nothing of course to
sleep in a dead man's room and we all do it fre-
quently at hotels and elsewhere without knowing
it. But consciously to sleep in a bed whose
occupant was murdered a night or so before—
he, Bradbury, would not have cared to tackle
it.
“I shall be glad to have you,” he informed
McKenna. “Make yourself perfectly at home.
Now is there anything else?”
“This,” said McKenna. “Have the police
questioned your housekeeper at all?”
“Not that I know of I don’t think so.”
“You see them down there?” and he pointed
through the window to the square below. Brad-
bury saw two men lounging on the pavement, en-
gaged in casual conversation with the patrolman
of the beat.
94


GUILT
McKenna's hand was on the knob. He opened
the door and turned with a nod toward Bradbury,
when in strode Oppenheim and Callahan, the
latter with the usual glint of gold in his smile.
“Good afternoon, boys,” McKenna greeted
them. “Come to pay me a visit?”
“Yes,” grinned Callahan. “Come to have
some pink tea.”
“You’ve come to the right place,” responded
McKenna. “What can I do for you?”
“Not a thing, Mr. McKenna—unless you’re in
charge here.”
Bradbury, who had been standing by in won-
dering silence, now approached them.
“Any new developments, Mr. Callahan?”
“Only this, sir. We have come to arrest Mrs.
Carter,” and with a nod he motioned Oppenheim
toward the kitchen.
“But why?” protested Bradbury, suddenly
vehement.
“Orders,” answered Callahan laconically.
“But McFarland himself told me in your pres-
96


DETECTIVE MCKENNA
ence Mrs. Carter could stay here unmolested—
you heard him.”
“I know it, Mr. Bradbury, but it's the chief
that’s just given the order.”
Oppenheim had by this time opened the door,
and with a gesture summoned Mrs. Carter to
COme Out.
“I shall communicate with the District At-
torney at once. This is preposterous,” cried
Bradbury hotly.
“Your privilege,” mumbled Callahan.
“Will you tell me why you are houndin
“Hounding nothing,” broke in Callahan
gruffly, with a show of spirit, “we’ve got our
92
orders and we’re carrying them out
“Just what are your orders?” Bradbury took
him up.
“To arrest as a material witness and maybe as
an accessory, this woman known as Mrs. Carter,
the mother of the escaped convict—'Spike, the
Gun!’”
“‘Spike, the Gun!’” echoed Bradbury
amazed. “Surely that can't be true, Mrs. Carter?”
97


GUILT
But Mrs. Carter no longer heeded him. Sup-
ported by Oppenheim's arm she was sobbing
convulsively with her hands covering her face.
Bradbury threw out his arms in a gesture of
bewilderment and resignation.
“Come on, Oppenheim—” and together with
Mrs. Carter the two Central Office men moved
out of the apartment.
Bradbury experienced a longing to pour out
his heart to McKenna. But his sense of dignity
and his long habit of repression forbade.
“Does this alter your plans in any way?” He
queried, turning to McKenna.
“Not the least in the world,” suavely replied
McKenna. “I thought they had something up
their sleeve,” he added laughing. “They never
change. I shall be back later. Good day, Mr.
Bradbury.”
“Good day, answered Bradbury, and with
lowered head, absorbed in thought, he turned his
back upon the departing McKenna.
98


CHAPTER VIII
FRED’s JEWEL Box
IN East Twenty-third Street, between the two
lines of the Manhattan Elevated, there is an
oddly-furnished quiet little restaurant that would
make a fortune in Greenwich Village.
It is paneled in dark and heavy oak, beauti-
fully colored by time, like a baronial hall, and
yet there is a bar near to the door, a bar of in-
finitesimal proportions, like a sideboard.
A pale man in a morning coat, who would
scorn the barkeeper's apron and white coat, sits
on a high stool by the sideboard reading Eugène
Sue or Dumas and nods pleasantly to the well-
dressed patrons as they enter. He seldom speaks.
But his bow to the stranger is worth observing,
for somehow the stranger, in spite of the pleasant
atmosphere, does not linger there. The estab-
99


GUILT
lished client, however, with a nod and a smile,
murmurs “Hello, Fred,” moves down the little
paneled hall and usually finds a crony or two to
foregather with. The tastefully shaded elec-
troliers diffuse a pleasant glow through the rear
of the room, and even the lights on the sideboard
are not too bright—only bright enough to make
the polished accouterments, including the silver
champagne pails of a bygone era sparkle agree-
ably.
The place is known as “Fred's Jewel Box.”
Fred is an ex-convict—and no more courteous
gentleman ever dispensed refreshments—at all
events, on the island of Manhattan.
Some three hours after Mrs. Carter's arrest
by the police, McKenna strolled into the Jewel
Box and observed with a mod that it was a cool
night for that time of the year.
Fred changed from pale to paler, but so im-
perceptible was the change that few would have
noted it. He replied politely, and, reflecting
that his conscience was clear, he resumed his
100


FRED’S JEWEL BOX
reading of the “Mysteries of Paris” with the most
perfect air of tranquillity.
McKenna moved down the pleasant room,
nodded to a group of three men who were idly
shuffling a new deck of cards, and paused, fixing
his eye on one of them, who looked like nothing
so much as a prosperous broker.
“Don’t want to see me, do you Mac?” smiled
the prosperous one, shifting his cigar for better
enunciation.
“Could you give me just a minute, Chink?”
McKenna asked him.
“Sure, Mike,” the other answered with alac-
rity. “Excuse me, boys,” he murmured courte-
ously to his companions, and rising from his
chair, he put his arm fraternally through Mc-
Kenna's, led him to a table at the other side of
the room, and held out an excellent silver cigar
case loaded with excellent cigars.
“Now, Mac,” he said, comfortably, putting
the case down on the table. “Now, shoot.”
“I suppose you know, Chink, that the bulls
have got Spike?”
101


GUILT
“Yep, Mac—the boys were just talking about
it. Too bad,” he commented sympathetically.
“How'd they get him?”
“Well, if you want to know, Mac, Spike is a
damned fool. Crazy about his family. Couldn't
keep away from them. Made a good get-away—
fooled them all fine up the river, could have
gone to Toledo or Chicago, or Frisco—been all
right. But Spike has got too much heart—that's
what’s the matter with him.”
McKenna nodded with a wise smile over the
frailties of human nature.
“You know that his mother 99
“Just arrested in connection with the Green-
field case?—” Chink Lennahan broke in—
“Yep,” he added sadly, “heard about it.”
“Well, now Chink, you know as much as I do
about it. But you are a pal of Spike's, and you've
got to tell me this straight. Did Spike have any-
thing to do with that murder?”
“Not a
swered him.
thing,” Lennahan solemnly an-
“They'll try to pin it on to him,” continued
102


GUILT
think they'll do about Spike?” he added with
concern in his voice.
“Oh, they’ll do their damnedest, never fear,”
replied McKenna. “But I don't think I'll let
'em pin that on him.”
Lennahan gripped his hand.
“Say, Mac, you're an ace. Power to you.
I’ll never forget it.”
“That’s all right, Chink. Now I've got to be
going.” He rose from his chair. “So long,” he
added amiably. “May see you again.”
“Any time,” murmured Chink, “you know
where to find me. Good luck!”
“One word more, Chink,” McKenna rested his
hand lightly on Lennahan's arm. “Did Green-
field know Spike was Mrs. Carter's son?”
The crook hesitated as though turning the
answer over in his mind.
“Yes, he did, Mac—though he kept it from
the other fellow—Bradbury. That man Green-
field was an ace, I tell you,” he added with
vehemence,—“had an oversized heart—that's
what he had!”
104.


FRED’S JEWEL BOX
“Good,” said McKenna, and with a nod he
walked out of the Jewel Box.
A minute later Fred himself glanced casually
toward the door and, as no customer was ap-
proaching, he left his stool and strolled leisurely,
in his distinguished melancholy manner, toward
the group of three in the rear.
“McKenna—” he began in his precise well-
modulated voice. “One thought leads to another.
You boys are not letting me in for anything, are
you?”
Chink Lennahan turned upon him swiftly.
“Did you ever know us to do anything like
that?” he demanded with heat.
“No,” Fred shook his head austerely. “And
I don’t want to. But—what’s the trouble, then?
Why does McKenna come here? Ask yourselves
—do I want bulls in this place—after my ex-
perience?”
“Well, if you want to know,” retorted Chink,
in an exasperated, aggrieved tone, “he came to
ask me a question about Spike—as much your
friend as mine. God—I can’t help that, can I?
105


GUILT
Wonder you let any of us come in here at all!”
“You’re all welcome here,” announced Fred
soberly—“except when you're wanted. When
it's a question of the bulls being after you, I ex-
pect you to take your trade elsewhere. I’ve had
enough of that. Don't forget that, boys,” he
added coldly, and with his silent tread he re-
turned to his stool and Eugène Sue.
106


CHAPTER IX
THE SLEEPER ON THE ROOF
At a quarter of ten, when McKenna entered
the apartment, he heard voices in the living room,
and Bradbury, completing a sentence, evidently,
was saying.
“—Her name we’ve got to keep out of this
altogether—that I absolutely insist on—don't
you agree with me?”
“Certainly,” was the answer—“as long as we
can.”
The voice was the District Attorney’s.
“Thought they told me everything,” McKenna
said to himself, closing the door softly. Brad-
bury heard him, however.
“That you, McKenna?” he called out.
“Yes, Mr. Bradbury.”
“Come in, come in,” he urged, and Summers
107


GUILT
supplemented him with another hearty invitation
to enter.
“Let’s hear what you know,” he added briskly.
“Not much, I'm afraid, Mr. Summers,” he
answered. “Hardly time yet.” -
“I hear you are going to sleep here?” Sum-
mers smiled quizzically.
“Yes,” answered McKenna.
“Believe in ghosts?” pressed Summers.
“I believe in everything, I guess,” laughed
McKenna—“until I find I am wrong.”
“Proper spirit,” was Summers’ hearty com-
ment. “What are you going to do next?”
“Go to bed, I think,” replied McKenna. “I’ve
been sleeping in trains lately. Start fresh to-
morrow.”
“Tell me one thing,” demanded Summers in
his genial fashion. “Is it usual with you to
move in and live in the house where you're in-
vestigating a case like this?”
“No,” smiled McKenna. “All depends how
I feel. I work a good deal by hunches, you
know.”
108


THE SLEEPER ON THE ROOF
“And your hunch leads you to adopt this plan
here?”
“Seems funny to you, I know,” McKenna re-
plied good naturedly, “but that's about the size
of it.”
“Funny, not at all,” laughed Summers in
spite of himself. “Go as far as you like. But
it interests me to see how genius goes to work.”
They all laughed now, even Bradbury.
“After that, the only thing left for me is to
go to bed,” declared McKenna, and with a good
night he left them.
In Greenfield's room an attempt had evidently
been made by inexpert hands to set things to
rights. The linen had been changed and a rug
had been placed over the stain in the carpet. The
window was open as before, and the room was
still far from orderly.
In five minutes McKenna was undressed and in
bed.
With the new and slower rhythm that thought
assumes at night, he surveyed all that he knew
of the case thus far. He had no intention of
109


GUILT *
counting anything as impossible, but it was firmly
fixed in his mind that neither Spike, the Gun, nor
Mrs. Carter had anything to do with the crime.
There was the valet, held on suspicion, but even
the police set little store by him. Whom could
Bradbury have meant when he spoke of keep-
ing her name out? That wasn't playing fair—
to hold things out on him. Summers ought to
know better than that, even if Bradbury didn’t.
They were both lawyers and ought to know.
Afraid he'd have to mention it to Bradbury in
the morning. -
At that moment a figure, he could not tell
whether man or woman, with a pack of some
sort under one arm, suddenly appeared on the
fire-escape balcony outside his window. With a
stealthy, noiseless tread it moved cautiously.
across the landing, as if fearful of being seen or
heard, feeling with the disengaged right hand
along the wall and window outside, and then
softly it began to mount the next section of the
fire-escape.
1IO


THE SLEEPER ON THE ROOF
McKenna gazed as if spellbound by this
strange apparition.
“Now what the blazes is that?” he whispered
to himself, and lay still for a moment. Then
abruptly he jumped out of bed. Catlike he
moved to the window and peered up the fire-
escape ladder, but the figure was gone.
He dressed hastily, slipped his automatic into
his hip pocket and stealthily crept out of the
window upon the gridiron-like landing of the
fire-escape.
Again he strained his ears for any sound, with
the heightened sense of the hunter. But aside
from the murmur and rumor of the city all about
him, he heard nothing.
Slowly, cautiously, he crept up the ladder-like
steps of the fire-escape, peering upward into the
moonlit night, so that no sudden assault might
surprise him.
The Bradbury-Greenfield apartment was the
topmost in the house. The flat roof with its
gravel surface lay illumined before McKenna's
gaze, broken only by narrow bits of boardwalk,
111


THE SLEEPER ON THE ROOF
young man. “I sleep here every night when it
doesn’t rain.”
“A very healthy thing to do,” commented Mc-
Kenna, approaching him. “Wery healthy—don't
blame you one bit. I should think lots of people
would do that in New York.”
“They don’t, though,” replied the young man
with a chuckle. “New Yorkers like comfort a
lot more than they like fresh air. Don’t think I
would do it myself. But I’ve had a warning of
possible T. B. And I’ve gained—let me see—
I’ve gained about ten pounds since I began this,
back about the middle of April.”
“Sure—can’t help but gain,” agreed Mc-
Kenna, returning the pistol deftly to his hip
pocket and squatting beside the young man.
“Did you sleep here the last couple of nights?
You must have,” he added conversationally.
“Good weather right along.”
“Yes, oh yes,” was the reply. “And—by the
way, do you live here?” he added abruptly.
“Why, -yes,” answered McKenna. “I’m in
the apartment below.”
113


GUILT
about me, as though it were my own skin. But
I'll tell you what I did do!”
“What was that?” snapped McKenna with
renewed interest.
“I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep for some
time—if at all. So about ten or fifteen minutes
after he'd gone I got out of the bag, crept over
to the fire-escape and looked down.”
“See anything?”
“Not a darn thing. All was perfectly still.
Might have been a dream. But I know it wasn’t
a dream.”
McKenna nodded his head slowly.
“Anyway,” he said, “did you get a good look
at the man while he was still on the roof?”
“Yes,” was the deliberate answer, “I think I
did. The moonlight was quite bright and it was
full on his face when he first came out—while I
was in the shadow.”
“Do you think you could recognize him if you
ever saw him again?”
The young man paused for a moment in
thought.
116


THE SLEEPER ON THE ROOF
“I think I could,” he said.
“Mind telling me your name?” McKenna
asked him abruptly.
“Fisher—Andrew Fisher.”
“Good—glad to know you, Mr. Fisher. Mine's
McKenna.”
“The McKenna?” queried the young man in
awe.
“I’m McKenna, the detective, if that’s what
you mean,” was the modest reply. “I’m on the
case. And what I want to ask you, Mr. Fisher,
is to come down with me into the apartment be-
low and see Mr. Bradbury. Would you do that?”
“Won't to-morrow do?” protested the young
man. “I haven’t slept very well 92
“I’d rather you’d come now,” insisted Mc-
Kenna. “It’s very important, and I don't mind
telling you that your information may prove of
great importance to the case.”
“All right,” Fisher agreed with reluctance.
“I’d better get down to my room and dress, I
suppose.”
“Not at all,” McKenna assured him. “Your
117


GUILT
dressing gown and pajamas are good enough.
There are no women down there—only Mr. Brad-
bury and possibly one other man.”
“But how can I present myself at a man's door
—a great lawyer's—in my pajamas?” The
shrinking young man hung back.
“We’ll go in through the window,” McKenna
decided readily. “That'll make that all right.”
Fisher left his bag as an insect might creep
out of a cocoon and followed McKenna to the
fire-escape.
“I have a terrible feeling,” said Fisher with
awe in his voice, as he stepped through the
window into poor Greenfield's darkened room.
“What’s that?” asked McKenna.
“From the way that man on the roof looked
that night, Mr. McKenna, I have a feeling that
he was the murderer!”
118


CHAPTER X
VIRGINIA YIELDS
THE following morning at half past eight
Lowell Bradbury called up Virginia Oliver on
the outside telephone.
Both Virginia and he indulged in the luxury
of outside telephones rather than to be a prey to
the eavesdropping and gossip of the apartment
house switch-board operators—an indulgence
common to many well-to-do New Yorkers.
“Virginia,” said Bradbury, “I hate to disturb
you so early in the morning, but I must see you
for a few minutes immediately.”
“I can be dressed in ten minutes, Lowell,”
Virginia replied cheerfully, “and if you make it
twelve minutes, I’ll let you in myself.”
“Thank you, Virginia, I’ll be at your door in
exactly twelve minutes.”
119


GUILT
Impatiently Bradbury paced the floor of the
living room, revolving in his mind the details and
developments of the case thus far. Much to his
regret he was obliged to urge Virginia upon a
course contrary to her inclinations. He knew
both Virginia, however, and his powers of per-
suasion well enough to believe that he could sway
her decision. At precisely eighteen minutes of
nine he knocked upon her door, which opened as
if to the pressure of his knuckles.
“Come in, Lowell,” she greeted him with a
radiant smile. The sound of his name upon her
lips was delightful to his ear. She spoke it as
though she loved it.
Once in her daintily furnished drawing room,
she turned full upon him and faced him inquir-
ingly. Even during the days succeeding the
tragedy he had been able to preserve a semblance
of imperturbable mastery that had now almost
deserted him. His eyes betrayed a look of
anxiety. -
“What is it, Lowell?” she murmured gently.
“Virginia,” he told her, taking her hand, “you
120


VIRGINIA YIELDS
know that I have made every effort to keep your
name out of any connection, even the remotest,
with the case, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she breathed, and her color left her.
“I insisted that it must be kept out,” he went
on firmly, “and Summers agreed with me. I
would give years of my life to meet your wishes
29
in this matter
99
“—But Lawrence Summers? she inter-
rupted.
“No!” he broke in, “He hasn’t said a word.
But I myself feel that it can’t be done. If we
are to discover the murderer of Wan, your evi-
dence is of extreme importance. Last night I
realized that it may be vital—and I haven’t slept
a minute for thinking of it!”
Briefly he then related to her the narrative of
Andrew Fisher, the episode of the mysterious
man on the roof, and pointed out the relationship
between that and her own experience on the eve-
ning when she came to return his pocket note-
book.
Virginia had been listening intently. The
121


VIRGINIA YIELDS
“I am ready to do whatever you wish, Lowell,”
she murmured in low, steady tones.
“I want you first of all,” he said, somewhat
more lightly, “to accept my thanks and my
homage.”
“Thanks and homage,” she repeated mentally,
and glanced away for an instant somewhat crest-
fallen.
“And then?” she said aloud with a brave
smile.
“And then to come with me right now to Larry
Summers’ office.”
Virginia winced but replied steadfastly:
“I can be ready in two minutes—just my hat,”
and she turned from him.
“I’ll wait for you,” was all he said.
“There's one thing I want to ask you,” she
came toward him, hatted and gloved from the
door of her room. “You’ve had a feeling until
now that Mrs. Carter was a simple, innocent old
woman. Do you think now that she is in some
way guilty of the crime?”
“Maybe,” he answered with a shrug. “All I
123


GUILT
can say is, if she is, the Lord help her. She
shall not escape!”
Virginia gave a little shudder.
“Gracious, Lowell!” she exclaimed. “I hon-
estly believe you would sacrifice your nearest
and dearest to avenge your dead friend.”
“Virginia,” he replied deliberately, “I would,
indeed, do just that. I would sacrifice, as you
call it, my nearest and dearest—Yes, I would
sacrifice even myself, if by so doing I could
bring Van's murderer to justice.”
Virginia quite unconsciously edged away from
him.
Then, on a sudden, as if by an effort of the
will, she smiled, albeit pallidly, and said:
“Come, Lowell! I am all decked and ready
for the sacrificial altar.”
And together they walked out of the apart-
ment.
In the hall below, the colored switchboard-
operator espied them, and came runing toward
them, a vast expanse of ivory bare of the great
African lips.
124


VIRGINIA YIELDS
“Been ringin' you, Mr. Bradb’y—been ringin'
'n ringin' 'n ringin'. Dis’c Attorney wan’t talk
to yuh very bad. Rang off. But said ºf I saw
yuh to tell yuh come raht down his place—dis
minute, suh.”
“All right, Cyrus,” answered Bradbury.
“Ring him up and tell him I'm on my way.”
125


CHAPTER XI
McFARLAND’s ANNOUNCEMENT
THE first person Virginia and Bradbury en-
countered in Larry Summer's waiting room was
McKenna. The somewhat timid and shrinking
figure of Andrew Fisher was sunk in the chair
beside him.
“Well, McKenna, you look cheerful, I see,”
said Bradbury, without presenting him to Vir-
ginia.
“I’m always cheerful when the work is going
ahead,” replied McKenna, surveying the girl
from head to foot. “I believe we’ll get some-
where to-day.”
“Glad to hear you say so,” responded Brad-
bury. Then turning to the attendant, he added,
“Will you tell Mr. Summers that I am here?”
126


MCFARLAND’S ANNOUNCEMENT
“Yes, Mr. Bradbury,” smirked the attendant.
“He’s waiting for you—come right in, sir.”
McKenna stared after them with a puzzled
look in his eyes.
“I wonder if that’s the dame whose name he
meant to keep out?” he murmured more to him-
self than to Fisher.
“Beg pardon?” queried his companion.
“Nothing—only thinking aloud,” smiled the
ever-suave McKenna.
In the inner office Larry Summers jumped up
with impatience from his broad mahogany desk
at sight of Bradbury and Virginia.
“Here you are at last!” he cried, coming for-
ward with his customary exuberance. “Glad to
see you, Miss Oliver,” he added, taking a covert
glance at Bradbury. “Here's McFarland wait-
ing—and we’re ready to interrogate the wit-
nesses. Whom shall we begin with, Mac”
McFarland glanced at Virginia.
“Young lady a witness?” he inquired du-
biously.
“She will have something important to say
127


GUILT
at the right time,” interposed Bradbury. “She
may prove a very material witness.”
“Good!” snapped Larry Summers, disregard-
ing McFarland's sour look at his exclusion.
“Now it's up to you, Mac. Let's get busy.
Whom have you got there? Miss Oliver,” he
turned to Virginia, “will you wait in this little
room?” He opened a door behind his chair.
“Some very humorous law books in there—side-
splitting stuff—to entertain yourself with.”
With a little nod Virginia passed into the
inner room.
“There’s McKenna out there,” McFarland
spoke somewhat surlily. “He’s got someone—
suppose we hear what he's got to say? I feel
outside of all this—” he mumbled in conclusion.
“You’ll be in on everything very shortly,”
briskly answered Summers. “Let’s have Mc-
Kenna.”
McFarland put his head out of the door, beck-
oned, and McKenna and Fisher entered. All
took chairs.
128


MCFARLAND’S ANNOUNCEMENT
“Now, McKenna, shoot!” the District Attorney
began with his customary informality.
“Mr. McFarland and his men have been wor-
ried by the print of a hand on the window-sill
of Mr. Greenfield's room,” opened McKenna.
“Worried nothin’—we'll find the guy!” broke
in McFarland. “But what of it—know anything
about that?”
“Yes.”
“What do you know?” demanded Summers.
“Here’s the man,” he nodded toward Fisher,
“who left that print on the sill.”
“Then, by God! I want him!” flared McFar-
land, in his ruffled temper, jumping up.
“Now wait a minute, Mac,” Summers lifted a
hand of protest. “Hold your horses. He won't
get away. Let's hear the facts.”
Fisher turned markedly paler and was seen
to shudder against the back of his chair.
“Tell your story, Mr. Fisher,” prompted Mc-
Kenna.
“I’d rather—rather you'd tell it,” pleaded
Fisher shrinkingly.
129


GUILT
“We'll fix that,” laughed McKenna. “I’ll ask
you questions and you answer me.”
Fisher nodded uncertainly.
“Where were you on the night of May 21st?”
began McKenna.
“On the roof,” answered Fisher.
“I didn't mean that—not yet,” smiled Mc-
Kenna encouragingly. “You were in your apart-
ment—weren't you?—the apartment below Mr.
Bradbury’s?”
“Yes,” whispered Fisher.
“Then what?”
“I took off my clothes,” replied Fisher, look-
ing at the wall as though in an effort to recall
every simple petty act and its sequence. “Then
I put on my pajamas, then my slippers, then my
dressing gown.”
All the men, with the exception of Fisher,
grinned in their various manners.
“Go ahead,” prompted McKenna resignedly.
“Then I took my sleeping bag under my arm,”
continued Fisher, still rapt in contemplation of
130


MCFARLAND’S ANNOUNCEMENT
his sequence, “got out through my window to
the fire-escape and climbed up to the roof.”
In detail Fisher then repeated his narrative
of the scene on the roof, the stealthy figure, to
the point where the man got away.
“It’s your habit to sleep on the roof every
night, isn't it?” assisted McKenna.
“If it doesn’t rain,” Fisher answered blandly.
“It didn’t rain the night of May 21st-22nd,
did it?”
“Oh, no, Mr. McKenna. I told you it was
moonlight. I didn't even expect it to rain.”
“Good,” announced Summers, “Now what?”
“Yes—” broke in McFarland, “But where's
that there, now, hand-print?”
“Right here,” promptly answered McKenna.
“The print, as you may remember, is that of a
right hand and it's from the outside.” McFar-
land nodded. “A man entering the room from
the fire-escape could have left only a left-hand
print on that sill. A man leaving the room would
have left a print with the fingers pointing to-
ward the outside. But a man climbing that fire-
131


GUILT
escape, and carrying something bulky under his
left arm, would, very naturally, to steady him-
self, grab at that sill in just the way to leave that
print.”
“Did you grab that sill on that night?” snarled
McFarland at Fisher. Fisher shrank back from
the tone.
“I don’t remember, sir,” he stammered. “I
may have done so.”
“Did you compare the print with his hand?”
McFarland turned to McKenna.
“I did,” was the calm response.
“Are they alike?”
“They are—”
“Hell!” retorted McFarland, “Then you’re
wasting our time. What's the use of this show
business? If the print is his, I don't care a damn
about it. It don’t lead anywhere. You might
have told Mr. Summers that or me and saved
time.”
“But don't you think the evidence of Mr.
Fisher relative to the man he saw on the roof
is important?” interposed Bradbury.
132


McFARLAND’S ANNOUNCEMENT
“Sure it is,” replied McFarland. “That fills
in a space—and makes our case. We’ve got the
murderer.”
“You have!” All the men cried at once, jump-
ing to their feet. McFarland alone remained
seated, leaning wearily on his elbow.
“You mean he's under arrest?” queried Brad-
bury tensely.
“That's what I said,” replied McFarland, with
an ill-restrained air of triumph. “We’ve got the
murderer.”
“Show me,” briskly demanded Larry Sum-
mers. “Come right across with him, Mac.”
McFarland nodded.
“Be back in a minute,” he said, and left the
IrOOIn.
133


THIRD DEGREE
“Through Mrs. Eckstein's Agency, sir.”
“Did you have a reference?”
“Yes, sir.”
“From whom?”
“From Mrs. Palladin—who's now in Cali-
fornia.”
“What reference did you give her?”
“None, sir. I answered an advertisement.”
“And she took you without a reference?”
“Yes, sir.”
“On your appearance—on your face?”
“You can put it that way.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth, sir—that I’d been housekeeping in
my own house.”
“Where?”
“Up-town, sir.”
“In the Bronx?”
Mrs. Carter was suddenly agitated and her lips
trembled.
“In the Bronx, I asked?” repeated McFarland,
more forcefully and harshly.
“Yes, sir,” she whispered.
135


GUILT
Bradbury looked away. He hated the man-
ner and method of the police. Where was this
unnecessary cruelty leading to?
“Isn't it a fact that your name is not Carter
at all—but McAllen?”
“No, sir,” breathed Mrs. Carter with a terri-
fied face.
“Tell the truth, woman!” snapped McFar-
land, leaning toward her from his chair. She
remained silent. Bradbury and Summers waited
intently.
“Isn't your name McAllen?” McFarland
ground out the words with terrible incisiveness.
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Carter finally whispered.
“Yes!” sneered McFarland, leaning back in
his chair.
“How many children have you?” he asked
more quietly. -
“One,” she replied—“my daughter, Mrs.
Roberts.”
“That’s a lie,” rapped McFarland. “How
many children have you?”
136


THIRD DEGREE
“One,” she repeated, and the tears dashed
out of her eyes.
“I’ll show you,” cried McFarland jumping
from his chair. . “I’ll teach you to tell the truth.
Tell me, old woman, and tell the District At-
torney—isn’t it a fact that Sam McAllen, alias
“Spike, the Gun' is your son?”
But no answer came from Mrs. Carter. She
was simply a quivering, sobbing little bundle in
her chair.
Bradbury rose and approached the window.
The examination was harassing him, rasping his
nerves.
“Come with me,” McFarland ordered, putting
a hand under her arm, lifting her almost bodily
from her chair and leading her to a door. There
he passed her over to one of his men and whis-
pered something in his ear.
Less than sixty seconds later Callahan and
another brought in a large-built, handcuffed
man, whom Bradbury recognized as “Spike, the
Gun.”
“Sit down, Spike,” ordered McFarland, and
137


THIRD DEGREE
“Tell the world about it,” retorted the pris-
Oner.
“When did you first see your mother?” re-
peated McFarland.
“Nix,” was the truculent reply.
“All right,” said McFarland calmly. “Then
before we send you back we’ll try you for the
murder of Van Wyck Greenfield and send you
up for life, or to the chair.”
“You damned skunk,” flashed Spike. “You
know damn well not one of us would have
touched that man. He was worth seven billion
hounds like you.”
McFarland’s fist shot out and landed a heavy
blow on the handcuffed man's jaw.
The two detectives behind the chair instantly
responded by pouncing on the prisoner and hold-
ing him gripped in his chair in spite of his
violent struggle to rise.
“Here! None of that!” cried Summers, leap-
ing up. “This isn’t the Detective Bureau. This
must not happen again, Mac,” he spoke with
incisive anger to the chief.
139


GUILT
“Take him out,” rapped McFarland, livid with
rage—“and bring back the old woman. If this
was the Bureau,” he added mumbling, “I’d show
him what it means to call me names.”
Mrs. Carter, more wretched and looking more
shriveled than before, was all but dragged in
by Callahan, and placed in the chair as before.
McFarland crossed the room as if to collect
himself and then, standing over Mrs. Carter,
said quietly:
“Mrs. McAllen, your son, Sam, was just in
here, and told us he was with you on the night
of the murder. We are going to try him for the
murder of Van Wyck Greenfield. Have you
anything to say to that?”
“There was no one with me the night of the
murder,” quavered the old woman tearfully.
“Now don’t lie, old woman,” McFarland still
endeavored to be calm. “I’ll tell you all he
confessed to. He was in your room in Mr.
Bradbury's apartment. After Mr. Greenfield
had gone to bed, he stole into the room through
the corridor from your room, stabbed Green-
140


GUILT
opened the door behind Larry Summer's desk
and called:
“Virginia!”
Virginia Oliver stood in the doorway.
“Now ask Miss Oliver, McFarland,” went on
Bradbury, “what she knows of Mrs. Carter.”
McFarland, puzzled for a moment, looked
from Virginia to Bradbury, then to the puzzled
face of Summers, then to Virginia again.
“Well, Miss Oliver,” he inquired, “what do
you know of the night of the murder?”
“Sit down, Miss Oliver,” interposed the Dis-
trict Attorney. “Don’t let our friend Bradbury's
abruptness fluster you. Tell us exactly what
happened.”
Virginia, flushed, but with the poise that was
hers walked briskly to a chair, threw back her
feather boa and spoke with a marked natural-
ness of tone that was a relief to all the men
after the previous witnesses.
“I live,” she began, “in the same apartment
house, and Mr. Bradbury is an old friend who
sometimes drops in to see me.”
142


THIRD DEGREE
“He called on me on the evening of the
twenty-first and left about half past ten—pos-
sibly a few minutes later. I always go round
the apartment to latch the doors and see to the
windows the last thing, and I did so that evening
after Mr. Bradbury left.”
She then recounted the episode of the dis-
covered note-book, of her sudden impulse to
return it, of her failure to find Bradbury and
of her waiting a few minutes in the event of his
soon returning from his probable stroll round
the square, leading up to Mrs. Carter's agitation
at her presence.
“I have known Mrs. Carter,” she went on, “for
practically all the time she has been in the build-
ing—and a nicer woman for a housekeeper one
couldn't have. But I must say that I am as cer-
tain as that I am sitting here that I distinctly
heard someone moving in Mrs. Carter's room
when she was talking to me, and that that some-
one was a man.”
“And how do you know it was a man, Miss
143


GUILT
Oliver?” McFarland almost purred with pleas-
ure in this witness and her testimony.
“I can hardly explain,” she answered. “One
can’t see through a closed door, of course. But
I think there is something in us, some sense that
tells us a thing like that. Anyway, I felt certain
it was a man and not a woman.”
“You’re right there, Miss Oliver,” agreed
McFarland.
“Callahan,” he turned to his acolyte, “I want
Spike back here. Take care of him.”
All in the room sat tense, expectant.
Spike, the Gun, in his handcuffs returned,
escorted this time by three men besides Calla-
han.
McFarland rose, crossed to the door behind
which Andrew Fisher had been thrust away and
almost forgotten, and called the young man
forth.
“Mr. Fisher,” he said, “look at that man
there, handcuffed. Have you ever seen him be-
fore?”
144


THIRD DEGREE
Fisher gazed intently at Spike for a moment
and blanched visibly.
“Have you?” prompted McFarland.
“Yes.”
“Where and when?”
“He was the man on the roof that night of
May twenty-first.”
“Where did he come from?”
“From the stairway door.”
“Then what did he do?”
“He came close to me in my sleeping bag and
looked at me.”
“Then what?”
“Then he stole down the fire-escape.”
“I wish I had croaked you!” Spike, beside
himself with rage at this new witness against
him, cried hoarsely.
“Careful, Spike!” exclaimed the District At-
torney. “That will be counted against you!”
“You’d count it anyway,” Spike cried fiercely
with a face of livid hatred. “A crook like Mc-
Farland—what can he do but frame and railroad
145


GUILT
men to hell! That's how he gets his living and
his graft.”
Mrs. Carter, who had sat crushed through
the latter part of the inquiry, suddenly seemed
tremulous and agitated with life. The last words
of Spike seemed to stir her like a goad, so that
she writhed as in torment.
“You’re trying to fasten a murder on this
poor boy,” she sobbed out with an anguish that
stilled the others, “and I guess you’ll succeed,
between you. What chance has he? What
chance have we-we poor people? You’ve tor-
tured me and you’ve deviled me because I’ve
tried to save my boy. Well, I see you won’t
let me save him. I swear before God he’s inno-
cent. He is my son if you must know it, my poor
misguided son, that brought misery on himself
and on us.
“But he's not bad at heart, he isn’t; anybody
can see that. Would a bad wicked man come
to see his mother the first chance he gets when
he escapes from prison, taking the risk he did?
Would he? Would he? I ask you,” she cried,
146


THIRD DEGREE
turning from one to the other of the men in a
frenzy of agony. “Why would he kill poor Mr.
Greenfield, who never did nothin' but good to
unfortunate boys like this one of mine? Why
would he? When Mr. Greenfield knew who I
was and who he was, and kept me in service
without telling even Mr. Bradbury?”
“Why would he kill such a man?” she wailed.
“More like he'd been glad to go down on his
knees and thank him, if he’d seen him.
“But he didn't come to see nobody, but just
his mother. He was in my room, he was. And
what if he was? Whom should he come to
with all of them bloodhounds after him, but to
his own mother?
“And that woman,” she suddenly turned with
a ferocity new in her toward Virginia, “that
woman is trying to send him to his death. I
tell you it was she killed Mr. Greenfield,” she
cried with a fierce savage solemnity. “That
woman killed him—if anybody did—when she
was out there alone, and I in my room. And
she trying to send my boy to the chair! It was
147


GUILT
she, she, shel” now screamed the old woman in
a frenzy. “She had reason to and she killed him,
the hussy!”
And with a sudden spasm and a contortion of
the features, the old woman fell in a heap on
the floor at her chair.
Spike made a violent dash toward her. But
the detectives held him.
“Murderers!” he cried, literally gnashing his
feeth in his rage. “Murderers!”
Bradbury jumped to the side of the stricken
WOman.
“Some kind of spasm,” he said.
“Looks more like a stroke,” nonchalantly re-
marked McKenna.
“Anyway it doesn't matter,” McFarland coldly
commented. “Our case is complete.”
“Complete,” repeated McKenna blandly,
“how?”
“There is the murderer!” McFarland bel-
lowed, leveling a pointed finger toward Spike,
the Gun.
148


THIRD DEGREE
“He,” said McKenna, “no more committed
the murder than I did.”
“Who did?” snarled McFarland.
“I am not prepared to say,” was the answer,
“but the murderer is still at large.”
“I thought you said we'd get somewhere to-
day,” Bradbury reminded McKenna.
“And we did,” said McKenna confidently—
“quite a distance, Mr. Bradbury. In a very
short time—a few days—I expect to present
you with the arrest of the murderer of Van
Wyck Greenfield.”
149


-
CHAPTER XIII
ROMANCE
MARTHA LUNDSTROM, Virginia Oliver's ex-
cellent maid, was a superior woman. She never
gossiped about her mistress, she mingled little
with other servants and she read Ibsen and
Dostoevski in her leisure moments. A vague,
romantic experience of the past, Martha inti-
mated with a slight Swedish accent, precluded
any further interest in the masculine sex.
It struck Virginia as the more remarkable,
therefore, that a day or so after the examination
in Larry Summer's office, Martha referred more
than once to a “Mr. Helm.”
“There are some men, miss,” she ruminatively
informed Virginia, “only a very few, who have a
lot of sympat’y—you know vat I mean?—who
150


GUILT
nice indeed,” she concluded somewhat inconse-
quentially. “What does he do?”
“He works in an office down town, miss. He
is an eg-countant.”
“An egg countant?” repeated Virginia dubi-
ously.
“He goes over people's eg-counts, you know,
miss.”
“Oh, an accountant?—I see, Martha. That's
a very lucrative occupation, they say.”
“Yes, ma'am,” said Martha demurely, “he’s
very nice.”
Martha had not been in the habit of taking
her allowed quota of evenings and afternoons
off. Now, however, she intimated that she
would like some concessions in the way of mak-
ing up back time owing her.
Virginia blithely agreed, and almost every
evening after dinner Martha was understood to
be taking a little fresh air in the company of
the engaging Mr. Helm.
Mr. Helm, a fair-haired man of the youngish
middle-aged variety, with his arm through the
152


ROMANCE
arm of Martha, was breathing in the poetry of
the evening in Central Park.
.*Those stars up there,” he was saying, “they
are so peaceful, so happy—they seem to tell
us not to worry about little things, but only to
be happy while we can upon this earth. Isn't
that so?” he affectionately nudged Martha with
his flexed arm.
“Yes,” breathed Martha.
“This world is a wonderful little place,” he
pursued poetically. “It’s full of happiness for
those wise ones who know how to take it. Isn't
that so?”
“Yes,” Martha whispered.
“It’s hard to be happy alone, though,” contin-
ued Helm. “But when two people of the right
kind find each other—and if they have a regard
for each other 29
2__ 22
“—And sympat’y,” murmured Martha.
“—Yes, and sympathy,” he added, “why, then
most of the troubles in this world fall away and
those people can begin to enjoy some of the good
153


ROMANCE
knew Martha to be a maid, he nevertheless de-
nominated her as “companion,” which un-
accountably pleased the esthetic soul of Martha.
“Ah, yes,” said Martha, “she's a very lonely
young lady. She would miss me terrible.”
“Now how is it,” pursued Mr. Helm gently,
“that she never got married? She's good look-
ing, ain’t she?” -
“She is very good looking,” answered Martha
with a sympathetic smile. “But no—she never
got married.”
“Now, why was that, do you suppose?” and
Mr. Helm in pressing for response exerted a
gentle pressure on the encircled waist.
9
“Oh, that is a long story,” she murmured,
somewhat guardedly.
Mr. Helm's mustache once again brushed the
pouting lips of Martha.
“What a pleasure it is to be sitting here hear-
ing your sweet voice,” he murmured. “There
is no American woman that can compare with
a woman brought up in Europe—not even your
Miss Oliver, I’ll bet.”
155


ROMANCE
“Well,” demanded Helm, “do you think she’ll
go on like that all her life?”
“I don’t know,” Martha answered reflectively.
“It may be that now things will change.”
And gradually, skilfully, with a persuasion
of which he had the art, and which yielded him
an income, Helm elicited from Martha a fairly
accurate account of Virginia's pathetic love
story.
157


McKENNA’S TRUMP CARD
that is, I describe to you a hypothetical case, the
kind you often so convincingly present to your
witnesses—that wouldn't bother you any, I
should think.”
Summers looked more intently at McKenna,
shifted in his chair and repeated the single
word:
“Shoot.”
“Two men are living together,” McKenna be-
gan, “two friends, leading a very comfortable
bachelor life in New York, the kind that moves
without what you might call a ripple—quiet,
peaceful, luxurious.”
“They like each other, those two men—no
friction between them at all. The machinery of
their household moves smoothly. Each of them
is engaged in his particular work. Each is good
company for the other, both have highly inter-
esting, intelligent minds. Yet they never get in
each other's way, know when to let each other
alone, and neither of them what you would call
exactly young.
159


GUILT
“Wouldn't you call that a pretty satisfactory
kind of life?”
“I would,” said Summers.
“Wouldn’t such a home be the sort of home
a man would think twice before changing in any
way?”
“It would be, certainly,” reflectively answered
Summers. “Go on, McKenna.”
“Well,” pursued McKenna, “one of these men
has a very friendly interest in a young woman.
He has known her quite some time. He likes
her, though he wouldn’t exactly call himself in
love with her—one of those interests or attach-
ments that may or may not lead to marriage.
You follow me, Mr. Summers?”
“I follow you,” said Summers. “You’re not
going too fast for me, either.”
“No. I know I’m not,” suavely smiled Mc-
Kenna. “But I mean to make myself very clear.
Well, the years go on, still this affair between
this man and this young woman leads nowhere.
“Why should it, Mr. Summers? The man is
160


MCKENNA’S TRUMP CARD
man in question is just plain not lonely enough.”
“Then what?” demanded Summers, with a
somewhat ironical smile denoting that he was
well aware of McKenna's drift.
“Then, sir, the girl begins to brood on the
subject. She's no fool, that girl, and no flighty
miss. She can concentrate her mind on what she
wants most in the world—a real home, with a
husband, children, love—these are the only
things that mean anything to nine-hundred and
ninety-nine women of every thousand. Well, she
comes to realize that the friend of the man
she loves is the one obstacle to her desire. That
friend, Mr. Summers, though he doesn’t know it,
becomes her greatest enemy.”
“Enemy of the whole human race, so far as
she is concerned,” nodded Summers.
“Exactly so,” commented McKenna trium-
phantly. “It becomes a bug with her—what
alienists call a fixed idea. If that fellow would
only croak, Mr. Summers—if he would only
die, and leave her man alone to her! There
163


GUILT
ain't a doubt in her mind as to who that cool lover
of hers would come to for consolation.”
“And then she-"
“Yes, then, Mr. Summers,” McKenna caught
him up with dramatic vehemence, “then she kills
that friend, in her mind, over and over again.
The friend is dead and gone. She gets her lover
—in her mind, that is. She sees a picture of
all the happiness she is missing in life.
“Then she gets a chance,” he ran on almost
breathlessly, rising from his chair and bending
over the desk toward Summers. “She gets a
chance! Her lover has called on her. He had
dropped something—say it's a note-book. She
thinks he’ll miss it and need it. Won't know
where he lost it. She wouldn't put it into other
hands. She is a little unstrung by the strain.
She’ll run upstairs and return it herself. Any-
thing for an excuse to see him again. . . . It's
risky—not exactly the right thing for a girl
in her position to run up to the man's apartment
late at night. But she don’t care—she’ll see him
164


MCKENNA’S TRUMP CARD
attorney,” he concluded with bitter sadness, “I’m
bound to say you are damnably convincing.”
“Do you think I like this turn of the case,
Mr. Summers?” McKenna expostulated, fiercely.
“I hate it same as you do! But I am a detective
engaged to follow where the evidence leads me.
And that is where I’ve got to, Mr. Summers—
that is where I’ve got to!” He breathed hard
as one after a great exertion, and sank into his
chair.
Summers paced the room for a moment.
“But what about “Spike, the Gun’?” he said
finally. “McFarland seemed to make out a
pretty fair case against him.”
“Fair nothin'! Who can be fair to a convict—
an escaped convict at that? Certainly no police-
man. It's hard for any of us to be fair to him—
for you—for me!
“But I’ve followed that clew all right. I
looked up his pals. I’ve tried to trace any con-
nection between him and Van Wyck Greenfield.
I tell you there was no motive, Mr. Summers.
167


CHAPTER XV
THE DAGGER
“WELL,” demanded Summers almost savagely
after a silence, “What do you intend to do now?”
“Go right to Mr. Bradbury and put before
him what I have just told you,” quietly answered
McKenna.
“A sweet job you’ll have,” snapped Summers.
“I wish you joy of it!”
“I expect you to go with me, Mr. Summers,”
announced McKenna.
“I am damned if I will!” retorted Summers.
“Oh, yes you will,” McKenna replied with
confidence. “You’ve got to, Mr. Summers.
You see my position. I am engaged to work on
this case. I have worked in the way you would
have wanted me to work if you had engaged me.
I'll go further, Mr. Summers; I have done what
169


GUILT
Mr. Bradbury himself wanted me to do. It will
come hard on him—that is sure. But that's
where you come in, sir! You are his friend, and
you can make it easier for him, and for me,
too.” -
Summers paced the room in silence for a
minute. Then he went to a cupboard and took
his hat.
“Come on,” he ordered, and together the two
men left the office.
Bradbury's door was opened by Martha, of
all people. She started visibly when she beheld
McKenna. McKenna, however, behind Larry
Summer's back, placed a finger to his lips and
Martha, though somewhat agitated, admitted the
two men without a word.
Bradbury was alone in the living room, at
his massive desk. He glanced up at the two
men, as though to read their faces.
“Hello, Larry,” he said. “Come in. Sit
down, McKenna. I see you have some news for
me.”
170


THE DAGGER
Summers turned away morosely and pre-
tended to be looking for a chair.
McKenna, however, approached Bradbury
and replied calmly enough:
“We have got something, Mr. Bradbury, if
it's not disturbing you. And Mr. Summers has
kindly agreed to come up here with me.”
“Not disturbing me at all,” Bradbury assured
him with gruff readiness. “I am being put to
rights. A friend has very graciously sent up her
maid to put my household in order. You are
not going to tell me that Spike has confessed,
are you?”
“No, Mr. Bradbury,” McKenna shook his
head. “Nothing like that. I couldn’t do that.
Spike is a crook all right enough, but he's not
guilty of this.”
“A new clew?” inquired Bradbury with awak-
ened interest.
“Yes, Mr. Bradbury, a new clew,” replied
McKenna.
Bradbury nodded to bid him continue.
McKenna glanced uneasily toward the silent
171


GUILT
her marriage—of a home, a husband, children,
happiness—all that makes happiness for a
woman. What would you say?” And he paused.
“Don’t trifle, McKenna,” cried Bradbury with
a more ashy pallor than before. “Go on. Is
there such a woman?”
“Yes, Mr. Bradbury,” declared McKenna,
rising from his chair. “There is such a woman.”
Somewhat appealingly for one so cool, he
glanced toward Summers, who held him riveted
with his saturnine gaze.
“It’s hard for me to tell it,” went on McKenna,
wiping perspiration from his forehead. “But
there is such a woman. It may be a shock to
you to hear it, Mr. Bradbury, but you turned
the case over to me, and your orders were to
follow it up at any cost anywhere, no matter
where it might lead. You remember that, don’t
you?”
“Yes, yes!—for God’s sake, go on!”
“There is such a woman, Mr. Bradbury,” and
McKenna stood a short distance away from Brad-
bury as though prepared for trouble.
174


THE DAGGER
“And her name,” he almost whispered, “is
Miss Virginia Oliver!”
“What! How dare you!” cried Bradbury
leaping to his feet and both his hands shot for-
ward open, claw-like, as if he was about to
strangle the traducer of Virginia.
“How dare you!” he cried again rushing
toward the receding McKenna.
Larry Summers, however, who had been
watching the scene tensely, had jumped from his
chair and thrown himself between the two men.
“Now, wait a moment,” he gasped, pushing
the men apart with his hands. “Wait, Lowell!
This will do no good at all, and won't get us
anywhere.”
99
“What does he mean, the damne
“Wait!” Summers cried him down, taking
command of the situation. “Wait, Lowell!”
“McKenna is in the right to this extent. His
orders were to follow through on this case. You
yourself gave the orders and so, for that matter,
did I. Well, he’s followed. That’s what he's
hired for. The fact that he's probably wrong is
175


GUILT
another matter. But he's got to have a chance
to be heard. I didn't like his line, either, Lowell,
but I listened to him, just the same.”
“But what does he mean?” repeated Bradbury
with a choking huskiness of utterance. “Wir-
ginia? Why, she need not have come into this at
all. Only came down to your office to give her
testimony to oblige me, because I told her it
might help. And here he-just because a poor
demented old woman at bay accuses her, he
trumps up this kind of a rigmarole! How does
he do it? What the devil does he mean?”
McKenna was about to speak, but Summers
masterfully checked him with a gesture.
“First of all, sit down, Lowell,” he com-
manded, bodily forcing Bradbury back into his
chair. “This is what he means—or at least this
is his theory. He's been making some investiga-
tions, and these are the conclusions he has
arrived at.” Larry in his endeavor to soften
the statement was himself somewhat at a loss
for the best means.
“His theory, Lowell, is that Virginia Oliver is
176


THE DAGGER
in love with you—that she has been for some
time. Also that you would have married her
long ago, and given her the happiness she de-
serves.” Bradbury stared with smoldering eyes
of amazement.
“He has worked it out,” ran on Summers
standing over Bradbury, “that Virginia came to
realize all this some time ago. She came to real-
ize, he thinks, that the only reason you didn’t take
that course was that you were too comfortable,
the way many bachelors are. That you had
excellent company in Wan and lacked that spur
of loneliness that drives many men to marry—
that, in short, you had too good a home and too
satisfactory an existence the way you were to
care for any change. Is that clear?”
“The hound!” growled Bradbury, “such ideas
never entered her head. And does he think that
a high-bred gentlewoman like Virginia would—
would—bah! This is infernal!” he concluded
with a wild gesture of repulsion. “The reason
I haven’t married her, if he wants to know, is
that I am unfit to tie her shoestring. Virginia.
177


GUILT
is a friend—but I suppose to him a “lady-friend’
leads to “keeping company’ and certain marriage
—inevitable as death. He knows nothing of
friendship with a woman in any other sense.”
“Now that's about enough,” cried McKenna
trembling with pallor. “If I didn't think you
weren't quite responsible now, I'd tell you a
few things, Mr. Bradbury.”
“He’s right, Brad,” put in Summers. “It’s no
use abusing him. He's doing the best he can.
We may not like what he's got to say, but we have
got to listen to him.”
“Follow anywhere, wherever it leads you,”
those were the words,” laughed McKenna bit-
terly. “Now—” and he threw up his hands
with a shrug.
All three were silent for a space. Bradbury
sat with his head sunk on his chest and the others
stood watching him.
“You are right, Larry,” he finally murmured.
“I’m sorry, McKenna. But the shock was—
severe. Sorry I lost my temper.”
“That's all right, Mr. Bradbury,” McKenna
178


GUILT
in the way you mean! Oh, pshaw! You ought
to understand,” he blurted out desperately. “I’ve
got to go through with this, or I throw up the
case. I am not McFarland. I don't hit a woman
with an ax, so to speak.”
Bradbury bowed his head.
“I’ll go down and get her,” he groaned.
“No, I’d rather you wouldn't, if you don’t
mind, Mr. Bradbury. I’ll tell her servant to
ask her to kindly step up.”
Summers gave a brief nod.
“Maybe better so, Lowell,” he said.
When McKenna opened the kitchen door, it
was a very angry Martha that he faced.
“Will you ask Miss Oliver to step up here to
see Mr. Bradbury and Mr. Summers?” he coolly
ordered her. “She will oblige them very much.”
“I don’t take any orders from you, Mr. De-
tectifl” she retorted savagely.
“Those are Mr. Bradbury's orders, not mine.”
“Oh, you bloodhound! Burrr!” And she
snapped her fingers in his face. “Mr. Helm!”
she mocked him viciously.
180


THE DAGGER
“You weren't aware of the possible presence
of anyone else at all?”
“No.”
“You didn’t feel as though there might have
been another woman anywhere in the apart-
ment?”
“Not for a moment,” was the clear response.
“Would you have felt it if there had been
another woman present?”
“I don't know, Mr. McKenna. How can I
tell?”
“Well,” said McKenna, speaking with par-
ticular emphasis and solemnity, “there was a
person in this apartment on the evening of May
21st, and that person sat about there,” he walked
over and indicated the place where Virginia had
sat on that evening.
“That person,” he continued, coming back
toward Virginia, “had a secret deep hostility
toward Van Wyck Greenfield. Van Wyck Green-
field was asleep in that room,” he ran on more
rapidly. “It was an easy thing to settle him.
That person was a woman,” he ran on with ter-
183


GUILT
rible rapidity, “then,” suiting his actions to his
words, “she rose from the chair, tiptoed to the
door, opened it like this, saw a dagger in a red
morocco case,” he threw over his shoulder from
the doorway, “she took the dagger, delivered
one blow at Greenfield's heart—” and the word
heart sounded like the thud of the dagger-stroke
—“slipped the dagger back in the case, closed
the door and came back to the seat! She had
killed the obstacle to her happiness, that
woman,” he raced, bounding toward Virginia—
“And I know who that woman is!” he almost
yelled, pointing his finger straight at Virginia's
bosom.
Virginia uttered a wild scream and hid her
face in her hands.
“Oh, you monster! Oh, you monster!” she
cried and then sat moaning and quivering like a
wounded thing in her chair. Blindly she made
an effort to rise.
Bradbury and Summers simultaneously jumped
to their feet.
184,


THE DAGGER
Virginia staggered and sank back—this time
into the almost savagely protecting arms of
Lowell Bradbury.
“Beast—get out of here!” Bradbury shouted
to McKenna.
“My poor dear girl—my little girl!” he mur-
mured brokenly to Virginia. “I wouldn’t have
had this happen for anything in the world—that
beast! he promised me he wouldn't—but there,
now!”
he patted her shoulder tenderly, “you
shall not be harrowed again.”
“Larry,” he spoke incisively over Virginia's
shoulder, “you can see the folly of this method—
of this wholly unnecessary attack upon someone
as innocent as you or I. Deal with him—I’m
through.”
Virginia, still sobbing in Bradbury's arms,
lifted her head, made an effort to check her
paroxysm of weeping and finally, with a pitiful
effort, brought forth the words:
“No, Lowell, don’t say that. Don't say you’re
through.” Sobs were still choking her. “You
said you would follow wherever the evidence
185


GUILT
leads you. And you must have told him that.
He is acting according to his lights. But, oh,
Lowell, horrible as crime is, the detection of it
is almost as horrible.” And she shuddered.
“Listen, Lowell,” she went on catching her
breath with an effort. “This man has worked
out a perfectly ghastly idea.—He began to flirt
with Martha-you know how fanciful she is—
and got out of her a wild weird story—she just
hurriedly confessed it to me, before I came up.”
“What kind of a story, Virginia?” Bradbury
asked her gently.
“Oh, I am ashamed to tell it, Lowell—it is
because we have been such pals—that I was
wildly in love with you—that you wouldn't look
at me because you were so comfortable the way
you were, happy in your friendship with poor
Van Wyck Greenfield—and so on. From that
rigmarole, I suppose, this man jumps to the
conclusion that I–that I–oh, it's too horrible!
Never, never, never again will I believe anybody
guilty—on circumstantial evidence. Look! This
man now believes me guilty of a crime I could
186


THE DAGGER
“I’ll go—and I’ll send you a statement.” And
without looking back McKenna took his hat and
walked out of the door.
Bradbury stood in silence for a moment with
his hand to his forehead, like one in a daze.
“Virginia!” he murmured to himself, “little
Virginia!”
And slowly he walked over to the wall of the
living room, drew up a chair facing the wall,
swung open one of the panels in the wainscoting
and began to work at the combination of a small
iron safe that the panel disclosed.
As the door swung open he began to fumble
in one of the small drawers and brought forth a
bundle of letters with an elastic about them.
“Virginia!” he murmured again, and stretched
forth his hand into the drawer of the safe as if
to bring out more letters.
Of a sudden, a cloud seemed to sweep his
features.
What his hand brought forth was not a bundle
of letters but—a red morocco leather case with a
dagger in it!
189


GUILT
Like one electrified, he leaped up, throwing
back the chair.
Then he stood amazed, petrified, staring at the
dagger in the case.
With the hand that held the letters he drew
forth the dagger with difficulty from its sheath.
The blade was stained and rusty with blood.
“Wan's dagger!” he cried huskily, with
terror engraved deeply on his features. “God!”
On a sudden he felt a hand on his shoulder,
and a voice was saying quietly.
“Where did you get it, Lowell?”
It was Larry Summers.
“In the safe,” he breathed.
“Who put it there?” asked Summers.
“I don’t know, Larry. But only two men
knew the combination of our safe. Van knew it
and I knew it.”
Consternation showed upon the features of
Summers and he dashed the beads of cold per-
spiration from his forehead.
“Didn't anybody else know the combination?”
he persisted in low tones.
190


BRADBURY SEES VIRGINIA
“By God, we will work this out!” cried the
other fiercely. “I swore I would get to the bot-
tom of this, and to the bottom of it I mean to
get!”
“Then the best way,” Larry informed him
soothingly, “is to empty your mind of prejudices
for or against. McKenna irritated you—but he
wasn’t so far wrong in his method. He may
have been wrong in his conclusion, but he fol-
lowed where his clews led him.”
“McKenna!” repeated Bradbury with a ges-
ture. “He was not unprejudiced. He had a
prejudice against Virginia, and proceeded
accordingly. And you know perfectly well that
she was no more capable of this crime than you
and I.”
“You and I?” repeated Summers reflectively.
“As a prosecutor, I must concede that any
human being is capable of anything with suffi-
cient motive and provocation. Oh, don't misun-
derstand me, Lowell,” he added hastily, noting
the look on Bradbury's face. “I didn't say I
193


GUILT
was convinced that Virginia Oliver had sufficient
motive and provocation—that's another story.”
“Larry, look here,” began Bradbury, “walk-
ing back and forth, “this has been a shock to
both of us. I am a little unstrung, I admit.
Suppose we do and say nothing further about
the matter and let it rest until to-morrow—what
do you say?”
... “Exactly what I was going to propose,”
acquiesced Summers. “You take a walk,
Lowell, and a sedative, if necessary. And I must
hurry back to the office. There are a lot of
things waiting for me. That's the best thing we
can do.”
“Do you think,” Bradbury asked him, “Mc-
Kenna will talk to McFarland or anyone else?”
“I think not,” Summers answered positively.
“McKenna is pretty shrewd. He wouldn’t want
to offend me—and anyway, it’s not to his interest
to talk. Don’t let that worry you.”
Bradbury nodded gratefully.
“Larry,” he declared energetically, with burn-
ing eyes, “in spite of all the obstacles, in spite
194


BRADBURY SEES VIRGINIA
of this blind alley we have got to, something
within me tells me that I shall find the person
who killed Van Greenfield. I have never failed
yet in anything I have given all my mind and
thought to"—and his voice rose to almost the
pitch of fanaticism, “and I shall not fail
now!”
The expression of Summers betrayed some
alarm at his friend's nervous condition. He
remained for a moment in silence.
“Lowell,” he finally said, as though in re-
sponse to a sudden inspiration, “would you like
me to sleep here for a couple of nights? I can
send up a bag with some brushes and things—
keep you company for a bit—kind of dismal
here alone,” he added with a short laugh.
“And you a prosecutor, a district attorney,”
smiled Bradbury faintly. “You’re in training
for a district visitor—or a saint.”
“Yeh, I’m a regular little sunshine!”
laughed Summers—“that's all right then. I’ll
send out some things and come up as soon as I
can this evening.”
195


GUILT
99
“Thank you, Larry,” Bradbury answered
gravely. “I’ll appreciate that. Here are some
keys—one to the downstairs door in case you
should be late, and one to the apartment. Where
would you like to sleep—Wan’s room or mine?”
“Neither,” answered Summers briskly. “A
shake-down on the sofa there will suit me just
as well. I sleep like a log anywhere.”
“I'm afraid you are a saint, after all, Larry,”
murmured Bradbury and with another handclasp
the two men parted.
“Pretty clear,” thought Summers to himself
as he went out, “that old Brad has got about as
severe a jolt as he ever had in his life.”
A few minutes later Bradbury was at Vir-
ginia's door. The ruffled and red-eyed Martha
who opened it looked askance upon this visitor
as the ultimate source of all her woes. -
“Miss Oliver, she's lying down,” the irate
hand-maiden informed him brusquely. “She
can’t see no one.”
“You’ll have to ask her, Martha, to oblige
I96


BRADBURY SEES VIRGINIA
me very deeply by seeing me for a few mo-
ments.”
Martha closed the door and left him standing
in the hall—the first time she had ever treated
him with such crude discourtesy. Bradbury
waited.
After what seemed an endless interval she
returned.
“Come in, please,” she muttered between her
teeth, and ushered him in to Virginia's living
room. “Miss Oliver be here soon as she can,”
and she left him without looking at him.
Bradbury stood gazing out of the window into
the square below. The trees were in full leaf-
the tender green those hardy trees of cities are
oddly able to assume in unpropitious soil. The
sun was shining brightly. Children were romp-
ing on the geometrically arranged asphalt paths,
and unhurried gardeners were leisurely working
on the flower beds in the little park. Birds were
fluttering about in the joy of the nesting season,
and all the world in front of him seem inex-
plicably radiant and happy.
197


GUILT
lutely sure that you have found the guilty one?
Will your friend come to life again, or will he
be happier where he is if you bring to ruin,
misfortune or death any number of people? Tell
me, will he be happier?”
And the tears dashed out of her eyes and ran
down her cheeks.
“You are right in saying that I too am the
victim of circumstances,” he told her—“and the
machinery of detection once started can't very
easily be stopped. I had sworn to avenge poor
Wan. But this—this tormenting of you—in a
way I could not foresee—could not dream of—
that gave me more of a shock than you can
imagine. Why, Virginia, I would die in the
chair proclaiming that the very questioning of
your innocence is a crime. You believe that,
my dear, don’t you? Why, it's taken all the
life out of me, as it is. But that is all over, Vir-
ginia. Try to forget it and get over it. It makes
me ashamed to tell you all that you have been to
me and how much I love you when I have sub-
jected you to so much pain.”
200


GUILT
But her .urther utterance was checked by his
lips upon hers. For a long time—blissful eter-
nity, it seemed to both of them—they remained
in this way enlaced in each other's arms, their
lips uniting them in an ineffable completeness
Then on a sudden Bradbury drew himself up,
still clasping her firmly to him.
“From now on we are united, my darling—
one!”
“Oh, we mustn't say anything about it,” whis-
pered Virginia flushing—“not till—later.”
“Just as you wish, of course, dearest. But
you've put new life, new courage into me. Ah,
Virginia, you don't know what happiness you
have given me!”
Virginia sighed and rested her head against
his shoulder.
And in their sense of union and completeness
the torment of life was blotted out magically.
They were one with the joyous spirit out of doors
that hummed and throbbed and sang in the
summer sunshine.
202


GUILT
table in the living room, threw up the windows
as high as they would go, undressed, extinguished
the final light, and five minutes later he was
asleep.
Scarcely a minute, as it seemed to Larry, after
he had rolled up in his covers, he found himself
startled out of his innocent slumbers by a shriek
that sent his pulses bounding and his heart palpi-
tating, with the accompanying cold perspiration
and all the physical symptoms of terror.
He sat up with a violent contraction of the
muscles and automatically grasped the watch
from under his pillow.
The luminous disk showed a quarter past
three.
Again he heard the shriek, and this time he
grinned at himself in the darkness.
In the dream that had preceded his waking,
he had seen a beautiful woman, very like Wir-
ginia Oliver—indeed it was Virginia—pursued
through the streets and through the park of Wash-
ington Square, flying over the grass plots, leaping
over benches, helter-skelter, madly pursued by
204


THE LOST CLEW
a troop of ruffians, in the van of whom were
McKenna and McFarland. He, Larry Summers,
spellbound by the spectacle of the wild pursuit,
had stood a silent watcher for a moment unable
to move. Then the beautiful young woman had
shrieked, a piercing, wailing shriek, like a very
chorus of lost souls, and he, Larry, had thrown
himself to her side, and found himself sitting
up in bed grasping his watch.
The second shriek, however, which explained
the first, was the well-known siren of the hook-
and-ladder trucks of the New York fire depart-
ment. No human being, even in New York, can
hear that shriek under his window at night and
sleep.
Suddenly Larry was aware of a figure moving
noiselessly about the farther end of the room.
His sleep-filled eyes now accustomed to the dark-
ness, could barely discern, by the very faint
infiltration of street light through the windows,
the figure of a man.
Larry was no coward, but his throat was too
dry for any uttered words. He sat staring for a
205


GUILT
moment in a sort of alert and tense inactivity.
Then swiftly he jumped from his couch and
turned on the light on the table nearby.
Gazing almost stupidly about him, with such
a look of incredulity and wild amazement as
Larry had never yet seen on any human face,
stood Lowell Bradbury.
“Lowell!” breathed Larry in astonishment.
“Larry!” gasped Bradbury. “Larry! oh, why
did they wake me? But why am I here? God!
God! If only they hadn't!—A moment ago I
seemed to know all about the murder of Van—
I knew how it happened—could have told you
all about it! But here—now—it's fading, fad-
ing—What am I doing here?”
And he waved his arms about him in a kind
of wild despair.
In his hand was the red morocco sheath and
the dagger that had stabbed Van Wyck Green-
field!
The safe in the wall stood open.
“Don’t you know how you got here?” Larry
asked him quietly.
206


THE LOST CLEW
“No!” he looked about him in dazed bewilder-
ment. He was in his pajamas, with a thin silken
dressing gown over them. Upon his bare feet
were loose bath slippers.
“How did I get here?”
Larry took in the details in silence for a space.
“Then I'll tell you what you are, Lowell,” he
finally said. “You’re a sleep-walker.”
Bradbury remained speechless.
“Didn't you know you were?” Larry pressed
him lightly.
“Yes—years ago—I used to walk in my sleep.
I hadn't done so to my knowledge for a long
time.”
“You can’t tell, you see,” said Larry. “It’s
my belief that once a sleep-walker always a
sleep-walker.
“So you think you had a clew to Wan's mur-
der?” he added inquiringly.
“Yes!—” and Brabury was alert again, draw-
ing himself up to his full height. “I knew—I
knew—God!—What was it I knew? If I could
only go back three minutes. Larry, it was all
207


THE LOST CLEW
show you what I think of that, Larry, I asked
Virginia yesterday to be my wife!”
“You did!”
“Yes, I did! And thank God, she agreed!”
“By God! You're a man, Lowell!” Larry
cried in admiration, approaching him, and lay-
ing a hand cordially on his shoulder. “You
certainly have what down in my office we call
guts—pure guts! Lowell! I am proud of you!”
“Stuff, Larry!” Bradbury answered unmoved.
“Let’s get together. Put on a dressing gown or
you’ll catch cold, and let’s get at this! See if
we can work out something.”
Larry complied, moving about with a careless
unhurried air, as if he were not in the least
excited about anything. But his heart was beat-
ing fast. He experienced a nameless feeling of
expectancy, almost of assurance, that he was on
the verge of a momentous discovery. “Great
Heaven!” it flashed through his brain. “Surely
this is the strangest, most baffling crime mystery
I’ve ever heard of !” Yet, his intuition was
prompting the hope of a solution.
209


GUILT
“Sit down, Lowell,” he said easily, motioning
him to a chair before the fireplace. “Suppose I
light this thing they call a gas log, for the sake
of what cheer there might be in it—and for the
sake of our ankles, eh?”
“Good idea,” assented Bradbury.
The flame leaped with a little spurt along the
sections of the log, and the two men stretched
out their feet toward it. Larry carelessly lit a
cigarette.
“Strange, strange, Lowell,” he muttered over
his cigarette. “You always were an interesting
chap. You were saying that you cured yourself
of sleep-walking—some time ago. How did you
do it?”
“How did I do it?” repeated Bradbury—
“Hypnotism, I would call it—that's something I
never talked about to anybody.”
“You mean,” said Larry, “that somebody hyp-
notized you?”
“Oh, no, Larry! I didn’t mean that. I wouldn’t
let any human being hypnotize me. I mean I
hypnotized myself. Don't look skeptical, Larry,”
210


THE LOST CLEW
“So that's how you cured yourself of sleep-
walking?” Larry adroitly tended back to his
subject.
“Yes,” answered Bradbury. “I hypnotized
myself, and told my subconscious mind that it
must cease—and it ceased.”
“Good enough,” agreed Larry, “good enough.
But,” he added after a pause, “why has it come
back?”
“Ah, that I don’t know,” was the baffled
response. “Perhaps it was because of the recent
events—the shock—perhaps my defenses broke
down. Must be that,” he added reflectively,
“must be that. I can do it again, Larry—and I
will.”
“Ah!” he suddenly leaped from his chair with
a cry, gripping Larry's shoulders with his two
hands. “I have it, Larry, I have it!”
“What, old man?” asked Larry with some
alarm.
“I must recapture that lost clew—about Wan
—that I lost! I must get it back by that means—
213


THE LOST CLEW
here again. We’ll get to it, never fear—we'll
get it! Lord!” he added with a prayerful fer-
vor, and wearily he sank back into his chair.
“It’s been a strain,” he commented with an
air at once of great fatigue and satisfaction, as
if his search were at its goal at last.
Larry's mind was working rapidly. He won-
dered for an instant whether his friend had be-
come slightly unhinged by his grief. But he
dismissed the thought. Lowell Bradbury seemed
absolutely sound. Nevertheless, he swiftly ar-
ranged a plan in his mind.
“All right, Lowell,” he said lightly. “To-
morrow, or to-night, as you say, is time enough.
Meanwhile let's either go back to bed for some
beauty sleep, or let's make some coffee—if
you’ve got a percolator or an escalator or one of
those twain.”
“Sleep!” sniffed Bradbury. “Come along—
let’s start on the coffee.”
215


LARRY PREPARES
and favorite alienist and nerve specialist, Dr.
Xavier, a wise physician who had begun by
specializing upon certain workings of the body
but was now a high authority upon the workings
of the mind. Dr. Xavier had been called by
Larry in many cases to give his opinion on behalf
of the prosecution, and his testimony invariably
carried the stamp and weight of expert knowl-
edge.
“Doctor,” said Larry, “I may have a little
adventure for you to-night that will interest you.
Could you break home ties and spend this eve-
ning out—and possibly the whole night?”
“I am reading a paper at the Academy to-
night,” said Dr. Xavier, “and I am over my
ears in work!”
“You always are,” parried Larry, “and you
will have time for your paper all right. Are
those the only obstacles?”
“Is it something interesting?” inquired the
doctor.
“Something that interests me more,” Larry
217


LARRY PREPARES
your mind. It’s about our friend I want to talk
to you—about Lowell. I stayed there last night,
you know. I think it quite important for us to
have a talk.”
“I shall be there at half-past eleven,” Vir-
ginia informed him with decision.
“Thank you—that's good of you. Come right
in when you get here—don't give your name.
The door man will have instructions.”
Having concluded these arrangements, Larry
attacked his day's work with his assistants and
deputies, flinging out those crisp racy comments
and instructions of his, with a sort of humorous
though searching insight and thoroughness, that
endeared him to all who associated with him.
McFarland appeared during the morning and
asked to see the District Attorney for two min-
uteS.
“Hello, Mac,” Summers greeted him, “you
look glum as an undertaker's horse. Got any-
thing?”
“Nothin’ more than what I had, Mr. Sum-
mers, but ain’t that enough?”
219


GUILT
“Enough for what?”
“Enough to try Spike for the murder of Green-
field.”
“No,” said Summers deliberately.
“Why not?” demanded McFarland.
“Because there isn't enough conclusive evi-
dence against the poor brute. He's got enough
coming to him as it is. Until I see a better case
against him I wouldn't touch him.”
“McKenna seemingly didn't get you any forr'.
arder,” sneered McFarland.
“Not much,--that’s a fact,” answered Sum-
mers nonchalantly, “though he made a good try
—and elephants can do no more, Mac.”
“Elephants is about right for him,” growled
McFarland, pleased that his rival had failed.
“Tell you what I’ll do, Mac,” Summers an-
nounced, adroitly taking advantage of McFar-
land's good humor. “I’ll phone you to-morrow
my conclusions on that case—that do?”
“Sure it will—and what about the valet?”
“Lord, is he still in the pen? Turn him loose,
for Heaven's sake! Or—wait! A day more or
220


GUILT
the dream and the shrieks of the disturbing siren,
describing Bradbury's sleep-walking, his start-
ling announcement, his certainty of unrecollected
knowledge, omitting only any reference to her
prospective marriage to Bradbury.
“Lowell asked me to promise not to say a
word of this to you, I didn't promise, and since
then I have decided that you ought to know about
it and that is why I asked you to come here.”
He had been scrutinizing her closely through.
out his account and notably as he spoke his con-
cluding words.
“You are one of Lowell's dearest friends, and
I thought you ought to know about it. Was I
wrong?”
“Of course you are right!” exclaimed Vir-
ginia with grateful vehemence. “Of course I
must know it! But, oh, Mr. Summers, will it
subject Lowell to any horrid ordeal, to any un-
fair test?”
The expression and the words of Virginia be-
trayed nothing more than a profound loving
anxiety for the man she held dearest.
222


GUILT
“How could I?” said Larry dubiously, “the
telephone—”
“No, no!” she broke in, “if you could only
come—doesn't matter about the hour—I don't
care! Oh, say you will! Just knock at the door.
I shan’t go to sleep.”
“I will, Miss Oliver—but don't expect too
much. It may come to nothing.”
“Oh, never mind—but I want to know—what-
ever it is!”
“That’s a promise, Miss Oliver. I certainly
owe you that for your kindness in coming down
here.” He rose from his chair. “Good-by,
until later then—and many thanks.” He ushered
her out the door to the elevator.
“A very satisfactory sort of girl,” he said to
himself as he returned to his desk. “Now let's
see what the night brings.”
224


CHAPTER XIX
THE LAST CLEW
THE new possibilities of the case so over-
whelmed Bradbury's mind the following day
that, had he not been alone, others might have
suspected his reason to be yielding to the long
strain.
He who had never flinched before any problem
or legal tangle suddenly found himself swept by
an inundation of nameless fears, tortured as on a
rack by the most exquisite terrors.
Alternately he paced the room and then re-
mained for long stretches of time sunk in abstrac-
tion, his gaze seemingly riveted upon vacancy.
His mind, however, was a hive of scuttering
thoughts, ideas, wild, bizarre, half-formed, re-
miniscences, relevant and irrelevant—laboring
for clarity and knowledge as it had never labored
225


GUILT
before. Like a spent swimmer he would hurl
himself again and again into the swirl of his
thoughts, only to emerge again somewhat more
weary and hopeless in his effort.
Virginia, since her interview with Summers,
was abstaining from communication with him,
and to Bradbury in his abstraction it did not even
occur to communicate with her that day.
He ate little from what he could find in the
larder, and it was just as well. Fasting was
natural to him in the circumstances. He was like
some ascetic monk alone in his cell, praying for
guidance and light, keeping the great vigil for
the final illumination.
“I shall find it,” he kept muttering to himself.
“I shall—I must get it to-night.”
By eleven o’clock that evening as Larry had
not yet arrived, Bradbury was preparing for bed.
From a drawer in his desk he took pencils and
pads of paper and solemnly placed them at vari-
ous points. Like some magician preparing a rite,
he went about intently absorbed, distributing
these implements of his experiment.
226


GUILT
The doctor attempted to restrain him.
“No, no!” whispered Larry hoarsely. “I must
know! Is he asleep or is he shamming! I must
know.”
The doctor came toward Bradbury.
He scrutinized him intently for a moment and
listened to his breathing.
“Sound asleep!” he pronounced.
“Wake him up!” cried Larry seizing hold of
the dagger.
The doctor at the same moment took hold of
Bradbury's hand with his own, clapped the other
to Bradbury's forehead and spoke sharply into
his very ear. -
“You must wake up now!” -
A shudder seemed to pass through Bradbury's
body.
He quivered from head to foot. He shook off
the doctor's hand with a momentary flinging
struggle, as a man who is waked by violence, and
cried out incoherently:
“Who are you—what—why do you wake me
—what is all this?”
234


GUILT
it, Larry? Read it, for God's sake, Larry, read
it!”
“It-oh, I can't!” cried Larry the cold per-
spiration beading his forehead. “I can't! You
read it, doctor.”
The doctor, who had been studying Bradbury
closely, smiled faintly.
“Very well, I'll read it,” and he took the paper
from Larry.
“‘Wan Greenfield,’” the doctor began read-
ing the script abruptly, “‘is all those things that
as a boy I had hoped to be. He is kind, gentle-
hearted, generous, altruistic. For years my poor
father, a saintly man, had held up those ideals
of his before me. He dinned them into my ears
until I was sick of them.
“‘Something perverse in me started me in ex-
actly the opposite direction. I am cold and self-
centered, and I care nothing about the feelings
or sufferings of others. Their troubles are their
own lookout.’”
The others listened in a tense rigid silence.
The doctor continued.
240


GUILT
“No, no, no!” I could not have done it!
Someone else must have done it. Look in Van's
room—there may be something there—look
there! 99
Larry shook his head. He could not speak.
“We saw what—happened there,” put in the
doctor quietly.
“What was it?” gasped Bradbury with a
deathly pallor.
“There,” said the doctor, “we saw a repressed
man whose instincts, the savage instincts that
slumber in all of us, break through the wall of
a too severe repression, and lead him to commit
an act in his subconscious state that he could not
have committed consciously. We saw a man
committing murder!”
“You mean—me?” gasped Bradbury, reeling
backwards.
“Yes,” nodded the doctor. “We saw you
plunge the dagger to the hilt into the bedding—
into the body, that is, of your friend and imagi-
nary enemy.”
242


THE LAIR OF GUILT
A deathly stillness reigned for an instant in
that tragic room, over all those perplexed and
tormented spirits. Dr. Xavier, with his great
head bowed over his chest, seemed for a moment
lost in profound speculation.
“Crime,”—he finally spoke in a sort of clear
distinct murmur, “you know my theory—my
conviction. Crime is largely disease—abnor-
He leaned his hands upon the back of
a chair. “Science,” he went on, “by means of
99
mality.
psychology, by psychoanalysis, by a searching
study of the unconscious in man, is daily dis-
covering more and more amazing secrets of the
duality of man's nature. That fact has always
been known, of course, but never scientifically,
as to-day. Dr. Jekyll, a figure in fiction, took,
I believe, a powder that brought dominantly for-
ward his evil nature and made him Mr. Hyde.”
His auditors, rapt, seemed to hang upon his
lips with a tensity of attention that only life and
death can engender.
“To-day,” continued the physician, still as
though speaking to himself, “to-day we know
245


GUILT
those confessions are sincere. And that accounts
for the rise of the psychoanalytic doctor of to-
day.”
Bradbury, who had been held, like the others,
spellbound by Dr. Xavier's words, took a step
forward and made as if to speak. For a moment
the lips of that unfortunate man were not under
perfect control. All of them, however, expected
a gush of gratitude, of broken thanks from Brad-
bury for the mitigation found by the physician.
A moment more and Bradbury was speaking
firmly as of old.
“Larry,” he began, “in spite of what the doctor
says, in spite of everything, Van's death must be
avenged! I have sworn that it must be, and I
would leave no stone unturned to bring the guilty
one to justice—were it someone else. I never
gave quarter to a criminal and would give none
to Wan's murderer. I–am—the one—” and the
break in his voice made his three interlocutors
thrill from head to foot—“though God knows
how it came about!—and I insist upon trial and
!”
punishment
248


GUILT
That is natural. You wish to cleanse the dark
and stagnant places of the soul, the foul odors
—but you must not think more blood will do it.
“But what he desires,” he turned to the others,
“is atonement, rather than expiation.”
“Yes!” cried Virginia warmly, going toward
Bradbury with outstretched hands. “If you want
to atone, why don't you do something fine and
big, Lowell? Why don't you take up Van Green-
field's work, for instance?”
“That is wisdom,” put in the doctor. “There
is your path of atonement—and your life will
be a thousand times better than your death.
Change your life, put aside your work and take
up the dead man's labors for good.”
“My life!” repeated Bradbury bitterly. “Of
what use is my life to me?”
“But it will be of use to others!” broke in
Virginia.
Bradbury was visibly moved. He stood
speechless for a time, as one engaged in tense
inner conflict.
“What will life be to me now without the
250


THE LAIR OF GUILT
woman I love?” he spoke finally, as though he
had not heard her. “What decent woman would
want to share such a life as mine, with such a
stain?”
“I’ll share your life, if you still want me,”
Virginia, flushing, spoke up bravely. And none
could know what this open speech cost her. “In
my heart I know that the real you is innocent.
In time you will feel it yourself. I know you
will.”
“When the dark places are made light and
clean,” murmured the doctor.
“Thank God for such women!” cried Larry
fervently, wringing her hand.
“Virginia!” brokenly murmured Bradbury,
clasping her in his arms. “Would you—you
consent to share such a life as mine?—You love
me enough for that?”
“I love you enough to want to help you make
your life as beautiful as you dreamed it in your
youth—with all those fine ideals that in your
heart you craved.”
The doctor and Summers turned away.
251


GUILT
“Ah, Virginia,” Bradbury murmured upon
her lips, “Without you I am a broken reed. I
need you—God knows how much I need you!
As for loving you—who could help loving such
a woman—even the greatest of men? And I am
the least—just about to be reborn.”
And the eyes of both were wet with tears.
THE END
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